Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Don’t tell me what to do, Johnson. Seriously, you’re something else.

— This the part where you tell me I’m a loose cannon?

— No, this is the part where I tell you to keep your eyes on the road and not on me.

— What do you know, Diflorio?

— More than you think, Johnson.

— Did you know that certain cultural elements here are trying to form their own party? Not the leftists, not the Jamericans, not the church, not the communists. A group totally different. This country is going to end the year in fucking chaos unless somebody does something. By chaos I mean as defined by your boss Kissinger.

— Kissinger is not my boss.

— And Jesus isn’t the way, the truth, and the light. You’re bookkeeping, Diflorio. You’re here for the corner office, and that’s fine. Somebody’s gotta balance the books and print pretty coloring books, but that’s not what gets things done on the ground. Did you know we nearly had him two days ago? Almost had the fucker on a slab of concrete? Almost got the commie motherfucker.

— What stopped you from getting him?

— Don’t pretend you know who I’m talking about.

— Who then, Johnson?

— Shit. You really don’t know shit. The Prime Minister.

— Don’t shit me, asshole.

— The Prime Minister Michael Joshua fucking Manley. We almost got him. Wednesday, probably about four-ish. The PNP sets up this meeting in Old Harbour, you know where that is, right? Anyway, it’s just another of their meetings about the violence problem, because these fuckers just love to meet. By the way, we’re still waiting on the transcript, but word was Manley was taking phone calls from Stokely Carmichael and Eldridge Cleaver all week. Anyway, for some reason, an argument breaks out and this army guy — we need to get his name — fucking decks the party secretary. Straight punch right in the face. So Mr. Prime Minister finally moseys in and tries to question the officer who basically tells him to kiss his ass. Manley doesn’t want to back down but before he knows it he’s surrounded by soldiers, every single one pointing a loaded weapon. There they were in Old Harbour, soldiers drawing guns on the Prime Minister of the fucking country. But of course they backed down and nobody took the shot.

— Wow. That’s a pretty amazing story. Throw in a love interest and you’ve got Hollywood gold. Explain to me why we Americans would have wanted to get him? There’s no directive to terminate the Prime Minister or any other politician in this country. This isn’t Chile, Johnson. I may be a bookkeeper, but you’re just a plain thug. Your tactics always amount to shit that men like me then have to mop up.

— Whatever works—

— Listen, you’re under no directive to terminate anybody, do you hear me?

— I’m not terminating anybody, Diflorio. The Company does not, has not and will never work with nor condone the acts of any terrorist individual or organization. Besides, as you’ve said, this isn’t Chile.

I want to say that I’m glad he sees it that way, and that these are delicate matters that have to be handled delicately so as to leave as little trace or collateral damage as possible, but then he says,

— Nope, not Chile, but it’s sure gonna be like Guatemala in a few days, mark my word.

— What? What did you say?

— You heard me.

— No.

— Yep. This one’s bigger than you, I’m afraid, bigger than the Company, so don’t tell me about your fucking orders.

— No.

— Yep.

— Jesus Christ. You forget they sent me to Guatemala for a few months to observe the election. Around the same time those pocket psychopaths with our ammo started killing everything in their midst. How long have you been training them?

— Not in the training biz. But unconfirmed reports would say a year.

— The Cuban. He’s—

— You’re not as slow on the uptake as people make you out.

— How many?

— Come on, Diflorio.

— How many, you son of a bitch.

— I’m not in the intel business, Diflorio. But if I were, I would guess more than ten, less than two hundred? Got another team of patriots in Virginia. Remember Donald Casserley?

— Jamaica Freedom League. Hit us up for cash once, for his little organization. Which we refused to pay because he’s a fucking dope dealer. What’s this? Second chance for Bay of Pigs flunkies? And with an election in thirteen days.

— Diflorio taking the long view. Look at that. It’s not like Guatemala, since they’re smart, and it’s not like Brazil, since they have no desire to rule the fucking country.

— Who the fuck is your target?

— I don’t know what you’re talking about, Diflorio. If a bunch of men want to, say, get their feet wet, say, today, it’s not my business to interfere in domestic affairs.

— Holy shit, you mean today?

— Not privy to that kind of intel, Barry, but if I were—

— Call them off, Johnson. Do it now, for God’s sake.

— I wouldn’t know who to call, sorry. My educated guess would be that it’s too late anyway. Besides, it’s the policy of the federal government of the United States to—

— Blow it out of your fucking ass, Johnson.

— I’ll take you home to your beautiful wife.

— Louis, listen to me. I don’t know if you’re NSA, WRO or whoever the fuck it is you work for, but step the fuck back and let diplomacy run its course.

— Bang-up job in Ecuador, by the way.

— Shut the fuck up and listen to me. We’ve already invested, damn it. This administration knows it. The CIA director knows it. Seriously, who the fuck are you talking to? We’ve invested over ten million a full year before this election. Sal at the New York Times , the thirty fat fucks in the JLP, Jesus Christ, the Private Sector Organisation of Jamaica.

— Why are you schooling me on this, Barry? We’re two sides of the same coin.

— I’m nothing like you.

— Even if those two sides never see each other.

— We’re so fucking close, you son of a bitch.

— I’m not the son of a bitch you need to be telling this to, Diflorio, that would be your little boyfriend Georgie Bush. Besides, it’s too fucking late, that’s what I’m telling you. Go home, go watch Starsky & Hutch . Go watch the news tonight. Gonna be something.

M e can’t remember when last me walking so fast and get anywhere so slow. Maybe is the sun working against me, she’s one cantankerous burning bitch today. When me ask Josey if him did know anything about Operation Werewolf, he did shake him head and say no. But Wang Gang have explosive and only two people work with the Cuban. Them and Josey.

Here is what me was thinking. With him controlling the east and me carrying the swing in the west and maybe Tony Pavarotti keep him gun aiming at the north and the sea to the south, then we well protected. But with every man scatter to points like a map, right hand start to not know what left hand done do. Me thinking this is my fault. It have to be my fault. If the body sick, the head should did know first. No so the story go? Me and Josey stop talk. No is not that. A man, no, certain men come between all of we, man who use we then throw we out like rubbish. Me getting tired of the wicked game, and Shotta Sherrif getting tired of it too. What a funny thing that me sure of the mind of Shotta Sherrif more than me sure of the mind of Josey Wales. Me is ninety yard from Josey house.

The world now feeling like the seven seals breaking one after the other. Hataclaps or ill feeling, something in the air. Two sevens clash in less than thirty days. I walking to Josey house and I forget what my woman looks like. Is only a minute it take me to remember but it scare me that I forget her face. But then I remember a little girl, that look like she, but we don’t have no pickney yet, even though plenty woman out there saying they boy and girl answer to my surname. I walking up the road and passing yard after yard. One tenement then the next tenement then the next, all four floors high, fence high enough to hide the ground floor, one building pink then the next green then the next the colour of bone I can’t even remember who make we go with them colours, maybe the woman them. Me is seventy yard from Josey house.