A Brief History of Seven Killings (26 page)

Thirty minutes later I’m under an umbrella by the poolside of the Jamaica Pegasus. White men in bikinis by the pool are fatter, and their wives are tanner, both of which means richer, especially given how many of these women are younger. I don’t know who they are since Kingston is not really a touristy kinda place and everybody here is here on business. Lansing was so convinced he had something I wanted that I was sorta convinced too. Now I’m here wavering between
what the fuck, Alex,
and
maybe he actually has something I want
. Either way I’m curious.

And I’m waiting at the poolside of this hotel watching a man not paying attention to his two fat kids as they leap off into the pool belly first. The older one just hit the water with a slap that fucking echoed. I watch him wobbling to the side of the pool, wanting to cry so bad, his mouth twisting into it and he’s huffing through his nose, but he looks around and sees me. Bad enough to cry while a stranger watches, but there’s no way the little fat fuck is going to cry in front of his brother. I want to laugh at the little motherfucker but figure he should catch a break. Besides, I’m here waiting on this prick, thinking about what happened thirty minutes ago. Eleven a.m. December 3, 1976. The exact half hour I got fired from
Rolling Stone
. At least I think I was fired. It was like this. I got a phone call.

—Hello?

—What the fuck are you doing down there, Pierce?

—Hi, bossman. How’s it shaking? The kids?

—You seem to overestimate the closeness of our relationship, Pierce.

—Sorry, boss. What can I do for you?

—You also seem to think I like wasting phone calls. Where’s my fucking story?

—I’m working on it.

—Two hundred words on whether Mick fucking Jagger flew in to Jamaica with or without Bianca and you still can’t get me a fucking story? How is this hard?

—I’m working an angle, boss.

—You’re working an angle. Let me make sure I heard you right; you’re working an angle. I didn’t send you down there to run a fucking con, Pierce. I sent you down to put some shit together for a fucking photo essay that should have been on my desk days ago.

—Hey, boss, please listen to me. I’m, well, I’m sitting on something big here. Really big. Square biz, man.

—Quit with the fucking jive talk, Pierce, you’re from Minnesota.

—That wounds me, seriously. But it’s major. Some serious shit surrounding the Tuff G—

—Do you read the magazine you work for? We already did a story on him in March. I suggest you read it.

—With all due respect, boss, that story was a fucking piece of shit. I mean, come on, the guy was getting off on his fucking self. There’s nothing in it about the Singer or what’s really going on here. I’m meeting the son of the CIA boss in thirty minutes. Yeah, I just said CIA. I mean, some major Cold War shit is about to blow, boss, and—

—Did you hear a single thing I just said? One sec. Not Helvetica, anything but Helvetica, and for God’s sake that pic of Carly Simon looks like Steven Tyler about to give a blow job. Alex?

—I’m here, boss.

—I said we already did him, and we already did Jamaica. If you wanna keep up with that shit and not do what I sent you down there to do, maybe you should give
Creem
a call.

—Oh, so it’s like that. Well, well, maybe I will.

—Don’t fuck with me, Pierce. Jackson says you haven’t even spoken to him yet.

—Jackson?

—The fucking photographer, dipshit.

—Did you send somebody else down here?

—What are you talking about?

—You heard me. There’s someone else here from
Rolling Stone
.

—Not on my watch, Pierce.

—Really, you wouldn’t be sending some
real
journalist out here, now that you smell a story, would you?

—Jamaica has no fucking story. If somebody wants to go write a story on their own and not on my payroll, that’s their fucking business. You, on the other hand, I’m paying for.

—So it’s not a case of, this looks too big for Pierce, he’s too green, so send in the pros.

—Green is not the color I think of when I think of you, Pierce.

—Really. What color would that be?

—A story with photos of Jagger squeezing some bitch’s tits on my desk in two days or consider yourself fired.

—You know what? You know what? Maybe you should consider this to mean I quit.

—Not when I’m the one paying for your fucking trip, Pierce. But don’t worry: as soon as you bring your corn-fed ass back to New York, I’ll do myself the pleasure of firing you.

