A Brief History of Seven Killings (24 page)

Jesus, I’m starting to sound like Henry Kissinger more and more every day.

—Sally?

—Yes, sir.

—Can you check where Louis Johnson went?

—At once, sir.

I release the intercom and look at my desk. My wife has never set foot in my office but Kissinger has, so she can kiss my ass. January, days after we moved here, my first job is to babysit Heinrich, which everybody calls him behind his back, who was not having a good week in Jamaica. But today, on the way to the hairdresser after the don’t-call-it-a-fight fight, the wife did something really strange. She looked at me. Well, I think she was looking at me. I was staring at the road in front of me the whole time, heading up Hope Road to Mona, but by now I sure as hell know when a person is staring at me. Anyway, she looked at me and said,

—You know which word I’ve found that I like, that I like quite a bit, well, maybe not like but does make me chuckle when I hear it, Barry?

—No, dear.

—Scurrilous. Scur-ri-lous. It’s one of those words certain people like you use. I never noticed it before, how I’m such an intimate companion to scurrilous. Not a day goes by when I’m not confronted or just annoyed by something scurrilous.

—We get our own dictionary as a goodbye gift from Yale.

—Well, you get your own something. But you know something, Barry, I always burst out laughing as soon as one of you say that word, especially in an interview.

—Kissinger was on TV again or something?

—No, much closer to home, the ambassador that I don’t like. Said it to Nelly Matar’s husband at some business meeting last Tuesday. Said, “The allegations of destabilization are scurrilous and false.”

—I had no idea you lunching ladies talked politics.

—Well, what else are we going to talk about? None of you have any penis size to speak of.

—Excuse me?

—So you
are
paying attention. Ha. Seriously, what the hell are you doing here anyway? Talk to me seriously for once, Barry. I’d ask Louis Johnson’s wife but poor girl fell down and hit her face again, and—

—We go where the U.S. government sends us.

—Oh I didn’t say we, darling, I said you. I’m here wasting my time and kidding myself. What are you doing here? What have you been doing this past month? I swear to God I would have preferred if you had a mistress.

—Me too.

—Don’t flatter yourself, Barry. Those days are way past you.

—
Fuck you too, woman.

—What are you doing here? Give me the blow by blow.

—The blow by blow, huh?

—Well, the traffic isn’t going anywhere. And you haven’t said anything interesting to me in weeks.

—You’re asking me to reveal classified information?

—Barry, you can either tell me, or sleep with one eye open for the next three years because believe me, I’ll find out. You know how I get when I set my mind to something.

—Would you like me to recite the memo?

—I’m one of the ones who can understand big words, remember?

I have a theory that while a man might not always get the wife he wants or needs, he always gets the wife he deserves. I’m not sure the wife feels the same way. But in a perverse way, this was something I always liked about her. I say perverse because any reasonable man, even a passive one, would have slapped her silly by now.

—What do you think we were doing in Ecuador?

—Jesus Christ, Barry, I know the CIA—

—The Company.

—Sheesh. The Company. I know the Company is not some foreign aid division of the White House. If you’re in a country you’re probably up to no good.

—Excuse me?

—Excuse yourself. You’re not the one who always has to pack up the children in a rush.

—Child. We didn’t have Aiden in Ecuador.

—But we did in Argentina. So what were you doing there then, and
what the hell does it have to do with your boss telling bullshit to Nelly Matar’s husband?

—He’s not my boss.

—That’s not what he would say.

—You really wanna know?

—Yes, Barry, I really want to know.

—CIA-related Missions directive for Ecuador.

—Uh-huh.

—Priority A.

—Christ, you really are going to recite the memo.

—Priority A: Collect and report intelligence on strength and intentions of communist and other hostile political organizations, including international support, influence in Ecuadoran government. Priority B: Collect and report intelligence on stability of Ecuador on government, strength and intentions of dissident political groups. Maintain high-level agents in government, security, ruling political and opposition political parties, especially opposition military leaders.

—I’ve really heard enough, Barry.

—Priority C: Propaganda and psychological warfare: disseminate information to counteract anti-U.S. propaganda, neutralize communist influence in mass organizations, establish alternative organizations. Support democratic leaders.

—I married an automaton. What has any of this got to do with Jamaica?

—The Company has only one rule book, dear. One size fits all. Maybe you should take a closer look around you.

