A Brief History of Seven Killings (67 page)

No problem brother, change you cassette.

Anyway, say this about the Storm Posse and Eubie, even Josey Wales. Them might wipe out an entire line of people at the theater just to get one man, but at least them have some sort of class. Or at least Eubie have some class. Or maybe he just know how to wear silk and not look like a pimp. But my crew? Nothing but dutty, nasty naigger. Like this one time, the bossman hear a man from Jamdown based in Philly just get a huge stash of weed, but though he be part of Copenhagen City he didn’t have Storm Posse protection because the fool didn’t think he need it. So the bossman send we to Philadelphia.

The man so unaware that we just walk right into him house. Didn’t even lock him door. For a man who supposed to have a big stash he didn’t act like it. I remember telling Ranking Dons that if this stash is for Eubie there goin’ be another war in at least one of the five boroughs. But them convinced this man is an independent, as if man just trip and fall and land on a shipment of weed. Anyway, the man see we and start to run upstairs for the gun because he didn’t keep one on him. Me say to meself, Who is this amateur? Ranking Dons sure they send me to the right house, because this man wasn’t acting like he have anything valuable to hide. The fucking idiot who was with me then say that maybe is some reverse psychology sinting, you know, if he act like he have nothing to protect then we will think he clean and leave. Hate to say it but that did make a kinda sense. So we tie him up and start slap him around little bit telling him to give up the stash or it only going get worse. Before me even tell him how worse, the fucking idiot clap him with a gun butt straight in the mouth. What the fuck wrong with you? I say to the idiot only to watch him smile at me like an idiot. This man need
fi talk now, him say. How him going talk if you mash up the thing he need to speak with, you fucking retarded idiot? I say, and he shut up, but not before he look at me long, as if that kinda shit frighten me.

And if she never scream me wouldn’t even know that he have wife. She try to run, but you can’t get too far with a baby in your hand. We force her down on a chair while me hold the baby, because this fucking idiot was just going put it down on the cold floor. Three more time I ask the man for the weed stash, and three more time he say he don’t have no weed. I know he was lying. Why would he tell the truth? After all, stakes don’t raise yet. The fucking idiot all this time looking at the wife and grabbing him crotch. He use him foot to lift her skirt off her legs to see her green panty. Green? How come it nuh pink? he say. Me getting tired of this house, this man and him wife and the fucking idiot, even this baby who sleeping on me shoulder when the fucking idiot say, Yow, my youth, check it, me ah go hoist up the pussyhole and sink down the cock, you see me? Before me even say something him already drop him pants and start grab him crotch through him brief. You one of them nasty American woman who suck buddy? ’Cause you can suck it, just don’t make me cum before me fuck you. Oh, and that mean no kissy-kiss.

—You not raping her, me say to the fucking idiot.

—How you mean, who going stop me, you?

Him say to me like he throwing down gauntlet. I thinking, Shit, this fucking idiot going rape this poor gal in front of her own baby and me can’t do nothing because everything from car to hotel book under him name. The wife scream and he punch her in the face.

—What the bombocloth wrong with you?

—Nothing wrong with me, me a show the bitch say silence golden.

He pull down him brief and say, You going spread you leg and open up the pussy or me going haffi spread you? The wife start cry and look at either the baby or me, I can’t tell.

—Brethren, pull you pants back up.

—Fuck you. It pull back up when me cocky limp again.

—You ah go rape the woman in front of her own man?

—Make him watch and learn what fi do with woman.

—Brethren, me say no raping going on.

Then he aim him gun at me. Shut up, him say. She ask if him have condoms and he say, That condom is plan to kill black people. And, anyway, condom make him lose him nature.

Me looking at him forcing the woman legs open, and the man looking at me and me looking at the baby. Them in the basement behind the bookshelf him say. But me only have five bag, him say. I think he say please after that, but the wife was whimpering as the fucking idiot squeeze her breast. Then he yank her down on the floor.

—Brethren—

—Fuck off.

—You is an idiot? We take the weed and leave. Him can’t call the police. But if you rape her police going be here, and them going find we before we even make it to the state line.

