Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Tristan sold me out.

— The only brother Tristan sell out is Tristan. Man licking the crack pipe hard now. Fucking fool, what a waste. But such is life for the Ranking Dons. If a Storm man start smoke him own stash I make haste and done that brother. But if you did go check Phillips in prison that must be at least a few years ago. Why write this something now?

— I knew Josey Wales was in prison.

— And you think he can’t touch you now, or you think him so ignorant he would never hear about anything named The New Yorker ?

I don’t know what to say so I just look at the glass of juice Ren-Dog has in his hand and try to remember how many he’s downed by now.

— Don’t worry, my brother. You right on both counts. But this Eubie person is another story. Look on the front of that magazine and you even see my name and post office box on it. You think ’cause him in prison you safe? Answer.

— Yes, yes I did.

— Them kinda loose thinking get a motherfucker shot.

Eubie grabs a chair by my dining table and carries it over to me. He sits facing me, close enough that I can see the butterfly pattern on his white pocket square.

— This the part where you tell me to abandon my story or you’ll do whatever with me? I say.

— You really can’t help yourself, don’t it? Smart mouth to the end. Or maybe you finally think you have nothing to lose. Well no, my brethren. Even me want to know how it turn out. I mean, I know how it turn out, but me like the sideways thing you ah do. Just stop look too far sideways and rein your r’asscloth self in and me won’t have nothing to do with you.

— I don’t get it.

He slaps me with The New Yorker . It stings but not that much.

— Don’t act like you fucking dense. You not my only stop tonight and the other two not going end as nice as you. End of part three you leave the fucking crack house because you gone off on the Jamaican connection, so—

— You want me to take it out.

He slaps me again.

— I want you to stop interrupting me when I r’asscloth talking to you.

— But that’s what you want, right? You want me to take out all the Jamaican stuff?

— No, my youth. Not at all. Keep in whatever you fucking want about Jamaica. Keep the Josey Wales part, in fact what you want to know ’bout him? I can tell you one thing, something you wouldn’t even dream about. This Monifah woman is not even the first pregnant woman him kill. Keep him, keep Jamaica, burn down the fucking country for all I care. But leave New York out of it.

— I’m sorry?

— You mention here about the Storm Posse with splinter groups in New York. That don’t sit good with me.

— But the Storm Posse is in New York.

— Boy, you turn dense again? For one, here’s another thing you don’t know. No damn gang shoot up that crack house. It was Josey one. One man with two gun. Josey Wales’ one kill everybody in the crack house. Me see him do it meself.

— I… I… that’s unbelievable.

— That’s Josey. And you’re right. The man did want to send a message. But it ain’t nothing like them profound shit you write in that story.

— What was the message then, just say no?

— This boy full of joke, eh? Pity we not going be friend.

— Oh.

— All now the white boy can’t take joke, Ren. Me look like the kind of idiot who would kill a journalist in the middle of him big story, with my fingerprints all over him fucking house? Me look like me want to become the next Gotti?

— I guess not.

— Don’t guess, know.

— What was the message?

— Don’t throw piss ’pon the don Gorgon.

— I’m sorry, what?

— That one pass you, white boy. But listen to me now. I don’t want no link between this man and any damn borough. If the Fed or the DEA want to prosecute the brethren, let them prosecute. But I don’t want nobody come after me because they looking for American links in New York, you hear me?

— Seriously? That’s just a matter of time, dude. DEA may be slow and got envy issues with the Feds, but they’re not stupid.

— Maybe. But not today. And the dude who going buss me not going be you.

— Look, no agent has ever approached me or anything. You’ve got nothing to worry about.

— That’s because you don’t have nothing so far that they can use. But they would with this here part four. Far as you know, them boys in the crack house fly up from Jamaica for a special trip. None of this shit about New York gangs, or Boston, or Kansas City.

— They know you’re here. In this city, I mean.

— But they don’t know I’m organized, or just how much I have my shit together.

— But that leaves a fucking hole in the story.

— That the hole you worried about? Me not telling you how to write, boss, but your story is about people who get shot. So write ’bout the people who get shot.

— The killings didn’t happen in a vacuum. Sir.

— I like how you still seem to think this is a negotiation. I didn’t say it did. That’s why you can hang Josey Wales out to dry all you want. But cut all that other shit out. Don’t want to share Mr. Wales’ spotlight, you see me?

— So technically you’re blackmailing me?

— Oh no, my brethren. Technically I’m not killing you. You writing a brief history of seven killings, right? Then you have four more killings to write about.

— I see. And what if—

— Don’t make this the part of the story where you ask what if I refuse. I don’t have the patience and Ren-Dog done play for the day.

Eubie gets up and goes over to Ren-Dog. Whatever they’re whispering I don’t know but Ren-Dog leaves. Seconds later the front door opens and shuts. He comes back to me and sits down. Closer. Cool Water cologne. I knew I was going to recognize it eventually. He leans over this time, almost whispering but his voice is gravelly.

— So I am here thinking, if Tony Pavarotti was after you, then somebody must send him after you. That could only be Papa-Lo or Josey Wales. And since Papa was on a peace thing till him dead I going just say it was Josey Wales, don’t bother confirm it. So why Josey did want to kill you?

— You really expect me to answer?

— Yes, I really expect you to answer that.

— What is this? Some I’m-going-to-die-anyway-so-just-confess fuckery?

— Fuckery? Brethren, me love when you talk the Jamaican still. As for killing you, I don’t see why I’m going to do that when I’ve already made my wishes very clear. And by the way, Josey Wales not going touch anybody for a long time, least of all you.

— Did he tell you about me?

— Somebody like you came up, he couldn’t remember your name, just said some white boy from Rolling Stone find out too much about a drug thing so he send Tony to straighten him out. Except the years wasn’t adding up, and no white man would know anything ’bout any drug deal no matter how he smart. Clearly if you kill him best man he wasn’t going send another one. Besides, you disappear after that. Anyway, Josey Wales in prison and he not coming out alive. So I want to know what the fuck you find out to make him try to kill a fucking white man from America. And in 1979? I mean, shit, that was fifteen different taboo him cross right there so.

— You’re Storm Posse, though. Don’t you work for him?

— Boy, me no work for bloodcloth nobody. Least of all some ghetto mouse in Kingston. Motherfucker can’t even read a spreadsheet but think him fucking smart. I not asking you a third time, white boy.

— I… I didn’t realize until years later that he sent the guy. There was just so much going on in Jamaica, so much bullshit, it could have been anybody, even the fucking government. A guy made me realize… shit, shit. I don’t know why you asking me this, you work with him so you already know. You probably planned that shit with him.