—I am looking around. That’s why I don’t believe you.

—What do you mean?

—None of that stuff explains what’s going on here.

—On January 12, the
Wall Street Journal
called Michael Manley’s PNP the most inept of all Western governments. February
Miami Herald
: Jamaica is building up to showdown. March, Sal Resnick in the
New York Times
writes that the Jamaican government is allowing Cuba to train its police force and align itself with Black Power elements. July:
U.S. News & World
Report
says Jamaica’s Prime Minister Michael Manley has moved closer to communist Cuba. August,
Newsweek
says there are three thousand Cubans in Jamaica. Resnick—

—Good Lord, enough about your lapdog Sal Resnick. As for Cubans, I don’t see any Cubans. Mexicans and Venezuelans, sure, but no Cubans.

—The man asked for a hundred million in trade credit then thinks he can just shit in our faces by kissing up to communists? Then don’t ask for any fucking credit. Hell, don’t ask for anything. If only he’d shut his mouth about socialism.

—Sweden’s socialist.

—You know too fucking much, dear.

—You pick the weirdest times to swear,
dear
.

—All ism’s lead to communism.

—Is that what they taught you in Death to Commies 101 at Yale? I’ve been married to you a long time, Barry. A long time. And I know you. When you can’t shoot straight, which is most of the time, you befuddle with bullshit.

—Excuse me?

—Some of it, some of what you’re saying makes some . . . some sorta sense. I guess. But this . . . no. No. Either there’s some stuff going on you’re not telling me, or there’s some stuff nobody’s telling you. Jesus, you’re such a desk clerk.

—What do you mean, some stuff?

—Something more than that. All of that is economic, and yes, all that adds up, but we’ve only been here ten months, Barry, and your little game takes at least three years, six if you add up all the time in South America. No, there’s something else. Something in the air. A natural mystic.

—What the fuck does that mean?

—It wouldn’t even make sense to explain it to you. We’re here.

Papa-Lo

T
he sun rise up
and squat down on the sky like it no have nowhere to go. This too, though is barely ten o’clock, heat already creeping into the house. First through the kitchen that nearest to outside, then the living room, east to west, chair by chair, so that when me sit down in the settee by the window me almost jump up fast. I still restless. Preacher said man like me will never know peace and I accept that. But something ’bout today feel specially off and it have something to do with Josey Wales. Election in two weeks and Josey meeting with Peter Nasser and the American and the Cuban who I don’t see since January. But the JLP need to win the country and they will do anything to make it happen.

I think I know what that mean. Josey planning something they think me don’t have the gumption to do. Gentlepeople, they is right. Plenty things happen in 1976. Yes, when that school boy run into me bullet, that was it, but truth be told me get tired of the taste of blood long time ago. Me never even like it to begin with. Don’t make no mistake, it don’t take nothing to kill a man and even less to not care that him dead. Certain parts of town you let the baby walk the street and you leave him when he play in the shit water. And when him get sick so that he is just a ballooning, bursting screaming belly that used to be a baby, you take your time to go to clinic which too packed anyway and the baby dead while you waiting in the line, or maybe you take pity and cover the baby with your pillow the night before, and either way, you see and wait, because death is the best thing you could do for him.

Is only two weeks before election and people bussing gunshot every day. Me and Shotta Sherrif both claim that we want peace, but it only take one shot, from a gang like Enforcers in Spanish Town, or the Wang Gang who
say they didn’t sign no bloodcloth treaty. It only take one shot. And even if we want peace, man like Peter Nasser need him party to win and don’t care how. I usually don’t care how either. But how come a little election in a little country become such a big thing? Why America care about we so much all of a sudden? This is not ’bout territory, this is not ’bout statement. I think of Josey and I think of all these Americans and I think of Peter Nasser, and I think of Copenhagen City and the Eight Lanes and Kingston and Jamaica and the world, and wonder what kind of bad boy statement would make the whole world look? And just like so it hit me like Revelation. I know what Josey going to do. Me shake in me bones, the orange juice slip out of me hand and drop on the floor. Glass, but it hit my foot first and didn’t break. Orange juice sweep across the floor slow, like blood.

—Jesus Christ, Papa, you don’t think I have enough to do today?

