Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Happy now? he says to the guard. I’d say I don’t recognize him, but honestly I can’t tell these guards apart. The guard gives him a look from toe to head and opens the gate.

— Not you, only one, he says to me and I step back.

— Just wait there, Pierce. I’ll get clearance from the big guy.

— Yeah. It’s been real, Mark.

— Just wait there.

He heads for the front door then turns left and disappears. I can’t see where he went. The guard looks at me and I look at him. I light a Rothmans and hand him the pack. He takes one and hands it back to me. Neither of us is taking this as some sort of connection. But at least he doesn’t mind me leaning against the gate. I can hear the band stopping and starting, guitar most of all. Damn me for stereotypes, but I thought I would have heard bass and drums first. I heard that the new guys in the band were pushing the Singer towards rock. I’d say away from his roots but then I’d become just another white man who has the presumption to think he can school black people on their roots.

Not much to see from the gate. The Singer’s beat-up truck under a shed. Trees, wild grass, part of the west side of the house and guards, at least I’m assuming they’re guards, about ten or so scoping the grounds. For the first time I’m noticing all the buildings around me. The apartment complex in front where Lansing parked, the set of townhouses one gate over, cars now cruising up and down Hope Road. I haven’t even thought about what question I’d ask him first. What do you think about the predictions of when the two sevens clash? Bunny Wailer’s new album? Does this concert mean he’s endorsing the PNP? If Rasta don’t work for the CIA, does he know who?

I take a pad out of my knapsack and look at the empty page. You’d think I would have written down a million questions to ask him when Lansing told me he had an in. Now I’m at his gate and I’m all out of things to say. I know there’s a story and I know I want to know it, but now I’m wondering if this is what I want. I can’t figure out if I just got a sudden case of the chickenshits or if I am slowly realizing that even though the Singer is the center of the story, it really isn’t his story. Like there’s a version of this story that’s not really about him, but about the people around him, the ones who come and go that might actually provide a bigger picture than me asking him why he smokes ganja. Damn if I’m not fooling myself I’m Gay Talese again.

Cars are speeding up. I’m watching them for so long that I don’t know for how long the guard had left his post. But I do know my watch is saying that Lansing has been in there fifteen minutes. I walk right up to the gate and push my head against the bars.

— Hello? Hello? Anybody there?

I don’t know where the guard went. It’s just a little latch on the fucking gate. I only need to lift and I’m inside. Can we say unauthorized access? Fuck Hunter S. Thompson, I’m Kitty Kelley. I almost touch it when another guard shows up. He’s not the guy who was here before. Lighter skinned, with a scar on his right cheek like a telephone. I beat myself up inside for drawing conclusions. No I don’t, not really. It’s pretty obvious that these guys aren’t police, or even a decent class of security guard either, even if they are all carrying machine guns. Maybe the Singer just hired some boys from the ghetto. I really should have known better than to trust Lansing. He’s probably looking out from some window inside, getting off on leaving his good buddy Alexander Pierce to wait in the heat. I’d almost think he has the Singer by the window laughing too, but I can’t imagine somebody so cool wasting any time with a prick like Lansing, no matter what he’s there to do. Still.

The gate opens only wide enough for his BMW to slip through. My heart jumps, I swear I’m a teenage girl. But it’s not him. Somebody else is driving it, a thin Rasta with a woman who looks like one of the back-up singers in the right seat and another guy in the back. The driver’s pissed, glancing behind him and then at her, then at me, then driving off. Only when he’s driving off do I realize he’s heading off into serious darkness. Headlights roll past on the street. I forgot that it’s past eight. They’ve turned on lights on the second floor. The gate closes. I’m kinda sure that I’ve been waiting outside this gate forty-five minutes now but honestly I’ve lost count. Do you know where my friend is? I say to empty space. The guard left his post and I think about slipping in again. It would be so easy. Well, up to the point I actually enter and ten guards throw down on me before they ask questions.

A Red F100 truck slams its brakes and makes a hard right up the driveway. I jump out of the way. Inside are two men, both dark and both wearing shades even though it’s night. The driver stares at me and I try with every fucking thing I’ve got to stay looking at him. The other guy is tapping the side of the truck. The engine is still running. Then the gate opens only three feet or so and seven men, in jeans, khakis, bell-bottoms and all carrying guns and rifles, head for the truck, jumping in the back. The last, a short man with dreadlocks and a red, green and gold tank top, glances at me for a second but does not stop running. The truck backs into traffic without looking and heads left. The gate opens wider and I’m jumping out of the way of a blue Escort that shoots down the driveway, packed with four or five men sticking their guns out the window. I was too busy rolling on the pavement to count. The car makes a left on Hope Road and other cars slam their brakes. I pick myself up and look over at the guard post. Nobody closes the gate. I think they’re all gone.

It’s the first time I’m on his property. Is it his home? I don’t even know. The full driveway is a roundabout with a set of trees in the center that take you to an entrance with four pillars, and a doorway with a double door that looks half open. Two floors and all the windows are rusty colored and open. The band is still playing but everybody outside is gone. I walk left, over to his beaten-up truck. My dad had one of these, not the same truck but an old beat-up one that he loved more than his kids. I think he loved the truck so much because it was the only thing that could get old but would never die. Well, that was until it did. So fucking weird, but there’s music clearly coming from inside and yet outside is quiet. It doesn’t sound quiet, not with the stop-start keyboards and drums and the traffic, but it feels quiet, which is starting to bug me. I don’t know how else to explain. I can’t believe that son of a bitch Lansing just left me out here. Maybe he’s really standing me up. Maybe it’s the dark crouching all around me. Does anybody inside know that the guards have all left with the gate wide open? Shift change? New guys running on Jamaica time?

Fuck this. And fuck him. I should have known. Maybe he was getting back at me for all the stuff I’ve said behind his back, because now I feel like a fucking fool. Except that Mark Lansing is just not somebody I would talk about ever, not even to say some shit about him. And who would I say it to? Fuck this son of a bitch and you know what, fuck this whole place. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Again. Maybe I better get a fix on Mick Jagger’s whereabouts just so that I can keep my fucking job, or at least rendezvous with this photographer that I still haven’t met. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure he’s still in the country.

I turn and walk out the gate. Hope Road is busy. I don’t have a thing in Lansing’s car so I keep walking. Cars keep moving along and I see a white Escort that looks like a taxi. Well, the driver has his arm out the window, which usually means he’s waving folded dollar bills in between each finger from collecting the fare himself. I wave him down and he stops. I open the door to get in, look up the road and see a blue car turning into the driveway.