A Brief History of Seven Killings (62 page)

The peace council even had a office. The Singer open up him own house to it, ground floor, around the back. We get along so good people used to think we was brother. In a way, we really was brother. The two of we coming out of ghetto life in Jamdown. Whole heap of people don’t know, but me used to be big with the music thing too. Used to play with some boys at the Prime Minister’s—sorry, former Prime Minister’s—father house. Even
grow up with the Singer best friend. Me always think myself smart but I don’t know, maybe the Singer smarter. Some people just have this thing ’bout themselves, maybe is a ghetto thing where even if another man don’t destroy you, you going destroy yourself. Every man in the ghetto born with it, but somehow the Singer cure it. You look ’pon the two of we in a picture, both of we smarter than the ghetto, but only one really get out. Some people just fated to fuck up even when them smart enough to know better.

So the Singer give me a room to set up office for the peace council. I still figuring out what we going to do, but the first thing to do was collect all the money from the peace concert. One afternoon Papa-Lo send Josey Wales to the house to drop off some money from the west side entrance ticket sales. The Singer outside near the entrance, him just done playing football. Josey Wales park him white Datsun and step out and the Singer look at him as him pass, then look through the office window straight at me. Brethren, lemme tell you, if eyes really did have beams like that boy in X-Men comic, him would have blast me to kingdom come and take the house with him. So as soon as the man leave the Singer march straight into the office. Before me even ask what a gwaan, him say, who was that brother? Me say Josey Wales, man, community activist in Copenhagen City, almost like Papa-Lo deputy. Boy, in that short time me get to know the Singer very well, so me see him lose him temper once or twice. But me never see that man or any man get so furious, that him start shake, he couldn’t even talk for a few minutes because every word in him mouth too ragged to come out. Me just sit there and watch the Singer pant and choke, the way he furious. Him say,

—Tristan, me know that brother. Him was here, right here the night I get shot. You want to know when I knew this peace thing wasn’t going to last? From right there.

So I fly to Canada to talk to some organizations about the peace council, and go check a brethren in Toronto. Him telling me all this stuff about the concert, so much that me say brethren, is like you was there. Him say no, man, me see it ’pon the TV, the channel that show cultural programming. Me wondering how the hell people in Canada seeing the concert when no
body come talk to me ’bout rights only to hear some company name Copenhagen City Promotions was selling footage to TV stations in Toronto, London and Mississauga. So of course me call Papa-Lo right away and say, brethren, what di fuck a go on? Him say him never know nothing ’bout no footage, since the whole time him was just watching out for Mick Jagger. But why would somebody name them company Copenhagen City Promotions if he didn’t come from the area? Then him say, Maybe is from the original Copenhagen in foreign, like me born with the name idiot on me forehead. I didn’t bother tell him that no white crew was filming the concert. Look, both him and me know who was behind this. Then him say maybe is Shotta Sherrif. Me laugh and go to hang up the phone, but before he go I say, Pull your leash on Josey Wales or me will do it for you. WLIB New York want me to come back as guest ’pon them talk show, so me tell Papa-Lo me changing my flight from Toronto to JFK. As soon as me hang up me change my mind and go to Miami instead. Plenty Jamaicans in Miami don’t even hear about the council yet, plus me can talk to the station ’pon the phone.

Four days later me in Miami. I go check me brethren A-Plus from Balaclava days. When me knock ’pon the man door and he open it, the man scream like a girl. You hear me. Man ’bout fi run since is must duppy did deh ’pon him. Duppy is a ghost, by the way. I tell you, the man couldn’t decide to piss or shit himself. He grab me like me was him pickney and you know the rules, bad man don’t hug. Definitely not no other man. The man hug me and say, Jesus Christ, Tristan, what you doing here? How you survive that one?

—Survive what? me say.

—How you mean, bredda? Man just done tell everybody say him kill the I.

—What? What the bombocloth you a talk ’bout?

—Josey Wales’ four-eye deputy, Weeper. Him tell people only two day ago he just fly to New York and cancel you.

—Cancel me? Then A-Plus, me is a duppy or what?

—You have me a ponder the same thing right now, fi true.

—Brethren, not only did this pussyhole not kill me, but me never go New York.

—What?

—No star, change me mind when me realise me can talk to this radio station by phone. Too much people in Miami wanting to hear ’bout the peace council anyway.

