A Brief History of Seven Killings (28 page)

I haven’t had to follow a car since working with Adler in Ecuador. Yes I’m too old for adrenaline, but damn if it doesn’t take you over anyway. I really like this. I mean, I really, really like this. Maybe I should translate all this energy down to my cock and fuck, well, somebody.

Louis makes a left on Trafalgar Road into more traffic, then turns left again. A hundred or so yards down on a road I don’t know. Then he goes south, cuts across Half Way Tree Road, and before I know it, I’m in the ghetto. Or at least, the houses have gotten smaller and the road more narrow, and more and more roofs are just zinc sheets held down with bricks. Cement walls have turned to zinc with graffiti about the fuckery PNP, blackheart men, “Under Heavy Manners” and Rastafari. If I focus on them, on the green Cortina, I never have to think about how fucking bonkers this is, me a white man driving through what must be the blackest ghetto in Kingston. Half Way Tree is rough too, but I have never seen this. The thought comes that I might not know my way back, but I swallow it. They’ve picked up speed, I want to kick the gas but some little girl in a blue uniform might run out into the road at any minute.

Louis knows these roads. He’s come down here before. He comes down here a lot, I think. I didn’t even notice that my foot had pressed down on the
gas, but I can hear my own car, see my hand twist the steering all of a sudden and the car swinging left, then first right, then over an exposed manhole. The car is hopping over bumps, jumping, tearing, screeching. The green car in sight, out of sight, vanishing around a corner only to appear when I skate around, behind three or four cars. God, I hope he’s not trying to lose me. I almost said “give me the slip.” I could feel it coming but I didn’t.

We’re on some sort of highway now, another stretch I have never seen. The houses are even smaller, zincer, poorer, and the people outside are heading where the green car is going. They look like hills rising on both sides of the road. It’s not until twenty or so feet away that I see what they are. Mountains and mountains of garbage—not mountains, dunes and dunes like the Sahara just switched out sand for junk and smoke. The smoke is sour and thick, like animals are burning as well. People are climbing all over the garbage dunes, even the burning ones, digging through the junk and stuffing whatever in black plastic bags. I almost forget the green car.

Minutes pass. The garbage dunes go on forever, and the trail of people stuff junk into their black bags. The green car has disappeared. I stop the car, not quite knowing what to do. Two boys with bags run across the road right in front of me and my right hand reaches for the dashboard. Maybe I should take the gun out, at least keep it in my lap. My heart should stop pounding in a few. What the fuck am I doing here? Then two more boys pass, then a woman, then several women, then a trail of men and women and boys and girls passing in front and behind the car, the men and women shuffling, the boys and girls skipping and jumping, everybody carrying black bags to the other side. Someone bumps the car and I jump, punching the glove compartment so that the lid drops open and I can grab the gun.

God knows how many minutes had passed before I hit the gas again. The road is still clear, but it’s the highway, with nothing but rocks to one side of the road and sea to the other. Only one car passes, a white Datsun with a driver who sticks his head out when he sees me, a black man with Chinese-looking eyes. I could have sworn he scowled, which is weird since I don’t know the man from Adam. I don’t get past a turn on the left be
fore the green car shoots out of nowhere and rams straight into me. My forehead hits the steering wheel and my neck whiplashes into the headrest. The Cuban is out first, at least I think it’s the Cuban. He races over to my car, his gun drawn, and shoves it right under my jaw.

—Wait, I know him. He’s one of yours, he says.

—Who the fuck? Diflorio? What the fuck? Diflorio, what’s the big idea following me?

They insist on taking me to the hospital even though there is nothing wrong with me. At Kingston Public Hospital, the doctor stitches up my forehead as I try to ignore the crowd of people inside and the streaks of blood and whatever else on the floor. The doctor didn’t bother to take his surgical mask off. I really want to leave, but I have no memory of how I got there, not even after I see Louis Johnson out by reception sitting beside an old black woman and reading the paper.

—Where’s my car?

—Sweetie all stitched up? Baby all better?

—My car, Johnson.

—Dunno, back in the ghetto somewhere. They probably scrapped it totally by now.

—Funny, Johnson. Real funny.

