A Brief History of Seven Killings (13 page)

Better, I guess. Try not to be Hunter, try not to be Hunter. Fuck Thompson and fuck the Beats anyway. My story needs a narrative line. It needs a hero, a villain, and a Cassandra. I’m feeling that it’s moving to climax resolution, denouement or catastrophe without me. In
Miami and
the Siege of Chicago
, Norman Mailer dropped his own bad self into an event, posing as Ronald Bedtime for fucking Bonzo Reagan’s security detail move to get into
a GOP Banquet, which would never have fucking invited him. It’s a thought, only that.

The Singer meets the top goons, warring goons within the space of one week. Guns that are not supposed to be in a shipment at the wharf disappear, according to my philosophy-reading snitch. An election in two weeks. Let’s not even talk about Mark Lansing. Meanwhile the entire country seems frozen in a game of wait. Maybe what I really need to know is why William Adler was in Jamaica some months ago, what does he know, and how the Singer, the people, hell, the country are going to make it through the next two weeks. And then I’ll write a motherfucker and give it to
Time
or
Newsweek
or
The New Yorker,
because, well, fuck
Rolling Stone
. Because I know he knows. I just fucking know it. He just has to.

Papa-Lo

T
hey think my mind
is a ship that sail far away. Some of those people in my own district. I see them in the corner of my eye. After I help them grow, they thinking me is the one now blocking progress. So they treat me like old man already, and think I don’t notice when a sentence cut short because the rest of it not meant for me. That I don’t notice that phones come to the ghetto for talking, but not to me. That I don’t notice they leave me alone.

Man in the ghetto making power move because politician now have a different vision. Word seem to get out that I don’t like the sight of blood no more. Two years ago two thing happen to me in one week. First I shoot up a little upstart in Jungle. Word was that certain boy was getting uppity again, selling their own weed and partying with PNP boy like we sign peace treaty or something. We grab a rudie to make an example but the rudie wasn’t dress in khaki because he was tougher than tough or some brigadista back from Cuba. The boy was on him way to Ardenne High School. Boy fall on one knee then sideways and roll on him back before I see the school tie.

I don’t remember how much man fall because of me and I don’t care too much either, but that one. Is one thing when you kill a man and he just dead. Is another thing when he too close when you shoot him and he grab you and you see him the way he looking at you, him eye frighten as fuck because death is the scariest monster, scarier than anything you dream up as a pickney and you can feel it like a demon, swallowing you slow, big mouth swallowing your toes first and the toes go cold, then the feet and the feet go cold, then the knee, then the thigh, then the waist, and the little boy grab me shirt and bawling no, no, no, it coming up on me, no, no,
no . . . and he grab you hard, harder than he ever gripped anything because maybe if he put all the strength, all the will in just those ten fingers on a living thing, maybe he can hold on to life. And he inhale like he sucking in the world and scared of breathing out more than anything because if he exhale he might breathe out all the life he got left. Shoot the boy again, Josey Wales say, but I couldn’t do nothing but look. Josey walk over to me, put the gun to him forehead and pow.

That cause a new ’ruption. Everybody know that Papa-Lo hard, especially if you thief, or rape woman, but nobody ever call me wicked before, not like the boy mother who walk all the way to the front of me house screaming ’bout how her boy was a good boy who love him mother and go to school where he just pass six GCE subject and was going to get scholarship to University. She say that when God come he going have a special punishment for a little naigger hitler like me. She scream for her son and for Jesus to intervene before Josey Wales gun-butt her in the back of the head and leave her in the road, her skirt flying up every time the wind blow.

One time the Singer say to me, Papa, how you get to be top ranking when you worry so much? I didn’t tell him that be on top is to worry. Once you climb to the peak of the mountain, the whole world can take a shot.

