A Brief History of Seven Killings (76 page)

—That samfie, stinking cunt, madwoman bitch. She know who she ah fuck with? Long time Jamaica send me to set up the distribution link from Colombia to Miami. I couldn’t stand working with the fucking bitch. But I should have known that when I told her to shove her baby foot up her cunt that she would take it personally. Bitch think she could slap me because shipment was late just one time. When word get out that she start bite hand that feed her, them going string her up by her bloodcloth clit, you hear me. She goin’ . . . but hold on. She don’t fuck with no white man. She don’t trust none of them. How come she dealing with you?

He coughs and I pluck out the cig. When he stops and takes two deep breaths, I stick the cig back in, to the side of his mouth, like a movie gangster.

—My mind just don’t cater fi that deh bitch, you know.

—Huh?

—Griselda! Me no understand how she move. If it wasn’t for me, she would have to deal with Cubans still. I mean, she know what she going bring on herself killing me? What she think going happen to her when Josey Wales hear this? Fucking woman. And who you again?

—Nobody. Somebody doing a favor.

—You can’t be nobody and somebody at the same time. Maybe you is some nobody, haha.

—What kind of a name is Weeper?

—Better than four eyes.

—Funny. Want another cig?

—No, them fucking sticks goin’ kill you. That bitch. That bitch. How much they paying you?

—Plenty.

—Me’ll double it. You want coke? Me can give you two house full o’ this. You live like Elvis for the next ten year. You want pussy, me can get you any pussy you want in New York, even pussy that don’t turn pussy yet. Or maybe is batty you want.

—Batty?

—Anus. Rectum. Shit hole.

—Oh, I see.

—Me no care what people want to do. Plenty ah chuck badness then spread for man to fuck out the batty. People do what people do, me just want the money. Hear this, a man who run one PNP district? This man they call Funnyboy? Have man suck him cock and eat out him battyhole all the time, then him shoot them dead right after.

—Say what?

—That me say.

—Damn waste of a mouth if one of them eats him out so good, though. You laugh, but that’s some serious shit right there.

—How old you be?

—Old enough.

—You a pickney. You just a start. This business here. Me tied up for you to kill me, this don’t make no sense. And don’t think they goin’ make you leave this house alive. After the killing must come the cleanup and you goin’ stink like last week garbage.

—I’ll live.

—You dead as soon as you pull the trigger. What she paying you? Me will double it, triple it, you know.

—See that’s the problem, you could double, triple, quadruple, quintuple, the figure is still the same.

—What? She nah pay you nothing? You doing this for free? You is a sicker cunt than that ugly bitch. The whole of unu crazy. Crazy, crazy. Me kill nuff people and not a single one wasn’t business. You people get too used to having endless supply o’ bullet. In Jamdown, Jamaica, you make them bullet count, because shipment don’t always come on time. Tell me this, eh? Who goin’ do the transshipment now that she rubbing out the Jamaican connection? She think she goin’ work with them fucking Cubans again? She try to kill six of them in some club two weeks ago.

—You know about that?

—Of course me know ’bout that.

—And you doin’ this for free. What them have ’pon you? You catch her eating out pussy?

—Griselda’s a dyke?

—Johnny Cash wear black? She chum up to them gogo girl all the time and then when she get tired of them, one bullet, thank you, ma’am. She and Funnyboy should form a singing group.

—That’s some funny shit.

—She one crazy cunt, you know. But she never let that get in the way of making bills before.

—That’s cuz it’s not her hit.

—What?

—She’s just setting it up, buddy.

—How you know that?

—You’re the same one who just said that a hit from her made no sense. Seems somebody is covering up their tracks to get to you.

—No sah. Fuckery you ah talk. Nobody from Jamdown behind this. Even if is so it go, them wouldn’t go ’bout it like this.

—You could say somebody made her an offer that she couldn’t refuse. Nothing personal. I hear she has nothing but kind words to say about you.

—She can go fuck herself with a Pepsi bottle.

—No, really. It’s probably not my business. Somebody made her an offer
she couldn’t refuse. Get it?
The Godfather
? No? You’re crushing my groove, Pops.

—So is money?

—Fucking Jamaicans. You guys not big on irony, huh?

—Is the money or no?

—Not the money. For her or me. I just got caught in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. You just ended up with the wrong fucking enemy.

