Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— What shit? What shit?

— The Singer. Killing the Singer. He’s the one who shot the Singer.

— What you just say?

Before I answer he gets up quick and starts walking around me.

— Motherfucker, what you just say?

— He’s the one that shot the Singer back in 1976.

— You mean he was in the gang? Boss, even me did know that is must Copenhagen City boys try kill him. Though I would never expect that from—

— I mean, he fired the actual shot. Shots.

— How the fuck you know?

— I interviewed the Singer some months after. Everybody knows he was shot in the chest and the arm, right? Right?

— Right.

— At that time only three people knew that had he inhaled instead of exhaled the bullet would have gone straight through his heart. The doctor, the Singer and me.

— So?

— I went to Copenhagen City to interview the dons about the peace treaty in ’79. When I spoke to Wales, the Singer came up. He said it was fucked up that they tried to shoot the Singer right in the heart. He couldn’t have known that yet, not unless he was the doctor, the Singer, myself or—

— The shooter.

— Yeah.

— Bombocloth. Bombocloth, my youth. I didn’t know.

— Now you’re shocking me. I thought everybody connected to Wales knew.

— Who tell you I connected to Wales? When me was building business in the Bronx where the fuck was Wales? You know for the longest while me did think it was somebody else who was behind this thing.

— Who’s that?

— Funny, and him is the only one me know that not dead.

— Wales?

— No, not him.

— What do you mean by—

— Did you know, Mr. Pierce, that the Singer did forgive one of them boys? Not only forgive him but take the man ’pon tour, bring him closer than a brother into him inner circle.

— What the fuck, seriously? I think my already considerable admiration for the man just jumped by leaps and bounds. Shit. What happened to him?

— Disappeared right after the Singer died. He knew shit wasn’t safe.

— He just vanished. Just like that.

— Well, nobody ever really vanish, Pierce.

— I have some Chilean families to introduce you to.

— What?

— Nothing.

— You good with German?

— I listen to some Kraut rock… No.

— Pity. You want a story, there’s a story. Every single man but one who go after the Singer end up dead.

— But Josey Wales not—

— The only one who might be alive, disappear in 1981 and nobody seem to know where he gone. But me.

— And where is that?

— You no seem too interested.

— No, I am. Really. Where is he?

— As I said, you not interested.

— And I’m saying I am. How do you know I’m not interested?

— Because I just tell you where him is. But don’t fret yourself. This probably too big for you. One day somebody going need to write a book ’bout it.

— Oh. Okay.

— You go back to writing your Brief History of Seven Killings .

I almost say thank you but it hits me just as quick that I would be thanking the man for not killing, but merely extorting me. I’m so fucking tired of sitting on this stool like I’m the school dunce but I don’t get up. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m about to ask if by writing this shit does it mean I may never get the pleasure of seeing him again, but remember that Jamaicans rarely get sarcasm and fuck knows this is not one of those situations where you want them to misinterpret it as downright hostility. Better to just not think of any of this shit — a day this surreal couldn’t have happened anyway. Ren-Dog comes back in and they stand not too far from me mumbling some shit I guess must be kept secret.

— One more thing, white boy.

He turns around. His hand. A gun. Silencer. His hand. A gun silencer. His—

— NOOOOOO! Holy fucking shit! Holy fucking shit! Oh my God. Holy fu — Holy fuck.

— Yes, one more thing.

— You fucking shot me! You motherfucking shot me!

Blood is fucking spurting from my fucking foot like I was just fucking crucified. I grab my foot and know I’m screaming but don’t know that I’m off the stool and rolling around on the floor until Eubie grabs me and sticks the gun in my neck.

— Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck, pussyhole, Ren-Dog says and grabs my hair.

— You fucking shot me! He fucking shot me.

— And the sky blue and water wet.

— Oh my fucking God. Oh God.

— You know it’s funny. Nobody ever says anything original after getting shot. It’s almost like everybody read a guidebook just in case.

— Fuck you.

— Aw don’t cry, big baby. Twelve-year-old boy get shot in Jamaica all the time and they don’t bawl like bitch.

— Oh my God.

My foot’s fucking screaming and he’s stooping down and fucking cradling me like a fucking infant.

— I need to fucking call 911. I need to go to the hospital.

— You also going need your woman to come clean up this mess.

— Oh God.

— Listen, white boy. This is to remind you, because hey, we was getting along so sweet that you probably forget, this is the wrong motherfucker to fuck with, you see me? Josey Wales is the most psychotic son of a bitch I ever come ’cross in my life, and I just fucking kill him. So what you think that make me?

— I don’t—

— Is a rhetorical question, pussyhole.

He reaches down and touches my foot. Rubs around the bullet hole in my sock then sticks his finger in. I scream into the palm Ren-Dog just slapped over my mouth.

— As much as I like your present company and much as I love my subscription to The New Yorker , make sure you don’t give me a reason to fucking come here again. You see me?

He moves his hand but all I can do is cry. Not even weep, fucking cry.

— You see me? he says and reaches for my foot again.

— I see you. Goddamn it, I see.

— Good. Goody goody gumdrops. My woman love to say that one.

Ren-Dog grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me over to the couch. This going hurt like a bitch is all he says before he yanks my socks off. I have to slap my own mouth to keep the scream in my throat. He throws the socks away, rolls my kitchen towel into a ball and places my foot on top. I can’t even bear to look. Ren-Dog leaves and Eubie grabs my phone.

— Call 911 when we leave.

— How the fu… how the… bullet in foot, how do I explain… bullet in the foot?

— You’re the writer, Alexander Pierce.

I block my balls so it hits my knuckles when he throws the phone in my lap.

— Make something up.

E very time I pass on the subway to take the bus I forget that the bus is so much slower. Price I pay for hyperventilating whenever I’m underground. At least I’m awake. Last week I slept past seven stops and woke up to some man in the seat across looking me over, like he was trying to figure out which body part to touch to wake me up. No men on the bus today.

Eastchester is empty too. Maybe the Jamaican football team is losing a game somewhere. It says something about me that even in my own thoughts I’m such a considerable bitch. I’m sure the average person is just as rude, racist, irritable and nasty in their own thoughts too, so I don’t know why I’m beating up myself. I just need to get home, make some ramen noodles, throw myself on the couch and watch America’s Funniest Home Videos or some other no-commitment TV.

I really need to stop thinking about Jamaicans. Or maybe I really need to up the Xanax. I mean, I don’t feel bad right now, I really don’t, but common cold is not the only thing you can feel coming.

At Corsa. There’s no food in my house. I ate the last ramen two days ago, threw out all the Chinese this morning, and those McNuggets were a bad idea, even when they were fresh. I’m looking at my door and the window that looks like I left it open, even though it’s March and know there’s no food in my house. I really don’t want to go to Boston Road, but this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to sit inside and watch TV until the hunger I’m not feeling now gets worse, and then end up going anyway.