—Las Casas drove behind me, took it to the embassy. It’s fine. You’ll have some explaining to do to the wife, but it’s not totaled or anything.

—What the fuck, Johnson.

—What can I say, sweetie, I see I’m being followed, I decide that I don’t dig that kind of shit. And next time, should you decide on this course of action again, at least do a better fucking job of it. Not a lot of Volvos come charging through the ghetto. Did you even know where you were? Let’s go.

We’re heading back to the embassy on roads I don’t recognize. At least I think we’re heading back to the embassy. I wish I had my gun.

—You told some black guy to look out for me? I say.

—No, but Luis probably did. White Datsun?

—Yeah.

—Same one.

—Who is he?

—You know, Diflorio, I respect what you do.

—Really now.

—Yeah, that shit Adler and you pulled off in Ecuador was pretty neat. Slow as shitting molasses, but neat all the same.

—You don’t know shit about what I did in Ecuador.

—Not only do I know what shit got down in Quito, I also know this is not fucking Quito.

—Meaning?

—Your silly little letter-writing campaign doesn’t count for jack shit in a country where most people can’t fucking spell communist.

By letter writing he means the letters that I fed the press warning people about the communist threat in Ecuador. And the ones from the “communist party” endorsing the Rector of Quito Central University, to scare people away from voting for him, a success. By letter writing he means the flyers I created for the Young People Liberation Front, a communist organization I created by simply taking out a half-page ad in the newspaper, and having two youngish-looking agents who spoke Spanish set up as leftist exiles from Bolivia, in case anybody wanted to meet. We eventually demoralized the Student Communist movement by tipping the military police every time they met. By letter writing he means the Anti-Communist Front that I created and the 340 people I recruited for training back home on how to recognize and defuse the communist menace, because I’ve been to Hungary and it is a fucking communist menace. By letter writing he’s talking about what it took to get Arosemana elected as well as thrown out once he became the inevitable nuisance Latin Americans become when you give them just a hint of power. All the while keeping this shit out of the
New York Times
when men like Johnson and Carlucci were fucking up the Congo. He has some fucking nerve.

—Don’t think I don’t respect your soft tactics, Diflorio, or you for that matter. But this ain’t Ecuador. Not even close.

—Soft tactics. Could’ve used some softness in the Congo.

—Congo is fine.

—Congo’s a mess. It’s not even the Congo.

—It’s not communist.

—Of course.

—You a patriot, Diflorio?

—What? Of course. What a fucking question.

—Well. That makes one of us. I just get the job done.

—Is this the part where you tell me that it’s for the thrill of it? That you would do it for free?

—No, the pay’s pretty good too. Patriot. Shit. Your problem is that you believe the bullshit from your own government.

—You think you have me all figured out, don’t you? Every single letter that comes to Jamaica from Cuba, China or the Soviet Union, and every letter from here that goes out there hits my desk first. I’ve got a man in every leftist organization in this fucking country that even fucking Bill Adler couldn’t fish out. You’re no different from the twelve fucking idiots he called out.

—How so?

—All you do is fuck up. If guys like you didn’t fuck up, guys like me wouldn’t be needed in the first place. Right now I just compiled a Subversive Control Watch List that just made Bush very happy. How’s your report card, Johnson? I see you got the fucking-around-with-terrorists part down pat.

—Haha, Doctor Love told me about you.

—Oh, that’s what he’s calling himself these days? He and his dumb-asshit Cuban rich boys who thought they could start some counter-revolution just because their papas could buy them little guns. Had they left Cuba to people like me instead of people like him, there’d be a McDonald’s in Havana by now.

—Bravo. Except for one thing, Diflorio. You’re under the impression that you can do this alone. You and your kind, the fucking accountants. Motherfuckers like you don’t know shit about what happens at ground level. And that’s fine. Just stop kidding yourself that you don’t need men like me.

—Remarkable.

—And what’s your last big project, Diflorio? A fucking coloring book, that’s what. A fucking coloring book that—

—Gotta start them young, asshole.

—Page six: My daddy says we’re in democracy and not totalitarian state, now color the letters CCCP.

—Fuck you.

—Hey, I for one think anti-communist coloring books are the bee’s knees. Just perfect for a country where most of the population can’t read.