—Bigger than she? Boss in Colombia? Them don’t need me dead. Them more ’bout business than she. Josey contact them first years ago, not she.

—Guess they’re bigger than Colombia too.

—That only leave God. Is God, don’t it? Hah, which angel you be? Gabriel? Michael? Maybe me shoulda put some lamb blood ’pon me door.

—Haha. Wished somebody warned me about this fuckin’ city.

—What’s so bad about New York? Living the dream here, brethren.

—Lived.

—Pussyhole.

We both laugh.

—Can’t wait to jet from this fucking city, I say.

—Who you running back to?

—Huh? Why’d you ask that?

—Pum-pum must be tight like fuck.

—Pum-pum?

—Pussy.

—Oh. I guess you could say that.

—So you love the bitch?

—What? Shit, what a fucking question.

—Look like yes.

—You’re stalling.

—Tell me about the girl.

—No.

—What me goin’ do? Tell
National Enquirer
?

—You’re stalling.

—Tell you before. Me not the only man in here on borrowed time.

—Shut up, you.

—She cute?

—No.

—You like them homely?

—No.

—So she a sweet little thing then. What she name?

—Rocky. Thomas Allen Bernstein, but I call him Rocky. Can you shut up now?

—Oh.

—Yeah, and I don’t need your fucking shit.

—So him cute?

—What the f—

—Well if you goin’ be a battyman, at least get the best batty.

—Batty? Oh right, you told me. Hah, he does have a cute batty, come to think of it.

—Batty is the first thing you check for? Maybe you really is Jamaican.

—His batty is cute. And his face. Dimples, the boy’s got dimples. He always wants to shave but I wish he wouldn’t at all. And his hands, they look like he’s tough but he’s never put in a hard day’s work in his life. But he laughs like a fucking weasel. And he snores. And—

—Alright, man, too much of the batty boy business.

—Good stall though. Shame. You’re the first man in this fucking city worth talking to.

I get up and go behind him. I push the gun through the hair until it touches his skull.

—Anybody was here when you let yourself in? Anybody was in here?

—No.

—Oh. Oh good. Good.

I’m about to pull the trigger.

—Wait! Wait! Just wait. How unu fi do me like that? Me no get last re
quest? Gimme a hit, nuh? Just one last hit. Have a bag right there behind the TV stand that already cut. One last one. At least make me no care if I get shot or not.

—Fuck, man, I gotta get out of this city.

—You can’t cut one fucking bag open and give a man a hit? Give a man a hit nuh, man. Give me a hit.

—That how you Jamaicans roll? In Chicago nobody uses and deals, at least not their own supply. Always the beginning of the end when that happens.

—That why you new whiteys always look so sorry all the time. Unu not having no fun. You not going tell me who take out contract ’pon me if is not she?

—Don’t know, buddy. You gonna sniff that?

—You cut me a line? Two hands kinda occupied, if you didn’t notice.

I find the bag, actually a sack of bags between the TV stand and the wall. I cut one open with a Swiss Army knife, and throw the pack down. Cocaine spills out.

—Then make a line, no boss, he says.

I scoop out some cocaine with two fingers, and shaped a line the size of a cigar on the desk.

—You have some elephant ’round here you want to kill or something?

—That should get you high.

—That would get all of Flatbush high.

I separate a new line the size of a match.

—This goin’ be hard with me hand them tie.

—Improvise.

The Jamaican bends down on the desk and lean his head left trying to sniff through his left nostril. He give up and lean right. —Fucking shit, he said. He tried again, sniffing harder, two, three times.

—Shit, I really need to shoot this up.

—Can’t help you there.

—Pussycloth. Still can’t believe this bitch. Have a flight coming in only tomorrow night. Tomorrow fucking night. East Village and Bushwick ready,
worse, Josey in New York. What going happen tomorrow when there is no me?

—I dunno, Pops.

—Them goin’ kill her for this, you know. Is all-out war between the Jamaicans and she over this.

—I told you, I don’t think it’s her.

—But she tell you ’bout it. Is she you goin’ confirm this too. Is alright, everything cool. Who the fuck bigger than Griselda? Must be bigger than Medellín too. Me is just a humble businessman. Is who me piss off so?

Don’t know why but I go over to the window to see if anybody was standing by the curb. I need another gun. Then I remember.

—Almost forgot. She wasn’t talking to me but she said the guy lived in New York. Some shit about him neutralizing the Ranking Dons in Miami in exchange.

