A Brief History of Seven Killings (48 page)

I am at the Skyline hotel. I got in two days ago, though I’ve been in Kingston five months and Jamaica for eight. Eight months since Lynn gave me an ultimatum, Jamaica or her. Fucking woman, I didn’t expect her to understand my work but I at least hoped for some respect for what I had to do. It’s not that she didn’t like it. Hell, I could have dealt with her hating it. Hating it at least is something. But she was just so fucking indifferent it drove me batshit, worse she was giving me an ultimatum over something that she really didn’t give a shit about. Yeah, I’m finding a way to take all this shit out on her. But honest to God I think she said the book or me as a fucking fact-finding mission, just to see what I would say.

And here’s the fucked-up part: either answer would have been satisfactory. So right now? Yeah, I kinda hate her for not hating me. I hate her for walking into my study back in Brooklyn, fine, my bedroom with the saddle horse desk, and saying, It’s your lucky day, honey. You get to choose between this Jamaica book of yours that is going nowhere or this relationship that is going nowhere, because one of the two has gotta get somewhere. I said, Jesus H. Christ, have you been listening to
Slow Train Coming
? because you couldn’t have picked a lousier time to become a Dylan fan. She called me a patronizing jerk who should answer the question. I said I’ve been reading a lot of new stuff on psychology recently and that is what they’re now calling emotional blackmail, so I refuse to answer the question. She looks at me and says, Well, there’s your answer then, and walked out of my bedroom, our bedroom. Jesus Christ, I would have given anything for a slap, maybe I should have slapped her.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. I should have chosen her, fine, happiness would have turned into an act of will and we would have waited another two years to finally admit that we’re bored out of our skulls but maybe that’s what I deserve, to be a bored content house-husband working on a
sympathy pregnancy belly, maybe then I wouldn’t have woken up to a man sitting on the side of my bed staring at the floor. Bored in Brooklyn—that’s funny. Hey, Dear Abby, I’ve got myself a handle even before I got myself a problem.

Truth is I went back to New York knowing that there was some Third World–sized hole in me that I already knew she wouldn’t fill but I tried to make her fill it anyway. And maybe I resented that she didn’t try, give me the drama about how she can’t be Superwoman and break up with me with a bucket of tears and writing some bad Carly Simon song about me. Instead I got a girl who treated me the same way Jamaica, my other girl, treats me, meaning what we have may be good, but you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m ever going to care beyond a certain point. Maybe I fell for her for the same reason I fall all the time for Jamaica. I knew from the get-go that it wouldn’t work but that doesn’t stop me from going after it anyway. Why? I don’t fucking know. Would I still be doing it if I knew why? Shit, probably.

Meanwhile there’s a man sitting on the side… on the left side of my bed looking down on the floor. I feel he’s looking down on the floor. I only lifted my head once and freaked the fuck out when I did it as soon as I did—surely he must have felt it. Maybe he didn’t. There’s a man sitting on my bed so light that I barely feel the dip in the bed except that he’s on top of the sheets which are now tight and trapping my right leg right behind his back. God knows where my left leg is, just don’t move it. Just don’t. You’ll be fine. Dude, you were supposed to go back to sleep, remember that was the plan. Fine, just close your eyes, pretend to go to sleep until you’re asleep for real and when you wake up he’ll be gone. Stop thinking it won’t work, spazz, you haven’t tried it yet. Just close your eyes. Close them so hard you’ll squeeze a tear out. Close hard and count the seconds, 12345—too fast, too fucking fast—1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . .—slower, slower and when you open your eyes he will be gone. He’ll be gone—nope, still here.

