A Brief History of Seven Killings (68 page)

—Fucking Jamaicans acting like you all that. You ain’t all that. You can’t even control your damn shit. You ain’t shit, none of y’all. What you need to do is hire me to run yo biz ’cause you can’t run a damn thing. And—

I slap the rest of that sentence out of her mouth so hard she stagger back. She shake her head and almost scream but my punch reach her mouth before anything come out of it. I grab her fucking throat and squeeze till she sound like duck.

—Look, you fucking fat bitch, me done with you a nag-nag in me ears like is bloodcloth mosquito. Don’t you get some money every week? So you want money or you want dead, which one you fucking want? Which one? Uh-huh. That’s what me was thinking. Now get the fuck out of me face before me use you fucking fat belly for target practice.

She grab herself and run. I start walking to the crack house and Omar and the boy follow me.

Somebody using the Condemned sign as a table. I didn’t have to look far. One of my dealers on a mattress right in the front room, just left of the bombocloth doorway. He look like he just take a hit, the pipe dangling off him finger like it about to fall, but he recognize and grab it. I can’t see him eye.

—Oi, pussyhole. You a pilfer you own supply?

—Oh, wha’gwaaaaaan, brethren? You come for a hit? A no nothing. Me not selfish, brother, me will share it with you.

—Pussyhole, who a guard the cut if you in here so?

—The cut?

—The cut. The place with the stash that you supposed to watch. The place where you suppose to deal out supply to you fucking runner them. Where them be by the way?

—Runner? Runner . . . what . . . what steer . . . so you want the hit or . . . ’cause me’ll take it if you don’t want it.

Then he look at me like he know I going take it.

—You understand how you fuck this up, boy? Now me have to find new runner, new dealer, even new bodyguard, and all in just four hour, because the fucking dealer turn user.

—Dealer turn user . . .

He say like he trying to echo but also want to sleep.

I don’t bother look into the crack house, but the same woman who try to suck the little boy cock poke her head in the room like she know him. Or me. I wave my gun at her and she don’t even jump, just look up and down and gone back into the dark. Omar by the window. The city board it up but the junkies knock it back out. Just my dealer on the mattress with him lighter.

—Where your number two? I say.

—Who?

—You know what? Get the fuck up, before I buss you shit in here.

He look at me. First him eye glaze but then is like it get clear, or maybe he staring at me hard for the first time.

—Don’t take no order from some faggot with ’icky ’pon him neck.

I look him in the eye when I lift up me gun and blow a fucking hole straight through him forehead. He still looking at me when he fall right back on the mattress. I grab him left foot and pull him over to the side of the room right under the window. The woman come to the doorway and look again, bend down and go for him pipe. I aim the gun at her.

—Move before me fucking shoot you.

She turn and go back in as slow as she come. I pull him over and set him up that it look like he crouching down. I fold him arms over him knees and push him head down so it look like he either sleeping or coming down from a bad trip. Two rocks fall out of him pocket. I put the pipe, the lighter and the rocks in me pocket. Omar outside waiting on me.

—Omar, find that other dealer. And bring that fucking spotter to me right now.

John-John K

F
uck I wish
this was over. Or at least that I never met that Cuban bitch. Or never ran into Baxter. Or went to that fucking club. Or that fucking boy didn’t give me one more reason to head to Miami in the first place. Because then I would be back in Chicago looking for that fucking boy, who I’ll just bet hasn’t missed me for a minute.
Hey baby I’m sorry and I’m back. Oh yeah, didn’t notice that you’re gone, did you bring any poppers with you?
And that would be it, wouldn’t it? That’s the truth like a stone groove. How the fuck did
that
happen? Was this all that it took to need somebody—not have him fucking need you? But there was that one time. That one time when—

—Papi, you gonna slip me some green or not? Also I’ma gonna need some cab money to get back to the meatpacking district.

I gave him fifteen bucks. The boy looked at me funny then shoved the cash in his left front pocket. He pulled his pants up and whispered fucking cheap faggot. If this was only a year ago I would have punched him straight in the face. He would have staggered backways and tripped on his own pants. Landed hard too, head clapping that side table right there on his way down. I would grab him even as he’s dazed as shit, drag him out to the fire escape and dangle him off the railing. Fucking cheap faggot, huh? I’ll show you who’s the fucking cheap faggot. I’d pull him back up, but only after he pissed his jeans. But I chilled and let him go.