—Then we kill them.

He say it just like that. Hey, me no have no problem shooting up a club full of pussyholes, but me not killing no family in cold blood just ’cause them make a wrong move and think them can deal with drugs.

—How much time you go prison, fool?

—A who you ah call fool—

—Me say how much time you go bloodcloth prison?

—One time and me nah go back.

—So if you rape her, them hold you for rape. If you kill her, them hold you for murder. Because maybe you didn’t notice, but only one of the two of we wearing gloves and that motherfucker is not you.

He look at me like me lead him into a trap, but you only have yourself to blame for stupid. Especially since he was behaving like the don of dons the whole drive.

—Now why you don’t go pull up your pants and go get the weed?

He go down to the basement and come up with only four bag. Bag about the size of the paper you writing notes on. This time I gun-butt him myself. I tell this brethren, Look, don’t fucking lie to me or me will leave the room
and this man can do with your wife whatever he want. He start cry, the poor man, probably didn’t know what he was getting himself into. If the wife stayed with him after that then love not blind, it deaf, dumb and stupid. He say one more bag in the bedroom. The fucking idiot find it under the bed, along with three guns that him was clearly going to keep for himself. I didn’t care, I didn’t even bother to tell him that gun very easy to track. Besides, something told me that this couple wasn’t about to file no police report. Wicked times, eh? But at least with Josey Wales, if he say there was five bags in the house, believe you me there was five bags in the house. Instead you get Ranking Dons who couldn’t organize their way out of open door.

You know something though, Alex Pierce? Every single time I mention Josey Wales you jump. Just a little bit, but enough. Nervous tic, eh? Seaga have nervous tic. You jump. I think I figuring it out why you come to see me. Everybody who need to know, know say at one point Josey Wales want me dead, but him clearly not after me no more. The big question is, how did you know there was a contract out on you?

Weeper

I
said I caught
the motherfucking bitch tryna suck my little boy’s dick for his pocket money. That same heifer right over there by the doorway. You think I’m motherfucking blind? He’s only twelve. All these motherfucking crack hos with they stank-ass pussies all up in this neighbourhood, y’all said you’d keep them away because your biz is almost legit and shit. Well y’all can go kiss my black ass. And another thing . . .

Bushwick. Sunset gone long time but things always fucking hot in Bushwick. Woman standing right in front of me, in me face I can smell garlic on her. Eye shadow but no lipstick, Jheri curl drying out. Belly a muffin spilling over her jeans. We in the street but she keep pointing to the crack ho who start running-walking away.

—And you ain’t never said that you was gonna turn that place over there into no crack house. Tired of this shit. The city owns these buildings, not you.

She don’t live in this building. She’s in one of them house across the street, string of single brick house that make Bushwick look like Bronx. Three black boys and a girl fixing a bicycle right in front of her iron fence, but the fence not protecting no grass lawn, only concrete. Five house on the other side of the road and they all have fence. We in front of my building, three floors up is operations. Patrol car start to roll down the street too much so now we have to stash indoors and give the dealers just enough to sell a little at a time—never enough for police to give a shit. Better this way, at least you can control it. City fix up the building, homeless people move in, and we. They shut the fuck up, I make it worth they while. If they don’t shut the fuck up I remind the super that if police get the drop on operations that’s the end of fi him cut. Plenty building super in the Brooklyn want a cut
of the business that I can bring them. But Bushwick is a piece of shit. East Village never give me a single problem, but Bushwick find a brand-new one every week. And all the way up this street I didn’t see a single spotter or runner.

Two near-deserted block over the spotter was sitting on the curb with him boombox booming
the freaks come out at night
. Young boy still trying to grow into too-clean sneakers. He didn’t have either the sneakers or the boombox last week. Didn’t even see me coming until I was right in front of him.

—Step the fuck off, bitches, I ain’t on the clock, he say without even looking up. So I said,

—Look up, pussyhole.

The boy jump out of him fifteen years.

—Yessir! Yessir!

—This look like the army?

—No sir!

—What a go on ’round here?

