A Brief History of Seven Killings (69 page)

Instead all I got is nerves. This isn’t supposed to be my fucking hit anyway, I’m just trying to keep myself alive for a few days. Jesus Christ, what kind of hit man’s got daddy issues? Ten years ago, at a corner 7-Eleven in Chicago. The day before I walked twenty blocks before I found one. Sweating in my father’s fat slob leather jacket. The day before when I was scoping the place, an old man was at the counter listening to talk radio. This time it was a girl in a maroon t-shirt that said Virginia Is For Lubbers, grooving to “Love Train” on the radio. She didn’t bother to look up when I came in. At the far end of the mag rack,
Penthouse
,
Oui
,
Penthouse Forum
,
Penthouse Letters
.
Hustler
was fine since they had dicks even though I didn’t know that I wanted dick, but behind that,
Honcho
,
Mandate
,
Inches
,
Black Inches
,
Straight To Hell
. But
Blueboy
wasn’t sealed and nobody came down the aisle. For a while I wondered who the fuck was breathing like Darth Vader until I realized it was me. Twenty blocks away, nobody would find out, right? This guy was telling her that this Iran thing is really getting out of hand and President Bubba better do something. On the cover the boy’s cowboy hat put everything in the shadow but those wet lips kinda kissing a cigarette.
Blueboy
March 1979. OUTLAWS: The Bad Boys Who Love It Anytime.

Sick, was what Pop called me too, one day when the man went through my shit looking for cash so that he could buy cigs and soda and chips to balloon his fat ass even bigger. I wish I coulda been there when he found
Super Nova Cocks
,
Super Hung Cocks
,
Cock Tease
,
Cock Hungry
and
Super Surge Cocks
, that one with Al Parker looking like a spurting Jesus. Did he throw up after that one? Did he shake his head and say I knew something was fishy about that boy? Did he sit down and read a few? So I finally come home not ready to take any crap for nobody, least of all that loser, only to see the man hobbling out to the living room, holding the mag with the pink cover,
Super Nova Cocks
, and shouting you fucking dirty little faggot! You fucking dirty little faggot! There’s a special part of hell for people like you. Can’t believe a fucking son of mine, a son from fucking normal blood, is out there fucking the fudge out o’ some fucker’s ass. This must be from your mother’s side of the fucking family. That’s what you do, fag, fuck ass all night long?

—Got it wrong, Pop. Usually it’s my ass they’re fucking. All night long.

—What the fuck did you say?

—Don’t you know, Pop? I’m the hottest piece of ass on the whole east side. They line up around the block to see me, specially them black dudes. This one time this black guy fucked me so raw I couldn’t even—

—I oughta—

—You oughta what, man?

Pop stepped to me but I wasn’t ten years old. Sure he was bigger, and fatter, but I’d been waiting on this for years.

—I oughta—

—You oughta go back to your fucking room and watch
All in the Family
and stay out my fucking business, Pop. You want two bucks for some Fritos?

I walked right past him to go to my bedroom but Pop grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back.

—I oughta kill you for the disgrace you bring to this family.

—Take your fucking hand off me.

—You’re gonna fucking burn, you—

—Take your fucking hand off me.

—I oughta—

I pulled the Beretta out of the holster. Fuck yeah I was carrying a gun by then, just in case one of those cars still had the driver in it and he started to make a fuss. Pop jumped back, holding his two hands stiff, like some bank clerk in a stickup.

—You oughta what, you son of a bitch? Do I look like I’m scared o’ you?

—You, you . . .

—I’m one of those men you only pretend to know, talking your shit all the time. I’m going into my fucking room and fucking sleep. Don’t ever come in my room again, you hear me?

—I want you out of my fucking house, you’re nothing but a two-bit hood.

—And you’re a loser who couldn’t raise nothing but a faggot. Take that shit to your next bridge game with Mr. Costa. By the way, I suck him off every time he comes upstairs looking for the john.

—You shut your fucking mouth.

—Gag like a fish the way his cock’s so big.

—I want you out of my house.

—Oh, I’m gone, old man. I’m fucking gone. Tired of this place and your bullshit. You want some cash?