—Boy, brethren, is good thing you show up, ’cause me was just about to grab two man and discipline that pussyhole.

—Hold on, what you mean? Him still in Miami?

—Yeah, man, him deh yah a palaver ’round him friend house on 30th and 46th. You know where Lincoln Memorial Park deh?

—Yeah, man. What kinda hardware you have here?

A-Plus show me a Thompson submachine and a nine. Me take the nine and him control the submachine gun and we drive out to Lincoln Memorial. So we park the car two block away and forward to this friend yard. You ever see that part of Miami? One story house, with verandah to the side and sometimes glass window. Dead grass and dry-up dirt is what them call a lawn. This house with a mash-up car right on the lawn, might as well be East Kingston. Anyway, we draw down on the house, A-Plus taking the front, me skipping ’round the back. Of course the pussyhole them have the door open. Of course me hear Weeper voice loud and clear. Coming from the left side of the hallway. Me take two step and there him be, him back to me pissing in the toilet. I jump the boy, push him past the toilet so that me and him bust through the shower curtain and a ram him into the wall. Him face go right into it, so hard him stunned. Him glasses fall off. Before the boy could do thing me put the gun right to him temple and make him hear the click. Weeper start tremble so hard he nearly shake the gun out of me hand. The man still a piss. Me say,

—Pussyhole, imagine me come off the plane in Miami only to find out say me dead and everybody in the world hear but me. How you imagine that?

—Woi, woi, me nuh know, Tristan, me no know how you fi dead. You, you deh right yah so.

—You no know? But brethren, no you going ’round telling people say you kill me? When you kill me? Last week? Yesterday?

The same time him friend come in the bathroom with him hand up in the air and A-Plus behind him with the machine gun at him neck.

—So Weeper, me brethren, tell me how you kill me, ’cause boy, me have to tell you, me no feel dead at all.

—Who tell you say me kill you, boss? Who a spread lie?

—Me just want to know how you so previous. I mean, brethren, at least kill the I first before you start boast ’bout it?

The pussyhole don’t say a thing. He start to cry and the other man start to cry too. Then again is not cry them was crying. Them two was weeping. Of course whoever don’t kill I today, will kill I tomorrow so I put the gun to him temple to take him out. The other man bawl out and start beg for him. I mean, him really start beg and plead, all drop to him knees which was too much but still. Me still can’t get over how much the man cry and beg, like Weeper was him pickney or something. Before me pull off the gun Weeper glance ’pon the man quick. Me never see a man so furious. We gun-butt the two of them and leave.

You very at ease with all I just say, Alex Pierce. You pissing yourself underneath the desk? Then again, something tell me that you don’t frighten too easy.

’Fraid of what? Reprisal? Trust me, Weeper is the last person in the world that would come after me. But in the meantime police kill Copper. Then Papa-Lo. You have to understand something. This peace was between JLP ghetto and PNP ghetto. The police never sign no treaty nor the JLP or PNP. Except police in Jamaica not known for any kind of thinking. You too young to know ’bout old-time movie. You ever see a movie with Keystone Kops? Yes? Well Jamaican police constabulary is a bunch of Keystone Kops. Both Copper and Papa-Lo smart enough to know police have way too much vendetta on the street to be a part of no fucking treaty. But them way too
stupid to track down a man like Copper who evade them for ten years. You have some sense, Alex Pierce, surely you must know where I going with this. Anyway, then Jacob Miller crash. Shotta Sherrif soon realize what a gwaan and take one of the five flights to Miami. But then him thief cocaine stash from the brother of a man in the Wang Gang and skip to Brooklyn. But what you know, there in the Starlight ballroom man from Wang Gang New York brethren, track him down and kill him. Shoot him dead right there in the club. Before you know it, everybody involved in the peace council dead but this woman, and me. Whether accident or deliberate, I don’t bother wait to find out. Me fly back to Jamaica to bury Copper, then fly out again. And no, me didn’t go back.