There wasn’t a book out there about enforcing, but if there was, I’d be fig. 1 in the chapter How to Fuck Up. Ice cool, nah, ice cold, smooth as fuck and just a little psycho. Not me. I’m the sloppy Chicago hoodrat with thin skin and shitty temper that lucked into something he had no business getting into. There was grand theft auto and there was the sloppy hit over on
west side, but in between I got black space, a cloud instead of a memory. Before this boy I never even had a reason to remember a phone number. And fuck him for that anyways. That son of a bitch was probably home and ignoring the phone calls.

It’s getting late. I know that because Griselda called thirty minutes ago, when I was fucking busy with this trick to say
chico
, it’s getting late in between telling her son to turn off that fucking TV and eat his tamale.

The Jamaican. Griselda’s Hawaiian Shirt losers were right about the address. I doubted it for a second, mostly because I don’t know shit about Flatbush. And those boys are fucking losers. East 18th Street, Apartment 4106, fourth floor of a red brick six-floor walk-up. Studio facing east for a sunrise view. She left it up to me to find out if he was home or not. Good old New York, the whole street was nothing but six floor walk-ups all the way down for two blocks. At least the entrance still had a blue awning. Figured I’d just stand here at the curb on the other side of the street until it was darker because hey, a well-groomed white boy wasn’t conspicuous at all. The other buildings just proved that black people in NYC weren’t ones for aesthetics. Aesthetics. Listen to me, the fucking faggot.

A reasonably well-groomed white boy with a blond buzz cut in an army surplus jacket. I almost took the heavy-duty suitcase they put out for me, the one with the fucking Uzi supplied by Pink Hawaiian Shirt, no doubt because that’s how they do things in Miami. He really took a shining to explaining my job to me. Instructions were to use it then drop it, Mafioso style. But since I was wiping out one man and not an ethnic group, I stuck with my 9. Okay, my 9 and an AMT because a girl needs a backup. Jesus Christ, I wish I could halt this encroaching case of the gay, which seems to get worse the more I stay in this piece o’ shit city. The AMT if you need to get close
muchacho
, Pink Hawaiian Shirt said. Maybe this gaydar shit really is a thing because if I stayed just one more night in Miami that
pendejo
would have been balls deep in my ass. You can take that shit to the bank. Back in the hotel when I saw the Uzi, I said who the fuck am I supposed to kill, a Kennedy? Nothing to do now but wait.

Chicago. He was home, wasn’t he? Crouched up in a corner somewhere
in the apartment and not answering the fucking phone, now there was a kid who hated a bed. Maybe he was crouched like some bird at the foot of his daddy’s bed trying to imagine how to kill his dad,
you ever work pro bono?
Look, I know I was sloppy. Sloppy and brash and I didn’t think most of the time. And kinda stupid. And people had been warning me for years about my supposedly short fuse, even my pop who didn’t think I had the ammo to match the aggro.

That second hit, on Southside to boot, to rub out a goon that cooked the books for the mob on 48th and 8th. Shit did not go as planned, to put it mildly. The man so fucking fat that slugs to his body just came to rest in blubber while the monster just laughed. Took me a while, after the man called me a little pussy meow meow, to figure out that I should just go for the head. But even after the bullet went right through his left eye and the back of his skull sprayed the bed board and wall, the man kept laughing and wouldn’t stop.

I kept shooting and shooting, moving in closer and closer until all that was left was the stump of his neck and loose hair. But the laugh followed me all the way up 8th Street, and I couldn’t outrun it.

When I got back to my apartment I just felt fucking cold and I was shaking and that laugh was under my skin. Rocky touched me and I grabbed that boy hard and pushed him against the wall. I let him go and let him undress me like I was some kid, and carry me to the bath and rub my hair while the tub filled with warm water. Easy, baby, easy was all he said all night. That fucking boy, that fucking boy, the last thing I need to think of when I’m supposed to be busy.