He look down on the ground, like he afraid to tell me something that I wouldn’t like.

—Brethren, your business is to give me the message. I don’t shoot the messenger. What going down with the business?

He still looking on the ground, but he mumble something.

—What?

—Nothing, man. Ain’t shit going on ’round here for days now.

—Fuckery that. Every basehead wake up and start do heroin instead? No way market just dry up.

—Well . . .

—Well what?

—Well a brother gets tired of sending shit that way only to have them come back and say that I must be down with some wild goose chase or sumth’n cuz ain’t nobody with no goods in that alley. I done my job, I can spot a hitter a mile away. I approach them all casual-like and say yo, Bushwick is stupid fresh, you feeling for some heat or some pop rocks or some
shit like that, and they nod and before they say some dumb-ass cracker shit I just nod to the alley behind the cut.

—You know where the cut is?

—Everybody knows where to find the fucking cut. They just don’t wanna mess with you. Anyways, usually you got two or three runners there to take them to the goods and get that shit sold, but for four days now, people come back this way saying I’m nothing but bullshit because they ain’t no runners in the street. And no dealer neither. Your bodyguard got so tired of this shit he gone and got a real job in Flatbush.

—Where the runners go?

—I dunno. They ain’t got nobody to steer anymore. Your dealers ain’t dealing.

—What the fuck them doing?

—Maybe you should go check the hithouse.

I look at this boy acting like he brave and I think to either gun-butt him or promote him. Josey coming here in less than five hours, to fuck.

—And hey, since I ain’t got no buyers to spot, I spot some other shit, yo. Two days now I seen some shit Pontiac cruising and I can just bet them niggers was Ranking Dons. They already sniffing out this place because they know security weak.

—You see plenty for a little shit.

—S’what paid for these kicks, yo.

I looking at this boy and already thinking how me going need him to fix Bushwick before Josey come. I didn’t even notice that the damn woman follow me.

—First that stank-ass heifer come all the way through my own motherfucking gate lifting up her dress and no panties and telling my young son that he can hit the pussy for two bucks. Good thing I’m at my window the second I hear any fussin’ at my gate. Next thing I know three lowlife goodfernothings come over here thinking this is the fucking crack spot because of some shit going on in your building.

My own building. The cut. The worst-kept secret in New York City. Red brick like red dirt in Jamaica, two window for every room looking out. Fire
escape in the middle. Three steps up to dome entryway like the place was posh but the only rich people who ever live in Bushwick used to make beer. Me and Omar outside for almost ten minutes now, and while this woman from clear across the street who live by her window know I was here, no dealer or bodyguard come outside yet. And the boy was right, no runner nowhere.

—Omar, go check inside. Find out if them two bombocloth boy in there.

—Yeah.

Omar look left and right. Habit. Then he dash past the crack ho sitting on the stoop to the front door that open with a little push. Fucking bad sign. I was about to tell him to pull out him gun, but didn’t have to. Up the road is a Dodge van resting on four blocks until somebody come with wheels. The kids fixing the bike disappear down the subway station for the L. This woman yelling that while she don’t give a hoot if any nigger want to be enterprising and that business is business and if some stupid nigger or cracker wants to blow his money on that shit that’s fine, but ain’t nobody told her that there was gonna be no crack house. And what kind of dealer sets up a crack house right near where they sell crack? I was about to tell her to go fuck herself because once a junkie get some rock him just itching to smoke that shit right away without delay, so a safe place to light up nearby, with more shit they can buy, means two times the money. Plus now they don’t have to worry about police finding any drug paraphernalia ’pon them. But my reason here is not explain things to this bitch like she is my school principal.

Omar is at the door nodding no. Is not until he nod that it hit me that the boy was right and they really abandon the cut for the crack house.

Two blocks west, corner Gates and Central. The only two buildings left on the block that somebody didn’t set fire to or that didn’t get burn down by accident. There is one on almost every block or street in Bushwick now, a house or apartment or brownstone somebody burn to the ground so that people can collect insurance, since nobody was ever going sell a fucking house in Bushwick. We at the corner Gates and Central. The crack house.