Dorcas Palmer

S
o I’ve been
sitting down and watching this man sitting down and watching me for an hour now. I know I’m waiting on instructions from the Mrs. or the Miz or whatever this Colthirst woman choose to call herself, but he’s just sitting like he’s waiting on instructions too. Back firm, hands in his lap, head straight ahead like C-3PO. I’d say that makes him look like a pet dog, but then being the female would make me the pet bitch. It must be a thing, a whole new level of license to know you can keep people waiting for as long as you feel like it. I always wonder if this was some power tactic bullshit, something to let people know their place. I’m paying the cheque, come kiss my ass. Here’s the cheque, now stop the cab and wait four hours. This damn country. Then again, it’s her money. If she wants to pay me for doing nothing, I get paid by the hour and it’s her tab. Honestly this man really looks like Lyle Waggoner. And I watch Carol Burnett reruns every week. Tall, black hair white at the temples and a chin straight out of a cartoon of a handsome man’s chin. Every other minute he looks over at me, but turns quick when he sees my eyes waiting on him.

Maybe I should just say I need to piss so I can get out of this room. Or rather I need to pee. Lord Jesus I can’t stand that word pee. No male over ten should use that word. Every time I hear a man use it all I can think is only small cocks pee. He looks at me sudden, probably because I chuckled. God, I hope I didn’t say all that out loud. Nothing left to do now but pretend it was a cough all along. The Mrs./Miz just raised her voice from her office, probably with the husband or whatever. Lyle Waggoner looks at her door and laughs, nodding the whole time. What kind of man wears pink pants? Brave? Homo? Well if he was homo there would be no daughters
and granddaughters, I guess. White polo shirt with his chest and biceps stretching it in a nice way. Honestly Lyle Waggoner wouldn’t get kicked out of the free love orgy if he showed up. I’d bet my next pay that he wear briefs, and a bikini to the pool. You could even say he was a hot silver daddy or fox as American girls call men they have no business fucking. I wish the Mrs./Miz would finish up her r’asscloth call or sooner or later I’m going to start thinking aloud and I won’t know until Lyle Waggoner here starts to point at me in shock.

Might as well check out the house. I would get up but something tells me that Lyle Waggoner would blurt out, don’t touch that, as soon as I left a foot to move. This just looks like the kind of house where you know there is no penny or lost button in that empty vase on the table. Glass of course, but not a dining table. Both me and him sitting on wooden chairs with a circular back and puffy cushion. Fabric pattern looks like cream and brown paisley. The usual paintings on the wall, three old white women clothed right up to the neck, two white men, all with that sour look white people always have in paintings. Two more chairs on the right and left of the room just like the one we’re sitting on. Carpet just like the chairs. Coffee table with
Town & Country
magazines all over it, the one part of the room that looks slightly untidy. Purple love seat with the same animal claw legs as my bathtub back home. One of the living rooms you always see in those ads at the back of the
New York Times Magazine
. On the left wall the paintings just gone mad.

—The one in the middle is a Pollock, he says to me.

—Actually it’s a de Kooning, I say.

He glares at me and nods.

—Well, I don’t know what the hell my family buys, although that one’s been here for a while. Looks like a kid ate all his Crayolas and vomited up the whole thing, if you ask me.

—Okay.

—You don’t agree.

—I don’t really care what other people think about art, sir. Either you get it or you don’t, and it seems pretty stupid waiting on people to get it when you could just as easily enjoy having more museum space to your
self, thanks to one less idiot telling me how his four-year-old daughter could do that.

—Where in blue blazes did they find you?

—Sir?

—Ken.

—Mr. Ken.

—No, just . . . never mind. You think Miz Busy Bee will ever remember to respect people’s time and GET THE FUCK OFF THE PHONE?

—I don’t think she heard you, sir.

—I told you my name is . . . whatever. You probably have no way of knowing this anyway, but do you know if my daughter-in-law specifically asked for a black maid?

—I’m not privy to that kind of information, sir.

—Ken.

—Mr. Ken.

—I was just wondering, since Consuela, at least I think her name was Consuela, damn near stole everything she could carry out of the house.

—Okay.

I’m pretty sure there was no Jamaican maid named Consuela.

—I thought she was ingenious. Everything she stole, she put underneath the furniture, right? Say today she’ll steal bed linen. She stashes it under the bed. The next day it may be soap under the chair near the bedroom door, the next thing by the table right outside, then the armchair in the living room, then the next armchair, and on she goes till she has one item at the console table by the door. That way, every day by just moving each thing over by one space, she always had something right at the door to take away. I said to her, That wetback built a fucking underground railroad right in our home! You know what she says? She says, That kind of talk is unacceptable in the North, Papa, like I wasn’t born in fucking Connecticut. So I figured she had had her full of Puerto Ricans.