And now I’m losing my shit in Flatbush. Acting all stupid over this fucking faggot who got the jump on me, this boy colder than fucking midnight for taking up with a guy who kills people because sooner or later he’s gonna kill that one, the one where it all started, the one who made him this fucking way. Fuck this. I’m gonna fire a shot and blow a bullet hole in the fucking world and the jocks, and the kids who caught me looking at another kid in the shower, and whoever in the gym yanked my fucking towel and exposed my fucking boner.

If I keep this up I’m not going to make it. There’s nothing to do but wait for Griselda to call again. Or maybe one of the Hawaiian Shirts would show up, since she must have sent one to make sure I carried it out, then clean up. Maybe Pink Hawaiian Shirt, who knew too much about clubs, and maybe he would let me go if I sucked him off. I mean, even a bad blow job makes a man close his eyes hoping it’ll get better. I only needed a second to grab this gun and blow clear through his head from the chin, and watch blood hit the roof. Sometimes I wish I was back in Chi-Town breaking into cars.

Ten feet away, a phone booth.

—Hello?

—Rocky? Where the hell were you? You gonna answer me goddamnit?

—John-John.

—I called you. More than once.

—I really need to sleep.

—I guess you had a fucking busy day.

—No, not really. Was figuring out what birthday card to send to Dad. I do every year. Why did you call me, John-John?

—What? Huh? What do you mean?

—I’m always pretty clear about what I mean. Why are you calling?

—Well because, because.

—I just watched one depressing episode of
M*A*S*H
and an even more depressing episode of
One Day at a Time
. It was either Lou Grant or bed. Although this episode had to deal with some spazzy suicide chick but then it was only part one,
One Day at a Time
, I mean. What do you want?

—What? What do I want? I don’t want anything.

—I really need to get some sleep.

—Then fucking sleep then.

—Huh? You’ve got a problem, don’t you?

—I don’t have a problem. It just takes the fucking cake, huh? How somebody who does nothing all day can be so tired.

—And here I thought my stepmother was dead. Turns out she’s right here on the phone talking to me.

—Fuck your stepmother.

—You miss me, don’t you?

—Don’t make me fucking laugh. What a stupid fucking question.

—Yeah stupid. Also makes you sound like a homo if you say yes.

—You’re the homo.

—And you’re clearly twelve years old. Either way, I don’t care.

—You don’t care if I’m a faggot?

—No, I don’t care enough to have this conversation. Anything else?

—Why are you so fucking . . .? You know what? No. Fucking no, Rock.

—Well then, good night.

—Good night. Wait! I mean, wait.

—What?

—I . . . um . . . I . . . you . . . you made it with anybody?

—What’s it to you?

—Fucking hell, Rock, what the fuck!

—No, the answer is no. I don’t see why it matters, we’re not together or anything. And you do whatever you like. You made it with anybody?

—No.

—Don’t see why not. You are in NYC, faggots, fogies and foreigners and you’re still pretty young. Either way, I’m going to my bed.

—It’s not your bed.

—Good night.

—Wait.

—What now, Jesus? Would you like some phone sex? You want me to say fuck me Daddy until you beat yourself off. Fuck me, oh fuck me with your big fucking cock Daddy, ooh cum on my face, treat me like a bitch, oh—

—Jesus fucking Christ, can’t you say something nice? For once.

—I’m sorry. I’m . . . whoa that was a big yawn. Where were we?

—Good night.

—See you la—

It felt good to hang up on the bitch. Focus. I’m across the street waiting to take this Jamaican out. Except I haven’t figured out how exactly yet. I don’t even know if this should be a one-man job, in fact it shouldn’t when so many things are up for grabs. I don’t even know if he’ll be alone in his
house. Nobody has come or gone for hours, I think but I don’t know since it’s still too dark for the lights to come on. I’m really walking in there blind and stupid, as if this wasn’t part of Griselda’s fucked-up plan to begin with. Take the man out, but if he also takes me out that’s just a fucking bonus. It’s only eight. Even if he’s there he couldn’t be asleep. The best thing to do was wait until he leaves and take him out in the street. But if he is what she said he is, there’s no way he’d be alone on the street, which might be why these Miami boys gave me the Uzi after all. This was getting fucking complicated. Nothing to do but wait till a reasonable hour and move in. Screw on the silencer. Pick the lock, scope out the room, sweep and take him out. Maybe all you need to be a pro is to think like one. All Iceman-like.