Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Nobody is following you far as I know. Besides had I, wouldn’t I know where you are?

— Call them off. Or stop insulting me by being so obvious. By the way, you might want to send some manpower out to Guantanamo to pick them up before the Cubans do. I’ll leave you to guess where they are. Two, you might want to reconsider putting all that ten million behind the JLP to deliver us from communism. Most of that is going to go into guns, the rest in—

— Want me to deliver peace in the Middle East while we’re at it?

— Oh, stick to your limited range of talents, Barry. Three. If you think those gunmen that you have Louis teaching to shoot are too stupid to shoot you, you’re kidding yourself. Figured that’d be the only reason Louis Johnson would be in Jamaica. Blowback can be a motherfucker, buddy.

— Are you kidding? They were like little kids with Fisher-Price: My first real gun.

— So you are out there training boys? I wasn’t quite sure. Sloppy, Barry, even for a by-the-book hack like you.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about. As for Louis, he’s his own man so you’ll have to take up that business with him. What you got cooked up this time? I’m surprised you aren’t somewhere where people are always on the up-and-up, like East Germany. What secret war do you have us hatching? Angola? Maybe we’re starting something in Nicaragua. I hear Papua New Guinea is ripe for a socialist takeover any second now.

— You don’t even know what socialism is. You’re a trained monkey set for point and shoot. That said, I’m wondering. What’s Richard Lansing’s son doing there? Trying to help you spite Daddy?

— I don’t know what you’re talking about.

— This is a secure line, Barry, cut the bullshit. A Prime Minister that gives Kissinger the shits because he’s on Castro’s dick is about to be reelected.

— You sure about that?

— As sure as I know which school you send your kids to.

— Bill, don’t fuck—

— Shut the fuck up, Barry. As I was saying, a Prime Minister who seems a little too ignorant that he’s about to enter the Cold War, is about to be reelected. Puts on a concert where the biggest star in the world, who just happens to be Jamaican, is performing. And of all the people in the world who should come down to film the whole thing, Richard Lansing’s own son. I’m no fan of either guy, but you gotta admit how neat it all seems.

— Nice little conspiracy theory you’ve got cooking there. And just who was on the grassy knoll? You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?

— What’s that?

— That Lansing resigned. In many ways, he’s just a classier version of you. Both of you having a sudden attack of the liberal schoolboy conscience.

— I thought I was serving my country.

— No, you thought you were serving an idea. You wouldn’t know how a real country works, even with written instructions.

— You trying to turn this into a class debate, Barry? How socialist of you.

— I’m not trying to start anything. I just want to go to bed. Instead I’m stuck on the phone with either a man without a country or a man without a point.

— I just don’t get how you guys think. Socialism is not fucking communism.

— It’s an ism though, that’s for sure. Your problem, and it has always been your problem, Bill, is that you think you’re hired to think. Or that anybody gives a shit what you think.

— Lots of Jamaicans did.

— Yeah, I was here for your two-week residency back in June, remember? Jamaicans don’t give a shit about CIA policy, they don’t even know the difference between the CIA and the FBI. No, lots of Jamaicans went batshit for a white man who let them off the hook, because Roots just came on and surely nothing is ever their fault, with evil whiteys running around. Give me a fucking break. Spoke to Nancy Welch lately?

— Why would I speak to Nancy Welch?

— Can’t blame you. I mean, whaddya say? Gee, Nancy, awful business me getting your brother and his wife offed in Greece.

— Hold the fucking line, you think I got the Welches killed?

— You and your little exposé, your little trashy novel.

— He’s not in the fucking book, you idiot.

— Not like I’m ever gonna read it.

— Really? You think I’m to be blamed for Welch? I overestimated you, Barry. I thought the company trusted you with more info than you’ve clearly got. I must be talking to the wrong man.

— Really? You’re not the only one who’s estimating just right.

— Louis Johnson is in West Kingston teaching young terrorists how to use automatic weapons. Same weapons that never arrived at the Kingston wharf so they were never stolen afterwards.

— You have no proof of that.

— The only man who ever had use for Louis was me in Chile. He wouldn’t have been in the country for any other reason. Or Brian Harris, or whatever Oliver Patton is calling himself these days. You guys never smell blowback until it hits you in the face. Fucking Ivy Leaguers who never had to deal with people. My question is why the fuck is the Singer on your radar? What could he possibly do?

— Good night, Bill. Or hasta mañana or luego or whatever.

— I mean, really, what can he fucking d—

— Don’t call me again, son of a bitch.

— Who’s the son of a bitch calling you? my wife says. I didn’t hear her come back in and don’t know how long she’s been there. She sits down on the couch that I’m standing behind, not looking at me or saying anything, but expecting an answer. I plug out the phone and go over to the bar where a half-empty Smirnoff and a bottle of tonic are waiting.

— You wanna drink?

— Just brushed my teeth.

— That’s a no, then.

— Sounds like you wanna continue that little fight with me.

She rubs her neck and takes off the necklace. If Jamaica wasn’t so hot she would never have cut her hair above her neck. Haven’t seen her neck in years and I miss kissing it. It’s funny that she would hate being here so much, because until Jamaica I was so fucking afraid that she had become that woman I can’t fucking stand, the one who doesn’t feel any need to look attractive anymore. It’s not that she was ever unattractive, or that I’ve ever been sorry, or that I’ve ever cheated on the woman, not even in Brazil, but not long ago I toyed with leaving her, just to see if it would get her to wear lipstick again. She bitches about the country every day, every minute, more than likely in a minute or two, but she’s wearing mini shirts and cut her hair like a pageboy and is tanned like a Florida heiress. Maybe she’s fucking somebody. I heard that Singer gets around.

— Kids asleep?

— Pretending at least.

— Haha.

I sit down beside her. This is the thing about redheads, isn’t it? No matter how long you’ve lived with them, you’re always surprised when they turn and look straight at you.

— You’ve cut your hair.

— The heat here is unbearable.

— It’s nice.

— It’s growing back. I cut it two weeks ago, Barry.

— Should I go upstairs and tuck them in?

— It’s ninety degrees, Barry.

— Good point.

— And it’s December.

— I know.

— Nineteen seventy-six, Barry.

— That I know too.

— You said we’d only be here for a year, if not less, Barry.

— Baby, please, I cannot have two fights in the space of two minutes.

— I’m not fighting you. I’m barely talking to you as it is.

— If we leave—

— If we leave? What the hell, Barry, when did that change from a when?

— I’m sorry. When we leave, are you going to be happy anywhere else but Vermont? Maybe I should retire and live on your salary.