Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— You from the Melody Maker ?

— Rolling Stone .

— So what you doing here almost one year now? Black pussy that sweet?

— What? No, no. I’m working on a story.

— You need one year to write on a story on Copper?

— Copper?

— Copper. You don’t even know the name of the man you asking all sorts of questions about. Copper, the man who misread the treaty.

— There’s a document?

— You not the brightest boy Rolling Stone send here.

— Well, I’m not stupid.

— Why Rolling Stone would send man out here for over a year? Which story could be so hot and ready?

— Ah, they didn’t actually send me.

— True that. In fact, you don’t work for no damn Rolling Stone . Or Melody Maker or any of them for that matter. New York Times , yeah they would station a reporter out here for a year, but not a magazine that love to put batty boys on their cover. I think you just here for the black pussy. How is that Aisha girl? Treating you good? Still have the P U S S Y with the tight needle eye?

— Oh my G—

— Look like I know more about you than you know about me, white boy.

— Aisha, she’s… she’s not my girlfriend.

— Of course not. White boy like you, you don’t have black woman for that particular use.

— I don’t have any woman for that particular use.

Josey Wales laughs like a wheeze, like it’s gritting through his teeth. Not like Papa-Lo, who throws his head back and pushes it out from deep within his big belly.

— That answer wicked, my youth. Wicked and wild.

— I’m here all week.

— No, you leaving today.

— It was a joke? I’m here all week? I say something that makes you laugh, you laugh and I say I’ll be here with more jokes all week? It’s from a stand-up… never mind.

— Why you going ’round asking about Copper?

— Well, I—

— You even ask that short-ass idiot, Shotta Sherrif.

— He didn’t really say much.

— Why would the man have anything to say? He didn’t even know him that good.

— Were you two friends?

— Josey Wales love everybody.

— I mean Copper, not Shotta Sherrif. He was really involved in the Central Peace Council, wasn’t he?

— Eh, what do you really think you know about the Central Peace Council? I bet you didn’t know that it was a joke. Peace. Only one kind of peace can ever come down the ghetto. It’s really simple, so simple even a retarded man can catch the drift. Even a white man. The second you say peace this and peace that, and let’s talk about peace, is the second gunman put down their guns. But guess what, white boy. As soon as you put down your gun the policeman pull out his gun. Dangerous thing, peace. Peace make you stupid. You forget that not everybody sign peace treaty. Good times bad for somebody.

— Huh. I could have sworn I heard… You saying the peace treaty is a bad idea?

— No. You just say that.

— So whatchu saying?

— Copper come from Wareika Hills, almost country. He didn’t understand how Kingston work. So he come down to Copenhagen to his good friend, Papa-Lo, then he walk over to drink rum with his other good friend, Shotta Sherrif, and everything sweet and safe as long as he in JLP or PNP territory.

— But then last May he go to Caymanas Park, which is—

— No man territory.

— Worse, he go by himself.

— Peace vibes turn him into a damn fool. That’s the problem with peace. Peace make you careless.

— How did the police know he was there?

— You think it’s that hard to find a gunman?

— But there was a swarm of them, not just two random dirty cops betting on a fixed race.

— Ambush. You like cowboy movies?

— I usually say fuck ’em, quite frankly. I’m part Sioux.

— Sue?

— Sioux, like Cherokee. Like Apache.

— You an Indian?

— Part.

— Seen.

— You know who set him up? Copper, that is.

— Maybe he set him own self up.

— But some of the men here said that he was Papa-Lo’s number two, maybe even number one, one day.

— A man who didn’t even live in Copenhagen City because him ’fraid of bullet? Who said that?

— People. And with him gone…

— By — look at that, the same fucking bullet him was hiding from. So what if him gone? You can replace any man in the ghetto. Even me.

— I see. How do you think the Singer will react to all this?

— Me look like the Singer keeper?

— No, I mean… No love lost between you and him?

— Don’t know what you mean by that, but that man gone through plenty. People just need to make him rest. Just ’low him, make him rest.

— He must be dedicated to the cause though, to come back again to do another concert, especially after what happened the last time.

— Haha. Nobody going to make a move on the Singer again.

— I’ll bet nobody thought anybody would have made a move on him the first time.

— The last time friend allow friend to run horse race con in him house. Him not allowing that shit again. Nobody shooting him in the chest this time because nobody stabbing him in the back.

— Hold up, you think they were out for the Singer’s friend? What’s this about a con?

— I don’t have anything to say about the Singer.

— But you were talking about his friend, not the Singer.

— Certain tree get pruned a long time ago.

— Now you sound like Papa-Lo.

— That’s what happen when people fade. They live on in your memory.

— I sometimes sound like my dad.

— I sometimes discipline like my daddy.

— Oh. Really?

— Yes, white boy. Some men in the ghetto actually know their father. Some of them were even married to their mother.

— I wasn’t saying.

— All the important things you saying so far not coming out of your mouth.

— Oh.

— Papa-Lo is the reason why we living fine in the ghetto. Papa-Lo is the reason that when I flush that toilet I never have to look at shit again. You take that for granted, eh, white boy? That once you press a lever you never have to think about your shit again. Yes, thanks to Papa-Lo ghetto people living fine indeed. Papa-Lo and the Singer is the same. Same thing going happen to the Singer.

— Excuse me?

— Excuse yourself.

— Not a fan, I gather.

— Rather check for Dennis Brown.

— He seems to have believed in this truce.

— You ever get locked up in jail, white boy?

— No.

— Good. Because once them put you in jail, police beat everything out of you. Is not just the beat in the face with the baton or the kick in the back or the punching out two good teeth so you can’t eat good and nearly slice off your own tongue. Is not even when they put two electric cord, one around your balls and the other on your cock-head and plug in the socket. That’s just the first day and not even the worst thing that happen in jail. The worst thing about jail is how they separate your own time, your own date, even your own birthday. Is a hell of a thing when you can no longer tell if it’s Wednesday or Saturday. You lose sense. You lose grip on what really goin’ on outside in the world. You know what happen when you don’t know night any better than day?

— Tell me.

— Black turn into white. Up turn into down. Puss and dog turn friend. You ask yourself, This peace treaty? Was it between two communities or just two man in jail too long?

— What do you think about—

— I not here to think.

— No, I mean about the Singer.

— You keep thinking I supposed to be thinking about the Singer.

— No, I mean the second concert for peace last year. Maybe he thinks he has big stakes in this peace process.