I know the Singer know that plenty people hate him, but I wonder if he know what shape that hate take. Every man have something to say, but the real haters blacker than him. Bossman in the court say him read every single thing ever written by Eldridge Cleaver and gone and get himself a big fucking degree only to have that little half-white shortass become the voice of black liberation. This is who is the Jamaican public face number one? Him can read? Bossman who just come back from New York and Miami say what a public relations disaster for the country. Customs stop him twice asking if he in a reggae band and what’s that smell coming from his suitcase, gawn-ja? Bossman who own a hotel on the North Coast say that fucking white bitch drinking a daiquiri with an umbrella in her glass just ask him how often he wash him hair, and if every Jamaican is a Rasta, even though him clearly have good hair that him comb every day. Then she leave fifty dollars on his desk and her room key. I tell the Singer one time, that I don’t
think I ever sense in the spirit, so many bad forces with so much power line up against one man as the forces lined up against you and he say, The devil no got no power over me. The devil come, and me shake hands with the devil. Devil has his part to play. Devil is a good friend too, because when you don’t know him, that’s the time he can mash you down. I say to him, Brethren, you’re like Robin Hood. He say, But me never rob from a man in me life. I say, brethren, neither did Robin Hood.

But evil force and samfie force rising in the night. The Singer smart. Him is friend with me and him is friend with Shotta Sherrif. The Singer reason with me and he reason with Shotta, not together, that would still be madness, but he reason with we the same way. If puss and dog can live together, why we can’t love one another? No so Jah say? But puss and dog don’t want to live together, me tell him. But then me think ’bout it hard and come with another reasoning. When dog kill puss, and puss kill dog, the only one happy is the john-crow. And the john-crow been waiting for this all it life. The vulture with him red head and white feather chest and black wings. The john-crow in Jamaica House. The john-crow at the Constant Spring golf club, who want to invite him to them pretty party, now that he too big to look away from, and push roast pork in him face, and tell him how they
been thinking ’bout doing the reggae
like the reggae is the bombocloth twist, and ask him if he meet a real star yet, like Engelbert Humperdinck.

Still evil force and samfie force rising in the night. Especially a hot night like this, too hot for December, all certain man can think ’bout is who have and who have not. Me on the verandah with no light on. I look out from my house and the road quiet, nothing but lovers rock coming from the bar further down the road. One slam, then two, then three, somebody just win a domino game. I see the calm and hear the calm and know the calm can’t last. Not for me, not for him, not for Kingston, not for Jamaica.

For three month now, two white man come to the ghetto, along with Peter Nasser. One speak only English, one speak too much Spanish. They come to see Josey Wales, not me. A man can be top ranking all he want, when the politician make a new friend, that be the one they come to. I wonder what Josey say he will do that they me want. Josey is him own man,
never tried to control him then or now, not since the fall of Balaclava. Copenhagen City is a palace with four or five prince. Nobody ever wanted to be king before. But when the two new white men come to the ghetto, they come to my house to pay respects but they leave with Josey Wales, and at the boundary when I expect Josey to wave them off, he get in their car and say nothing about it when he come back.

Josey go check him woman at six-thirty and leave her house in new ganzie and pants she get from the freezone. Then he leave. Me not his mother or his keeper, he don’t have to tell me where him going. Shipment of guns gone missing on the wharf on a night he was missing too. Man in America sing give peace a chance, but he not the American living here. I think, I know Josey rounding up men to wipe out Rema once and for all. He don’t know that I know that he burn down that tenement on Orange Street with the people in it and shoot anybody who tried to put it out, including two fireman.

Nineteen sixty-six. No man who enter 1966 leave the way he come in. The fall of Balaclava take plenty, even those who support it. I did support, not quiet but loud. Balaclava was a piece of shit that make you beg for the richness of a tenement yard. Balaclava was where woman would dodge murder, robbery and rape only to get killed by a cup of water. Balaclava get bulldozed down so that Copenhagen City could rise, and when the politicians come in after the bulldozers with their promises they also demand that we drive all PNP man out. Before 1966, man from Denham Town and man from Jungle didn’t really like each other, but they fight each other on the football field and the cricket pitch and even when two boy get rowdy and a mouth get punched bloody, there was no war or rumour of war. But then politician come. Me welcome them because surely better must come for we too.