Then he hung up. So technically I’m fired, or at least I’m going to be. I’m still not sure how I feel about that. Jagger brought his wife with him? Or that blonde he’s fucking around with? How’s that gonna work with his manhunt for black pussy? It’s weird, in all this I see Mark Lansing coming towards me. He’s right over there looking exactly like that white man on the cover of the
How to Speak Jamaican Handbook
. Olive green cargo pants rolled up to the calf, black sneakers, and a red, green and gold wife beater that’s already inched up off his belly button. Judging from how the wind keeps blowing it, a rag’s hanging out of his back pocket. Jesus Christ, a Rasta tam on his head, with blond bangs hanging out. He looks like he just
joined Fags Against Babylon or something. I really wished it bothered me more that I was out of a job.

—Earth to Alex Pierce.

Somehow he managed to throw himself into the chaise longue beside me, pull off his pants to show purple bikini trunks and order a mai tai without me even noticing a thing.

—A pack of smokes too, Jimbo. Marlboro, none of that Craven “A” shit.

—Sure thing right now, Mr. Brando.

The waiter skipped off. I try not to think that he’s confirming my suspicion that every man in Jamaican tourism sucks cock.

—Alex, my boy.

—Lansing.

—That must have been some poontang you got last night if you’re still daydreaming about it, mon. I yelled out your name three time, mon.

—Distracted.

—I’ll say.

The waiter came back with his cigarettes.

—Hey, Jimbo, I asked for Marlboros. What’s this Benson and Hedges shit? I look like some British fag to you?

—No, sir, magnificent apologies, sir, yes, sir, no Marlboros, sir.

—Fuck, I’m not paying for this shit.

—Yes, sir, Mr. Brando.

—Damn straight. And freshen up this fucking drink while you’re at it. Taste like water with a hint of mai tai.

—Right away at once, apologies, Mr. Brando.

The waiter scooped up the mai tai and skipped off. Lansing turned around and smiled at me with this finally-we’re-alone look.

—So, Lansing.

—Mark to my friends.

—Mark. Who the fuck is Brando?

—Who?

—Brando. That’s the third time he called you that.

—I didn’t notice.

—You didn’t notice a man calling you the wrong name three times?

—Who the fuck can understand what these guys say half the time, right?

—Right.

Given who he is, the fact that he’s using a fake name should have sent my conspiracy theory instinct into overdrive. But this is Mark Lansing. He’s probably only now hearing of James Bond.

—So what’s this about a press conference?

—More like a press briefing, really. I really thought I would see you there.

—Guess I’m not enough of a big shot.

—You’ll get there.

Fuck you, purple-bikini-wearing asshole.

—Who’s the dude from
Rolling Stone
that was there?

—Dunno. But he was asking a whole lot of questions about gangs and stuff. Like anybody wants to hear about that from the Singer.

—Gangs?

—Gangs. About some shoot-out in Kingston or some shit like that. I mean, seriously. Then he asked him how close he was to the Prime Minister.

—Really.

—Uh-huh. All I kept thinking is where is my buddy Alex?

—Nice of you.

—That’s me. Nice. I can get you in. In fact I’ve been with him nearly every day this week. I’m so high that even a kite would go goddamn, Dicky. Met him a month ago when his label boss hired me to get a crew together to film this concert. Even brought him a pair of cowboy boots. A big shiny pair of brick red ones from Frye. Cuz you know, these Jamaicans, they love their cowboy movies. Fucking boots cost a fortune too, I hear.

—You didn’t buy them?

—Fuck no.

—Who?

—So we got the exclusive rights to film the concert.

—They hired you to film the concert? Didn’t know you were a cinematographer.

—There’s lots about me you don’t know.

—Clearly.

—You want a mai tai? It’s a piece of shit but it’s free.

—Nah, I’m fine. So what’s the favor you’re gonna do for me? And what do you want?

—You always this crass? Hey, where’s my fucking drink? Look, buddy, I only want to help you out. Here’s the thing. You want to get in with the Singer, right? You wanna be so up and close that it’s only you and him?

—Well, yeah.

—I can make you part of my crew. You’ll be the journalist or some shit.

—I am a journalist.

—See? You’ll play along just fine. Brother, I have unprecedented access to the Singer. Nobody ever had that before and nobody ever will again, certainly no film crew. Hired by the label boss himself and we’re to film everything. Hell, we could probably film him taking a shit or fucking that Libyan princess he’s supposed to be schooling on mandingo sex. I’ll film some of your interview for the doc, but you can use it for whatever you want.

—Wow. That sounds really cool, Mark, but why?

—You travel light, Pierce?

—Always. Easier to run.

—I got some extra luggage that I need someone to take back to New York.

—Why not just pay the extra money?

