Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

And I’m waiting at the poolside of this hotel watching a man not paying attention to his two fat kids as they leap off into the pool belly first. The older one just hit the water with a slap that fucking echoed. I watch him wobbling to the side of the pool, wanting to cry so bad, his mouth twisting into it and he’s huffing through his nose, but he looks around and sees me. Bad enough to cry while a stranger watches, but there’s no way the little fat fuck is going to cry in front of his brother. I want to laugh at the little motherfucker but figure he should catch a break. Besides, I’m here waiting on this prick, thinking about what happened thirty minutes ago. Eleven a.m. December 3, 1976. The exact half hour I got fired from Rolling Stone . At least I think I was fired. It was like this. I got a phone call.

— Hello?

— What the fuck are you doing down there, Pierce?

— Hi, bossman. How’s it shaking? The kids?

— You seem to overestimate the closeness of our relationship, Pierce.

— Sorry, boss. What can I do for you?

— You also seem to think I like wasting phone calls. Where’s my fucking story?

— I’m working on it.

— Two hundred words on whether Mick fucking Jagger flew in to Jamaica with or without Bianca and you still can’t get me a fucking story? How is this hard?

— I’m working an angle, boss.

— You’re working an angle. Let me make sure I heard you right; you’re working an angle. I didn’t send you down there to run a fucking con, Pierce. I sent you down to put some shit together for a fucking photo essay that should have been on my desk days ago.

— Hey, boss, please listen to me. I’m, well, I’m sitting on something big here. Really big. Square biz, man.

— Quit with the fucking jive talk, Pierce, you’re from Minnesota.

— That wounds me, seriously. But it’s major. Some serious shit surrounding the Tuff G—

— Do you read the magazine you work for? We already did a story on him in March. I suggest you read it.

— With all due respect, boss, that story was a fucking piece of shit. I mean, come on, the guy was getting off on his fucking self. There’s nothing in it about the Singer or what’s really going on here. I’m meeting the son of the CIA boss in thirty minutes. Yeah, I just said CIA. I mean, some major Cold War shit is about to blow, boss, and—

— Did you hear a single thing I just said? One sec. Not Helvetica, anything but Helvetica, and for God’s sake that pic of Carly Simon looks like Steven Tyler about to give a blow job. Alex?

— I’m here, boss.

— I said we already did him, and we already did Jamaica. If you wanna keep up with that shit and not do what I sent you down there to do, maybe you should give Creem a call.

— Oh, so it’s like that. Well, well, maybe I will.

— Don’t fuck with me, Pierce. Jackson says you haven’t even spoken to him yet.

— Jackson?

— The fucking photographer, dipshit.

— Did you send somebody else down here?

— What are you talking about?

— You heard me. There’s someone else here from Rolling Stone .

— Not on my watch, Pierce.

— Really, you wouldn’t be sending some real journalist out here, now that you smell a story, would you?

— Jamaica has no fucking story. If somebody wants to go write a story on their own and not on my payroll, that’s their fucking business. You, on the other hand, I’m paying for.

— So it’s not a case of, this looks too big for Pierce, he’s too green, so send in the pros.

— Green is not the color I think of when I think of you, Pierce.

— Really. What color would that be?

— A story with photos of Jagger squeezing some bitch’s tits on my desk in two days or consider yourself fired.

— You know what? You know what? Maybe you should consider this to mean I quit.

— Not when I’m the one paying for your fucking trip, Pierce. But don’t worry: as soon as you bring your corn-fed ass back to New York, I’ll do myself the pleasure of firing you.

Then he hung up. So technically I’m fired, or at least I’m going to be. I’m still not sure how I feel about that. Jagger brought his wife with him? Or that blonde he’s fucking around with? How’s that gonna work with his manhunt for black pussy? It’s weird, in all this I see Mark Lansing coming towards me. He’s right over there looking exactly like that white man on the cover of the How to Speak Jamaican Handbook . Olive green cargo pants rolled up to the calf, black sneakers, and a red, green and gold wife beater that’s already inched up off his belly button. Judging from how the wind keeps blowing it, a rag’s hanging out of his back pocket. Jesus Christ, a Rasta tam on his head, with blond bangs hanging out. He looks like he just joined Fags Against Babylon or something. I really wished it bothered me more that I was out of a job.

— Earth to Alex Pierce.

Somehow he managed to throw himself into the chaise longue beside me, pull off his pants to show purple bikini trunks and order a mai tai without me even noticing a thing.

— A pack of smokes too, Jimbo. Marlboro, none of that Craven “A” shit.

— Sure thing right now, Mr. Brando.

The waiter skipped off. I try not to think that he’s confirming my suspicion that every man in Jamaican tourism sucks cock.

— Alex, my boy.

— Lansing.

— That must have been some poontang you got last night if you’re still daydreaming about it, mon. I yelled out your name three time, mon.

— Distracted.

— I’ll say.

The waiter came back with his cigarettes.

— Hey, Jimbo, I asked for Marlboros. What’s this Benson and Hedges shit? I look like some British fag to you?

— No, sir, magnificent apologies, sir, yes, sir, no Marlboros, sir.

— Fuck, I’m not paying for this shit.

— Yes, sir, Mr. Brando.

— Damn straight. And freshen up this fucking drink while you’re at it. Taste like water with a hint of mai tai.

— Right away at once, apologies, Mr. Brando.

The waiter scooped up the mai tai and skipped off. Lansing turned around and smiled at me with this finally-we’re-alone look.

— So, Lansing.

— Mark to my friends.

— Mark. Who the fuck is Brando?

— Who?

— Brando. That’s the third time he called you that.

— I didn’t notice.

— You didn’t notice a man calling you the wrong name three times?

— Who the fuck can understand what these guys say half the time, right?

— Right.

Given who he is, the fact that he’s using a fake name should have sent my conspiracy theory instinct into overdrive. But this is Mark Lansing. He’s probably only now hearing of James Bond.

— So what’s this about a press conference?

— More like a press briefing, really. I really thought I would see you there.

— Guess I’m not enough of a big shot.

— You’ll get there.

Fuck you, purple-bikini-wearing asshole.

— Who’s the dude from Rolling Stone that was there?

— Dunno. But he was asking a whole lot of questions about gangs and stuff. Like anybody wants to hear about that from the Singer.

— Gangs?

— Gangs. About some shoot-out in Kingston or some shit like that. I mean, seriously. Then he asked him how close he was to the Prime Minister.

— Really.

— Uh-huh. All I kept thinking is where is my buddy Alex?

— Nice of you.

— That’s me. Nice. I can get you in. In fact I’ve been with him nearly every day this week. I’m so high that even a kite would go goddamn, Dicky. Met him a month ago when his label boss hired me to get a crew together to film this concert. Even brought him a pair of cowboy boots. A big shiny pair of brick red ones from Frye. Cuz you know, these Jamaicans, they love their cowboy movies. Fucking boots cost a fortune too, I hear.