Nineteen sixty-six. All this happen on the Sabbath day. Josey walking back to him yard from Mr. Miller locksmith shop where he learning a skill. He coming home through a street that never declare colours before. He didn’t know that on the Friday before, politician come through saying close your mouth and fire your gun. They shoot him five time. Fifth shot he fall down on him face right in a puddle of nasty water. Everybody run, and
those who didn’t, see and wait until a man come up on a bike and grab him and put him in front and try to hold him from slumping down while he ride to the clinic. A different man come out of that clinic three weeks later.

Evil force and samfie force rising in the night. The Singer tell me a story. How back when reggae was something only few people know, how white rock and roll star was him friend. You reggae dudes are far out, man, pretty neat, you got any gawn-ja? But as soon as the Natty Dread sing hit songs and break the Babylon top 100, everybody start to treat him a way. They like him better when he was the poor cousin that they can feel good for taking notice. I tell him that politician do the same thing to me when they realize me can read. In 1966 they carve up Kingston and never ask we what slice we want. So every land that hit midway on the boundary, Rema, Jungle, Rose Town, Lizard Town, they leave it to we to fight over. Me fight hard until me get tired. I raise the men who now run with Josey Wales and nobody ever badder than me. I swell Copenhagen City two times it size and eradicate robbery and rape from the community. This is election year and nothing left now but war and rumour of war. But tonight I look from my verandah and the night keeping secret close. The verandah is wood and is long time it don’t paint. My woman snore like a kicked donkey, but you grow to like the few things that never change. Tomorrow some youths coming over here to talk about their own peace concert, since this one is PNP propaganda. The whole night almost gone and the police eradication squad don’t make one sweep yet. This make the night strange, for ghetto people not used to full night sleep. Somewhere, somehow, especially a night hot like this, somebody going pay for it.

Barry Diflorio

W
haddiya have for lunch
today, Pop, a Whamperererer?

—Sure thing, sweetie.

—Pop, stop calling me that.

—Calling you what?

—Sweetie. I’m not a girl.

—You’re not, huh? Don’t have any girly parts?

—Nope, nope nope. So I can’t be a sweetie.

—You’re my sweetie though.

—Nope. Boys aren’t sweet. That’s girls. Girls are sweet. And icky.

Kinda hard to argue with such rock-solid logic. I could write an article on the things I knew at six that I don’t fucking know at thirty-six.

—They are kinda icky, aren’t they? But when you’re thirteen you’re going to wanna be with them all the time.

—Noooooooo.

—Yeahhhhhh.

—Will they like playing with my frogs then?

—Something like that. Anyway, it’s a school night, honey.

—Pop.

—Sorry, I forgot that you’re a little man now. It’s a school night, buddy, so off you go. You too, Timmy.

—Aw, man. Babylon business this.

—Excuse me?

—Aw . . . nothing, Dad.

—That’s what I thought. Go to bed, guys. Gee, neither of you kiss your pop anymore?

—They’re grown men now.

—I noticed. Make sure you brush your teeth, both of you.

My wife follows them.

—Where are you going?

—To brush my teeth too. Very long day. Then again every day in Kingston is kinda long, isn’t it?

I knew what she was doing. Amazing how women can use any opportunity to start up an argument, but especially moments like this when you don’t want to fight, but not fighting makes it seem like you don’t care, so you say something nice or compliment her, which just makes her say that you’re patronizing her, which of course just leads to the fight anyway.

—I’ll be up—

The phone rings.

—In a minute.

She goes up the stairs muttering something about the phone ringing when I’m home. Considering I forbid anybody calling here, not for business or pleasure, this is weird.

—Hello?

—Ten million dollars and all you have to show for it is some occasional crap you have that faggot Sal Resnick write in the
New York Times
?

—William Adler. Bill. How’s it hanging, Bill?

—To the left last time I wore boxers.

—They probably ration that shit where you are, huh?

—Really? Where am I?

—Some socialist Utopia, somewhere. Freedom worth the world’s best piña colada?

—What, like in Cuba? You really think I’m in Cuba? That’s your info? Don’t make my respect for you sink any lower, Barry.