—What, Storm Posse don’t have no problem with Ranking Dons in Miami.

—Clearly somebody does, and he lives in New York.

—And? Man who live in New York who have it out for Ranking Dons. Brethren, that is only me. Me and . . .

Shit.

He looks at me but his eyes go blank.

—Eubie. Me and Eubie.

—I was going to say that his name sounded like Tuba.

The Jamaican stares at me his eyes wide open, spooked like Stepin Fetchit, but not funny. Not funny at all. His bottom lip hangs loose like he was about to say something but couldn’t. It twitches. His shoulders slump. He looks at me and bows his head.

—Fucking pussyhole want all of New York to himself. And Josey never going know. He never going know because this will look like a Ranking Dons hit.

—Sorry, man.

I go back to the window.

—Yow, my youth, come here.

—Whassup?

—If you going take me out, at least make me go out ’pon the sky, no man?

—Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

He points with his head at the bag of coke. That didn’t work so hot the last time, remember? I say.

—That’s why you going help me shoot it up.

—What now?

—Shoot up. Injection. Sniffing is an idiot way to lick coke anyway. A pussyhole hit. Unless you have crack which you should smoke but me no have no rock in here.

—Dude, I ain’t got time for . . .

—For what, you boyfriend outside or something?

—Fuck you.

—Fuck yourself and give a dead man his dying wish. Needle in the bathroom cabinet. Bathroom, over by your—

—I know where the bathroom is, I say.

—A new needle.

I open his cabinet and tear one from the wrapper.

—What am I supposed to do with this? I say, heading back to him.

—Just mix up some from the bag and suck it up with the syringe.

—Right, buddy. What am I supposed to use, spit?

—Any water will do. You never do this before?

—Believe it or not, not everybody and his mother does coke.

—Just say no, eh? Good, good. You can just mix some in water.

—I can’t believe I’m doing this.

—Just do it.

—Don’t get fucking demanding on me, motherfucker.

I grab the bag and walk over by the sink. Coffee cup okay? I say, and he nods.

—How much coke? Dude, you need to talk me through this.

I had the tap on and the coffee cup. He looks my way and says,

—No, use the tablespoon.

—Suck up some water with the syringe, he says. Then press it into table
spoon. Then add like how much would be a line of coke. Then use like your finger and stir it a little, it shouldn’t take long since coke dissolve quicker than sugar. Then suck the whole thing back into the syringe.

—Where, buddy? I mean, like, your hands are kinda occupied.

—Batty.

—Fuck you.

—Not like I could stop you.

—Haha. You don’t need an arm, brethren. You could go between me toes but that just hurt. Feel for my pulse in my neck and just shoot.

I touch his neck.

—You not going feel much if you touch it like a pussy.

I feel like gun-butting him, but grab his neck like I’m about to strangle it. His pulse pounds under my index finger.

—Just push in and press?

—Yeah, man.

—Okay, if you say so.

I stick in and start to press. Blood pops up in the needle and I jump.

—Dude . . . blood . . . shit . . .

—No, no, blood is a good thing, don’t stop. Yeah . . . yeah . . . yesssss.

—That’s it, man. Shit. What did they cut it with, B vitamin?

—Haha, no cut, me brethren, this is—

Weeper’s eyes change. Something running through him like a pinball hit the wrong sensor and tilt. Motherfucker starts to shake. Small like an electric jolt first, then harder and louder like he was having a fit. His eyes roll back white but don’t come back, and foam pools at his mouth, running down his chest. Sounds push out his mouth like breaths, uh uh uh uh uh uh. His head starts to shake so hard that I jump back. His crotch just explodes piss. I grab him, wanting to shout
Son of a bitch you made me give you pure coke
, but his eyes open wide open and scream. He pushes himself off the stool and we both fall backways. Weeper’s kicking something awful, as if some monster’s grabbing for his legs. I can smell his breath all beer stink and ass and something else. He’s still jerking, choking and hissing, like ssssssss is the only thing that could come out of his mouth. And me I don’t
know why, I don’t fucking know but I grab him around the chest and clutch him even though he was on top of me. I don’t know why but I was hugging and holding him and squeezing him and he was just shaking, man, shaking and shaking some more with the back of his head bumping into my forehead, foam bubbles popping out of his mouth. I grab his neck but don’t squeeze. Weeper wheezes three times then quit.