Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

Josey go check him woman at six-thirty and leave her house in new ganzie and pants she get from the freezone. Then he leave. Me not his mother or his keeper, he don’t have to tell me where him going. Shipment of guns gone missing on the wharf on a night he was missing too. Man in America sing give peace a chance, but he not the American living here. I think, I know Josey rounding up men to wipe out Rema once and for all. He don’t know that I know that he burn down that tenement on Orange Street with the people in it and shoot anybody who tried to put it out, including two fireman.

Nineteen sixty-six. No man who enter 1966 leave the way he come in. The fall of Balaclava take plenty, even those who support it. I did support, not quiet but loud. Balaclava was a piece of shit that make you beg for the richness of a tenement yard. Balaclava was where woman would dodge murder, robbery and rape only to get killed by a cup of water. Balaclava get bulldozed down so that Copenhagen City could rise, and when the politicians come in after the bulldozers with their promises they also demand that we drive all PNP man out. Before 1966, man from Denham Town and man from Jungle didn’t really like each other, but they fight each other on the football field and the cricket pitch and even when two boy get rowdy and a mouth get punched bloody, there was no war or rumour of war. But then politician come. Me welcome them because surely better must come for we too.

Nineteen sixty-six. All this happen on the Sabbath day. Josey walking back to him yard from Mr. Miller locksmith shop where he learning a skill. He coming home through a street that never declare colours before. He didn’t know that on the Friday before, politician come through saying close your mouth and fire your gun. They shoot him five time. Fifth shot he fall down on him face right in a puddle of nasty water. Everybody run, and those who didn’t, see and wait until a man come up on a bike and grab him and put him in front and try to hold him from slumping down while he ride to the clinic. A different man come out of that clinic three weeks later.

Evil force and samfie force rising in the night. The Singer tell me a story. How back when reggae was something only few people know, how white rock and roll star was him friend. You reggae dudes are far out, man, pretty neat, you got any gawn-ja? But as soon as the Natty Dread sing hit songs and break the Babylon top 100, everybody start to treat him a way. They like him better when he was the poor cousin that they can feel good for taking notice. I tell him that politician do the same thing to me when they realize me can read. In 1966 they carve up Kingston and never ask we what slice we want. So every land that hit midway on the boundary, Rema, Jungle, Rose Town, Lizard Town, they leave it to we to fight over. Me fight hard until me get tired. I raise the men who now run with Josey Wales and nobody ever badder than me. I swell Copenhagen City two times it size and eradicate robbery and rape from the community. This is election year and nothing left now but war and rumour of war. But tonight I look from my verandah and the night keeping secret close. The verandah is wood and is long time it don’t paint. My woman snore like a kicked donkey, but you grow to like the few things that never change. Tomorrow some youths coming over here to talk about their own peace concert, since this one is PNP propaganda. The whole night almost gone and the police eradication squad don’t make one sweep yet. This make the night strange, for ghetto people not used to full night sleep. Somewhere, somehow, especially a night hot like this, somebody going pay for it.

W haddiya have for lunch today, Pop, a Whamperererer?

— Sure thing, sweetie.

— Pop, stop calling me that.

— Calling you what?

— Sweetie. I’m not a girl.

— You’re not, huh? Don’t have any girly parts?

— Nope, nope nope. So I can’t be a sweetie.

— You’re my sweetie though.

— Nope. Boys aren’t sweet. That’s girls. Girls are sweet. And icky.

Kinda hard to argue with such rock-solid logic. I could write an article on the things I knew at six that I don’t fucking know at thirty-six.

— They are kinda icky, aren’t they? But when you’re thirteen you’re going to wanna be with them all the time.

— Noooooooo.

— Yeahhhhhh.

— Will they like playing with my frogs then?

— Something like that. Anyway, it’s a school night, honey.

— Pop.

— Sorry, I forgot that you’re a little man now. It’s a school night, buddy, so off you go. You too, Timmy.

— Aw, man. Babylon business this.

— Excuse me?

— Aw… nothing, Dad.

— That’s what I thought. Go to bed, guys. Gee, neither of you kiss your pop anymore?

— They’re grown men now.

— I noticed. Make sure you brush your teeth, both of you.

My wife follows them.

— Where are you going?

— To brush my teeth too. Very long day. Then again every day in Kingston is kinda long, isn’t it?

I knew what she was doing. Amazing how women can use any opportunity to start up an argument, but especially moments like this when you don’t want to fight, but not fighting makes it seem like you don’t care, so you say something nice or compliment her, which just makes her say that you’re patronizing her, which of course just leads to the fight anyway.

— I’ll be up—

The phone rings.

— In a minute.

She goes up the stairs muttering something about the phone ringing when I’m home. Considering I forbid anybody calling here, not for business or pleasure, this is weird.

— Hello?

— Ten million dollars and all you have to show for it is some occasional crap you have that faggot Sal Resnick write in the New York Times ?

— William Adler. Bill. How’s it hanging, Bill?

— To the left last time I wore boxers.

— They probably ration that shit where you are, huh?

— Really? Where am I?

— Some socialist Utopia, somewhere. Freedom worth the world’s best piña colada?

— What, like in Cuba? You really think I’m in Cuba? That’s your info? Don’t make my respect for you sink any lower, Barry.

— So where are you?

— You’re not going to ask how I got your number?

— Nope.

— Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you.

— Buddy, I’ve got a bedtime story to read to my kids. This date of ours going somewhere good?

— What’s your favorite seat at the circus?

— Know what I hate, Bill? People who answer a question with a question. The Jamaicans do it all the fucking time.

— Then put a trace on the call. I’ll wait.

— No need. You might be overestimating your pull.

— Nah, I think I estimated my pull just about right.

— You’re killing me, man. What do you want, Bill? Fetching some shit for Fidel?

— Maybe. But why would I call you? You haven’t had access to good info since Montevideo.

— You seem to have nothing but good info these days.

— I guess. Pity about those seven guys you had to send back. I mean, the company was always sloppy as wet shit, but Jesus.

— You endangered lives, son of a bitch.

— I endangered a ten-million budget. An awful lot of money for a little country like Jamaica.

— How’re book sales going?

— Can’t complain.

— Made the fiction best-sellers list yet? I’ve been watching.

— Nope, racing up the How-to Advice list though.

— Nice. Listen, Bill, as much as I like this Bogie ’n’ Bacall thing we got going here, I’m actually really tired, so what do you want?

— A few things. One, either call off the dipshits you’ve got tracking me or get better people to do it.