He is still here. Look at him with your eyes ¾ closed. Did he turn a light on? The fucker turned the light on? Who the hell turns the light on? No, don’t look. Black pants, no navy blue, I’m sure it’s navy blue and blue shirt? Is his head bald? Is he holding his head with his hands? White guy? Light
brown? Is he resting his head in his hands? Who wears matching navy blue shirt and pants—don’t look. If I snore will he go away? Shit. I should roll. Everybody rolls, if I don’t he’ll know I’m not sleeping. But what if rolling spooks the fucker and he does something? Jeans still on the chair by the desk, the desk where I’m getting no work done. Wallet almost falling out of the pocket. Bus ticket, condom, thirty bucks no fifty bucks why am I viewfinding my fucking wallet? Empty box of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a fucking food cult in Jamdown, where’s my fucking bag? Does he have it at his feet? Is that what he’s doing, looking through it? Alex Pierce, you fucking coward, just get up and say what the fuck brethren, does this look like your fucking room?

Say what? Oh shit, buddy, I thought this was my room.

Does this look like your room?

We’re in a hotel, bro-ski, what do you think?

You got me there.

Man, I got myself wasted last night, ooh boy, I don’t even know how I made it upstairs and it’s your fault anyway for leaving your door unlocked so that a drunk fuck like me could just mosey on in. Good thing you ain’t a fox or you’d have woken up with my cock in ya all the way up to Sunday.

Good thing I ain’t a fox.

Ain’t that the truth.

You gonna get out
—holy shit, who am I talking to? Did I think it or say it? He didn’t move. He’s not moving. He’s still not moving.

Get your shit together, man. Just get your shit. Breathe slow, breathe slow. Maybe if I kicked him just a little. I mean, this is a secure hotel. Maybe he’s in room 423, a simple mistake really and maybe I did leave the door open, or maybe the hotel was being a cheap shits and gave every door the same key thinking we’d never have a reason to find out, because Lord knows white men hunting for good times with no questions asked in a Third World country could never ever end up drunk.

God, I wish I could stop thinking. Just go back to sleep, man, go back and when you wake up for real he won’t be here. It’s like, it’s like, you know what it’s like? Leaving a window open when you see a lizard in the room.
Close your eyes please. Beside the Colonel Sanders box, the banged-up typewriter that’s too fucking heavy. Maybe I can just mutter under my breath how much money it’s worth and he’ll take it and go? Just like a writer to think the thief gives two shits about books. Jesus Christ. Mannix would have grabbed this lamp and swung it by now. Just grab the base and swing right for the back of the head. Life doesn’t move at twenty-four frames per second. Barnaby Jones would have tried something. Police Woman would have tried something and she never does anything.

On my left is the desk, on my right the bathroom and between us is the man. Bathroom, five feet. Six feet, can’t be more than eight feet away. Door’s open. Was there a key, there has to be a key, every bathroom door has a key, no they don’t. I’ll just jump from this bed, pull my foot out from almost under him and leap out, maybe scram for the doorway—I could be in the bathroom before he gets the jump on me. Or maybe it would be two steps, three steps tops. Carpet on the floor so I won’t slip. It’s right there, the fucking bathroom door is right there and all I have to do is run to it and slam the door, hold the knob tight if there is no key and there is a key, there has to be a key, there must or else I will fucking . . . I’ll do what, exactly?

I’ll get up to run just as he leans back and pins my fucking foot under his butt and he’ll have just enough time to swing that cutlass because Lord knows he must be Jamaican so motherfucker must be holding a cutlass, just enough time to chop me in the thigh so I can’t run and he’ll hit that artery I heard about, the one where if it’s cut you bleed to death in seconds and there’s nothing not a damn thing anybody can do—please don’t roll back on my foot, you son of a bitch. Maybe I could just leap up like I just woke up from a nightmare in a horror flick and kick him hard in the back, well, side, and while he tries to do whatever it is hoods do, collect himself, reach for the gun, whatever, I run straight for the door at twelve o’clock, which will be open since he came in, run straight out in these tighty-whities and just start yelling rape murder police anything because here’s the deal: he couldn’t be here for me.

Brethren, you ah hear me? Is time fi the I fi think ’bout getting a piece.

Piece?

Piece. You look like a Beretta sorta man.

What the fuck? No, Priest, I don’t want any fucking gun. You know what happens with guns? People get killed.

Then that no the point, brethren.

The wrong people.

Depend on who in front and who behind the trigger.