—I don’t want none of your faggot money.

—Your choice then. Maybe I’ll take it and buy my own faggot Jim Beam then.

—You’re a fucking demon.

—And you’re a fucking loser.

I went to my room. The man mumbled something.

—What did you say?

—Leave me alone.

—What the fuck did you say?

—You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I might be a fucking loser, but you’re the one person that everybody’ll think is lower scum than even me. Lisa, she had such a rough time with you, nearly killed her when you were born.

Jesus Christ, I don’t fucking need this shit. I don’t, I really don’t. I just
want to get out of this city. I didn’t even realize I was back at the phone booth until the phone stopped ringing.

—Rocky, it’s me. It’s ah . . . I’m . . . I’m in New York and I . . . I . . . I want, I want um . . . I . . .—

—Leave a message.
Beep.

I slammed down the phone.

Dorcas Palmer

N
ow it’s too dark
to use it’s
getting
dark as an excuse for him to leave. Another Dorcas Palmer, a smarter one, would be wondering how the hell the evening ended up with this man in her apartment. Then again who gives a r’ass. A man can show up in a woman’s apartment without wondering what the neighbours think. And besides, I don’t know my neighbours. But if he thinks this night is going to end up like some French comedy with me in bed, sheets up to me titties and him with a contented smile as he smokes a cigarette, he just made one sad mistake. He’s watching the skyline from my window. Here I thought I had a shitty view.

I know this part, I’ve watched
Dynasty
. I should ask him if he would like a drink. Except all I have is some cheap vodka because liquor never stopped being bitter and some pineapple juice that I can’t say for sure isn’t spoiled. And isn’t offering a drink just code for would you like to fuck me now? Which isn’t going to happen though he really does look like Lyle Waggoner and I heard Lyle posed for
Playgirl
. The sad thing is I really do want to slip into something more comfortable. All this fucking tweed on a summer day was itching the r’asscloth out of me. And my feet have a strict five-hour high heels limit before they start scream bitch what the bombocloth, you trying to kill me? I chuckle too loud and he turns around and looks at me. A smile from a man is a down payment, Dorcas Palmer. Don’t sell him nothing.

—I know I promised not to say anything about going home, I say.

—So don’t. You have any idea how many people I know that can’t keep a promise?

—Sound like rich people problems.

—Sorry?

—You heard me.

—I swear part of the reason why I can’t leave—

—Can’t?

—Can’t, is that you just seem to get bolder by the hour. Who knows what you’ll be by ten.

—I’m not really sure if that is a compliment.

—Me neither actually. We’ll just have to wait until ten then.

I wanted to say something about the nerve of this man to move into my space, encroach on my time and assume that I have nothing better to do, and then he says,

—But then again, you must have something better to do than humor an old man.

—I’ve said you’re not old two times already. Maybe you should fish for a new compliment.

He laughs.

—The sun’s gone. Got anything to drink here?

—Vodka. Some pineapple juice and I dunno.

—Got ice?

—I’m sure I can work up some.

—So you have shit to drink then. I’ll have a vodka and some pineapple juice or whatever’s in the fridge.

—Your hand sick? Vodka and clean glasses are both on the counter.

He looks at me, nods and laughs. Fucking love this, he says. I’m starting to wonder if this is the movie where the sassy black maid gives the old patriarch reason to live again. Yet still there is no proof that this man is in any way old or need anybody’s help for that matter.

—Your son and daughter must be worried by now.

—Maybe. There’s club soda in the fridge. Can I use that?

—Yes.

—And it might be time to throw out that slice of pizza. And that half box of ramen.

—Thank you. Any other suggestions for my fridge?

—I’d get rid of the half-eaten burger too. And no self-respecting person should ever be caught drinking Coors.

—I wasn’t actually expecting suggestions for my fridge.

—Hmm. Then why ask? You want a vodka soda with a hint of pineapple?

—Yes.

—Coming up.