She down on the floor with a rag and a pail before I even realize what going on. Go outside and put yourself to some use, she say. Outside make me glad that I wearing only a mesh shirt. Josey. If the Orange Street tenement fire wasn’t big enough a statement even Jesus would drop him orange juice over what him, them, must be planning. Something that don’t involve me. What can be so big and so dark that it too dark for Papa-Lo?

Me don’t know what to do, but me legs start walking to Josey Wales’ house. Something about the seeing this Cuban with him fuckery name, Doctor Love, make me think serious thoughts. Last time he was here in January, he and Josey Wales go downtown near PNP territory and blow up four car by the harbour, one after the other. He do it just to show off and nobody get kill but he seed something in Josey Wales that growing still. Me legs moving forwards but me mind moving backwards. Back to last December and January and every month till now. You look at certain things and they is just certain things. Look at them another way and certain things add up to one big thing, one terrible thing, all the more terrible because you never add them up before.

January was the last time Peter Nasser call me. Now him call Josey Wales. He call me to say the IMF coming for meeting. The IMF being some group of big man from rich country all over the world who deciding whether
to give Jamaica money to haul itself out of the doo-doo pit. That is exactly what Peter Nasser say, since he still think he have to break serious matters down to basic school lyrics for the ghetto boy to understand it. Me was this close to tell him fuck off, me know the difference between ostentatious and loquacious and neither word describe him even when other man write him speech. This is what Peter Nasser also say, that if Michael Manley convince the IMF to give the country money, then he going use it to plunge the country into the darkness of communism.

Doctor Love was there to tell everybody about communism. How Fidel Castro take over from the great leader Batista and just move in him house and kill everybody from before. How he tear down all these capitalist things like school and shop but keep the gogo club Tropicana even though rumour be that the commandante can’t get him little sergeant up for years now. How soon they start to just round up men and lock them up, just like the PNP for this whole state of emergency. Doctor Love talk about when he was in lockup and how some man in jail for no reason, but them was doctor, or lawyer or civil servant which mean they was against communism. He lock up even woman and children. One day him best friend escape to the side wall of the prison thinking it was just ten feet drop to the road, but it was a fifty-foot drop and he jump anyway thinking he would miss the ground and land in the sea. That brother didn’t land in the sea. People, this was what Michael Manley wanted to bring to Jamaica and the IMF was going to give him money to do it. IMF stand for Is Manley Fault, Peter Nasser say.

January barely born and we set to work. The American show up with a case full of things the Cuban have to teach we how to use. Wish we had these during Bay of Pigs,
muchachos
, he say plenty time. Him already know Josey when me meet him but me never have time to remark ’bout that. Them guns not like guns from 1966 or 1972. Them gun you have to brace on your shoulder, put in one charge and fire. Our best gun can knock down a man even as the bullet tear through the heart. This bazooka can knock down a wall. I pick up an M1 and don’t put it down. Josey hold on to his old gun, but he don’t tell the American that is an AK-47 though me sure the Cuban recognize it. We take the Cuban to the Garbagelands out far west for
him to teach the boys. January 5 me lead a mission to Jonestown while Josey go after Trench Town where the Singer used to live. Trench Town think that make them untouchable but them not.

Learn this, all nice and decent people. An election year commence as soon as the first gunshot buss. A ghetto always on guard but Jonestown sleeping, like they don’t know that this is 1976 and everybody have to sleep with one eye open. I almost feel to shoot them up just for their carelessness. We in five car, all the better since nobody in Jonestown have a good enough car to follow we. We don’t have time to think, just dash through, shower the place with plenty bullet and dash out. But in the back of the truck is our man with the bazooka. He fire at a bar, but the truck hit a pothole and he slip just as it bust, and little zinc house explode. The road shake. I shout for them to stop the truck to fire, but they taking too long to reload. Jonestown coming out and firing with them simple six-shooter gun and what sound like an AK. But we have new gun, gun that can seek and destroy, gun for people like Tony Pavarotti who take him time, aim, fire and never waste a bullet. Me driving the car with my M1 in me lap. I slam the brakes and burst out fire at a bunch of darkness running away from me. The bunch of darkness all fall down, but more bullet ratatat from the east and hit one or two of we, me not sure. Me shout at them to pull out, but not before the bazooka fire again. The fool miss again, but he hit the bus stop. Steel and zinc explode, flying everywhere and smashing into everything like when a tornado spit on TV. We pull out.