What am I doing with a gun? Hell, why do I need a gun?

Better you ask how quick the I can get a gun and how easy it going be to use it.

Fine, how quick could I get a gun then?

Right now.

Holy sh—

Take this.

What? No. Fuck no.

Brethren, take the piece.

Priest—

Take the piece me ah tell you.

Priest—

Brethren, hold this and control this.

No, Priest, I don’t want any fucking gun, Jesus Christ.

Me say anyting ’bout want?

Jamaican men and their talking in riddles. One day I just want to say to him, Look, Priest, all that cryptic bullshit doesn’t make you smart one bit. But then I’d lose the most useful informer in Kingston.

How much year me know you now?

Dunno, two, three years?

Me ever tell you anything that don’t make no sense?

No.

Then get a gun. Or a knife, get something, brethren.

Why?

Because after Tuesday come Wednesday. And what you do on Tuesday change the type of Wednesday that going come to you.

Jesus Christ, Priest, can you give me a straight sentence for once?

You think me wouldn’t find out? Is me tell you everything that going on, remember? Me know everything that going on about everybody. Even you.

Don’t sink further in the bed please, don’t roll, don’t touch my leg, is he crossing his legs? Nobody crosses their legs, only British faggots cross their legs. He’s looking at me now, I can feel it, that thing, when the back of your neck tingles because you know somebody is looking at you. Now it’s twitching and it won’t fucking stop. How is he looking at me? Tilting his neck like a dog thinking how come you look so funny like those Jamaican kids who do a double take when they see me and wonder if Jesus was actually coming would he be wearing tight jeans? Is he going to reach and grab my balls? Can he see me through the sheets?

Brethren, you know say you frig it up? You know how much you frig it up? Right now me nuh even want talk to the I.

What now? Come upstairs, brother, it’s raining. I’ll ring front desk to leave you alone.

Me like when Jah decide to bathe me.

You’re being ridiculous, Priest. It’s nine-thirty in the night. I can’t even hear you above the fucking thunder.

Last Monday you come talk to me, you say, Priest, me just want to ask the man one question. Me say to you, you can go ask it but one, him don’t have to answer you and two, if him answer you, you not going like the answer. You remember that?

Of course I remember it, I’m the one you said it to, you said watch what you ask Papa-Lo.

Ah no Papa-Lo me a talk ’bout. Him not the only man you question them past day.

Huh? You mean Shotta Sherrif? You didn’t set that up, I did.

Me talking ’bout the JLP man them, brethren. You talk to Josey Wales.

Yeah. And what of it? He was there. I asked if I could shoot the shit for a bit, he said yes, so I asked.

Me also tell the man that my mouth soon have to zip up because them start to smell informer ’pon me. Brethren, all me doing is telling the truth, me no even like informer.

You’re not an informer, I get it. Come inside, brother.

Me also tell you that don’t think everybody in Jamdown turn idiot when them see white man. Don’t go to the ghetto without you ghetto passport.

Priest—

Don’t go without you ghetto passport me tell you.

Priest, don’t you think that is some bullshit right there.

Me tell you don’t go into certain territory before me make certain people know. Me tell you don’t go into certain territory unless me come with you.

Fucking Priest, it took me a while to realize that he wasn’t quite what he said he was. But then I guess the only way you can access info from the top is if you’re a bottom-feeder. Figures, informers are the lowest no matter where you go. You don’t think they would be the same, exact kinda guy in every country you fly to. One-third weasel, one-third liar, one-third just a pathetic loser with a limp who knows he’s only important for as long as he says he is. Especially this one spouting stuff like he wrote Deuteronomy all by himself. Street passport my ass, the guys in the Eight Lanes I ended up talking to thought he was the biggest bombocloth joke of the ghetto.
Priest think him chat mean shit in the Eight Lanes? You think you could’a just come down here because Priest send you or come with you? You know why them call him Priest?

He told me it was because he’s the only man that can walk through Copenhagen City and the Eight Lanes.

Kiss me r’ass, ah that him tell you? Yow, you hear what Priest tell him, brethren?