—That was a fucking stoplight, Johnson.

—Scared?

—Annoyed. Tired too. Where are you going?

—Figured you’d want to go home.

—Take me back to the office.

He looks at me and laughs.

—Maybe you should go home. I still can’t figure you guys out, Diflorio. You’re just like Carlucci. You and him, the Kissinger boys.

—Don’t tell me what to do, Johnson. Seriously, you’re something else.

—This the part where you tell me I’m a loose cannon?

—No, this is the part where I tell you to keep your eyes on the road and not on me.

—What do you know, Diflorio?

—More than you think, Johnson.

—Did you know that certain cultural elements here are trying to form their own party? Not the leftists, not the Jamericans, not the church, not the communists. A group totally different. This country is going to end the year in fucking chaos unless somebody does something. By chaos I mean as defined by your boss Kissinger.

—Kissinger is not my boss.

—And Jesus isn’t the way, the truth, and the light. You’re bookkeeping, Diflorio. You’re here for the corner office, and that’s fine. Somebody’s gotta balance the books and print pretty coloring books, but that’s not what gets
things done on the ground. Did you know we nearly had him two days ago? Almost had the fucker on a slab of concrete? Almost got the commie motherfucker.

—What stopped you from getting him?

—Don’t pretend you know who I’m talking about.

—Who then, Johnson?

—Shit. You really don’t know shit. The Prime Minister.

—Don’t shit me, asshole.

—The Prime Minister Michael Joshua fucking Manley. We almost got him. Wednesday, probably about four-ish. The PNP sets up this meeting in Old Harbour, you know where that is, right? Anyway, it’s just another of their meetings about the violence problem, because these fuckers just love to meet. By the way, we’re still waiting on the transcript, but word was Manley was taking phone calls from Stokely Carmichael and Eldridge Cleaver all week. Anyway, for some reason, an argument breaks out and this army guy—we need to get his name—fucking decks the party secretary. Straight punch right in the face. So Mr. Prime Minister finally moseys in and tries to question the officer who basically tells him to kiss his ass. Manley doesn’t want to back down but before he knows it he’s surrounded by soldiers, every single one pointing a loaded weapon. There they were in Old Harbour, soldiers drawing guns on the Prime Minister of the fucking country. But of course they backed down and nobody took the shot.

—Wow. That’s a pretty amazing story. Throw in a love interest and you’ve got Hollywood gold. Explain to me why we Americans would have wanted to get him? There’s no directive to terminate the Prime Minister or any other politician in this country. This isn’t Chile, Johnson. I may be a bookkeeper, but you’re just a plain thug. Your tactics always amount to shit that men like me then have to mop up.

—Whatever works—

—Listen, you’re under no directive to terminate anybody, do you hear me?

—I’m not terminating anybody, Diflorio. The Company does not, has
not and will never work with nor condone the acts of any terrorist individual or organization. Besides, as you’ve said, this isn’t Chile.

I want to say that I’m glad he sees it that way, and that these are delicate matters that have to be handled delicately so as to leave as little trace or collateral damage as possible, but then he says,

—Nope, not Chile, but it’s sure gonna be like Guatemala in a few days, mark my word.

—What? What did you say?

—You heard me.

—No.

—Yep. This one’s bigger than you, I’m afraid, bigger than the Company, so don’t tell me about your fucking orders.

—No.

—Yep.

—Jesus Christ. You forget they sent me to Guatemala for a few months to observe the election. Around the same time those pocket psychopaths with our ammo started killing everything in their midst. How long have you been training them?

—Not in the training biz. But unconfirmed reports would say a year.

—The Cuban. He’s—

—You’re not as slow on the uptake as people make you out.

—How many?

—Come on, Diflorio.

—How many, you son of a bitch.

—I’m not in the intel business, Diflorio. But if I were, I would guess more than ten, less than two hundred? Got another team of patriots in Virginia. Remember Donald Casserley?

—Jamaica Freedom League. Hit us up for cash once, for his little organization. Which we refused to pay because he’s a fucking dope dealer. What’s this? Second chance for Bay of Pigs flunkies? And with an election in thirteen days.