I watch the man take over my kitchen. Can’t remember when I bought lime and it must have been recently because he’s using it. He tried three times to cut with my knife before he pulls out another one and strikes them against each other like he’s sword fighting himself. Then he chops up the lime. He looks at my glasses on the counter and nods in what looks like pity. I don’t remember saving two salsa bottles but he finds them. Chop, crush, squeeze, stir, yes it is something to watch a man work. I don’t know if I have ever seen a man in kitchen who wasn’t on TV. Actually that’s not true. He walks over with both bottles and hands one to me.

—Well? Is it any good?

—It’s very good.

—Well thanks for the enthusiasm.

—It’s wonderful. Really.

He sits down in the armchair that I had my neighbour help carry up from the street. The neighbour that I have not spoken to since. I hope it don’t still smell. He’s sipping slow, as if he doesn’t want the drink to end, and by extension this stay.

—Aren’t you itching in that skirt? I mean, it’s summer.

—I’m not taking off my skirt.

—Don’t think I asked you to. You wondering how much of a mistake you made inviting me over.

—No.

—So yes then.

—I don’t double-talk.

—Good.

It’s weird to think it but the only way I can describe how he sits is strong. I noticed it at his home and on the subway as well, him rejecting all these chairs inviting him to slump and sitting straight with his back arched. Must be from his days in the military.

—Shouldn’t the police be looking for you by now?

—Can’t file a missing persons report until it’s been twenty-four hours.

—How soon can you file a kidnapping?

—I’m a little too big to be kidnapped, don’t you think?

—Thought size didn’t matter.

—Keep this up and you might be having as much fun as me. Don’t you have any music?

—You wanna hear what the happening kids are listening to these days?

—Yes, actually. What’s the latest? That “Good Times” is quite good, isn’t it? Quite good?

—Boy. You’ve been out of it.

I get up and put a record on, well the one on top of the stack. Funny, back in Jamaica, records were what my father listened to, and it was always dreary instrumental shit like Billy Vaughn “La Paloma” and stuff from the James Last Orchestra. Nineteen eighty-five and I must be the only person to have one of those all-in-one stereo cabinets, or at least one named Telefunken. I still remember the one time my mother brought home a record. It was just a 45 from Millie Jackson called “If You’re Not Back in Love by Monday,” but I think she waited until we all were out before she would play it.

—Church organs? Good gracious, are you playing church music?

—No.

—That’s a preacher, he’s talking about the afterworld, and that’s most definitely organs.

—Shut up and listen.

He sits back down just as Prince says,
in this life you’re on your own
.

—Oh my. Oh my, I do quite like this.

He stands back up, snapping his fingers and nodding his head. I wonder if he was a teenager during Elvis and what he thought of the Beatles. I want to ask him if he likes rock and roll, but the question seems silly for a man finger snapping and tapping like Bill Cosby just taught him jive.

—
Let’s go crazy, let’s get nuts,
he says. I feel guilty for not dancing. So I get up and dance. And then I do something I never, ever, ever do.

—
Doctor Everythingwillbealright, makes everything go wrong, thrills spills and daffodils will kill, hang tough children. He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming. Whoo hoo hoo-hoo.

I grab the comb on the kitchen counter and it’s a microphone for three more whoo hoo hoo-hoos. And then the guitar solo comes and at first I think he’s having a heart attack, but he’s actually miming the guitar solo with his hands. I’m jumping and yell
Go Crazy, Go Crazy
and the song stretches the moment out so long—I mean, I’ve listened to the song tenteen million times but it’s never been this long, until it just collapses and so do we. I’m on the floor, he’s on the couch. He jumps right back up when “Take Me With U” comes on, but I’m still on the floor, panting and laughing.

—That may be the most fun I’ve had since before the Beatles came on
Ed Sullivan
.

—Is what with you people and the Beatles?

—They’re only the greatest rock band of all time.

—The last client had us standing outside John Lennon’s hotel all night that night.

—Whatever for? Was he recording with Paul?

—What? I’m not sure that’s funny.

He walks over to the stereo and picks up the album jacket.

—Who’s the homely looking dyke on the bike?

—That’s Prince.

—Prince who?

—Just Prince. The moustache wasn’t a giveaway?

—Well my second thought was that this was the hottest bearded lady ever.