—I need it to get there before me.

—What?

—Look. I make you part of my crew. When you fly back to New York, you take one of my bags for me. Simple.

—Except nothing is ever simple. What’s in the bag?

—Film stuff.

—You’re giving me the Singer in exchange for a baggage tag.

—Yup.

—Appearances are deceiving, Lansing, I swear I only look like an idiot. Cocaine or heroin?

—Neither.

—Pot? You’re shitting me.

—What? No, what the fuck, Alex? There’ll be somebody to take that bag from you at JFK.

—What are you, the spy who came in from the cold?

—Rasta don’t work for the CIA.

—Haha.

—Been watching too much James Bond, have we? The bag will contain footage.

—Of what?

—What the fuck you mean, of what? Of the doc. This thing is on rush order, buddy. His boss wants it to air the day after it’s filmed. Right now as soon as we film it, we ship it.

—I see.

—I hope so. I don’t trust strangers and those fuckers in customs will expose that film like the fucking idiots they are, unless somebody white explains it to them very carefully. You wanna come to 56 Hope Road tonight?

—What? Fuck yes.

—I can either pick you up or you can meet me at the gate.

—Pick me up. What time?

—Seven.

—Cool. Thanks, Mark. Really.

—No problemo. When you supposed to leave?

—End of the week, but I was planning on staying a little longer.

—Don’t do that. Leave.

—Huh?

—Leave.

Nina Burgess

T
hree-thirty p.m.
I checked the Timex. Just as I was about to leave the house for Hope Road, my mother dials me to say to come at once to the house. That’s exactly what she said, come at once to the house. For some reason it made me think of Danny. Somewhere in the U.S. with a wife by now or at least a girlfriend who knows where he’s coming from and who didn’t give a moment’s pause the first time he brought up oral sex. He must be married by now. I don’t know what that means, the man that got away. One time I was cleaning up my parents’ house because they went on a trip and I thought to surprise them. I’m arranging my father’s fishing equipment in the back room when his tackle box fell. Inside it was a letter he wrote in red ink on yellow legal paper.
It took me thirty years to write this letter
, that’s how he started it. The woman that got away is what I was thinking. Then I wondered if everybody has that person that haunts them, the one that got away.

On the radio news at twelve, the Women’s Crisis Center was threatening to stage another walk for peace all dressed in black and carrying a coffin. Upper-middle-class women here love to feel they can cause drama, but they’re just looking for shit to do. I’m not sure why I’m thinking all this stuff and it’s way too early to try to find some big cosmic Carlos Castañeda thing to tie it all together. I was still shaking from cussing out my sister. I didn’t shower even though I couldn’t remember if I took one when I got home last night, excuse me, this morning.

I took a taxi to my parents’ house thinking about what the embassy said when they turned down my visa a month ago. I didn’t have enough ties, nothing in the bank account, no dependents, no gainful employment—yes they said “gainful”—nothing to reassure the American government that I
won’t disappear once I land in the big old USA. As I was leaving the embassy this fat man wearing a yellow shirt and a brown tie came up to me like he knew the look on my face. Before I could imagine the countless pathetic women who have come out of this same embassy with that same face, he asked me if I want a visa. I usually don’t listen to that shit, until he opened his passport and I saw not only a visa but stamps from Miami and Fort Lauderdale airports. Him know a man who know a man who know one American in the embassy who could fetch me a visa for five thousand dollars. That was salary for half a year. I didn’t have to give him the money until I saw the visa, only a passport-size photo, which I already had in my bag. I think about the news report a month ago about ten people shot. I don’t know why I believed him but I did.

I didn’t get to my parents’ house until about one p.m. Kimmy opened the door. Wearing a dress. Except it wasn’t one of her dawta jeans dresses or long skirts with dust all over the hem. A she-not-joking-good-girl purple dress with no sleeves, a sheath they call it, as if she’s just about to do the interview section of a beauty contest. No shoes. She behaving like the little girl in the house. She didn’t say a thing to me and I certainly wasn’t about to say anything to her, even though I had to bite my lip to not ask if Ras Trent deh ’pon the premises. She opened the door looking away the whole time, as if she was only letting in a cool breeze. She can kiss me ass, is what me thinking. And it’s getting easier and easier to think it. Let’s hope this is just my mother asking me to go get her prescription at the pharmacist who dishes out an extra few pills or something, one of those things she never asks Kimmy to do.