A Brief History of Seven Killings (63 page)

—Jamaican.

—You don’t say. I’ve been to Jamaica.

And all I could think of is, Oh Lord here it comes, another white man
about to tell me about how much he enjoyed Ocho Rios, but would have enjoyed it so much more if it weren’t for all the poverty. And the country is so beautiful and the people so friendly and even in all this tragedy everybody still manages a smile especially the bombor’asscloth children. Although he looks like the Negril type.

—Yeah, Treasure Beach.

—Wah?

—Excuse me?

—I’m sorry, Treasure Beach?

—You know it?

—Of course.

The truth was I didn’t know it. I barely even heard of it. I wonder if it was in Clarendon or St. Mary, one of those parishes I was never in because we didn’t have no granny still living in country. Or one of those other places you have to be a tourist to know about, like Frenchman’s Cove or something. Whatever.

—So unspoiled. Granted, that’s what everyone says about a place they’re busy spoiling. Let’s put it this way; nobody there was wearing a Jamaican Me Crazy t-shirt. I asked this one guy because he was in a white shirt and black trousers if he could get me a Coke, and he says, Go get it your bombocloth self. Imagine that. Loved the place right there and then. Anyway, you—

The Miz finally come out of the room clutching her bag and touching her hair.

—Papa, be a dear and show Miss Palmer around, will you? Just don’t overexert yourself this time, okay?

—I’m sorry, Miss Palmer, but is there a fucking kid behind you? In the doorway somewhere.

—Papa.

—’Cause I have no idea whose kid she’s talking to.

—Oh for heaven’s sake,
Papah
. Anyway, your son is going absolutely bonkers over the new apartment just because I want a microwave, saying it’s too expensive. So I have to skedaddle. Do show her where kitchen is, Papah,
and Miss Palmer, do you mind me calling you Dorcas?

—No, ma’am.

—Peachy. Cleaning supplies are under the sink, be careful with that ammonia business, the odor has a way of sticking around. Dinner is usually at five, but you can order pizza this once, just not Shakey’s pizza, they’re way too salty. What am I forgetting . . . hmmm. I dunno. Anyway, toodles, bye, Papah.

She closes the door, leaving me and the father in the house. Should I tell him I’m not a maid and God Bless is not a maid agency?

—I think there must be some mistake.

—You’re telling me. But my son married her anyway, so that’s that.

He stands up and goes over to the window. Tall too. The more I look at this man the more I wonder why I was here. I could pretty much assume there would never come a time when I have to clean this man of his own shit, or put him back to bed after I change out all the pissed-up sheets. He was really tall and now leaning into the window, one leg straight, the other bent like he’s trying to push out the glass. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an older man who still had a backside.

—You’re the second one in a month. I wonder how long you’ll last, he said, still looking out the window.

—I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know why I’m here.

—You don’t know why you’re here.

—God Bless is not a maid service, sir. That might be why the other employee didn’t work out.

He turns around, with his back now leaning into the window.

—I don’t know anything about a God Bless and please, please, please stop calling me sir.

—Mr. Ken.

—I guess that is as good as it’s going to get. What time is it? You hungry?

I glanced at my watch.

—Twelve fifty-two. And I packed a sandwich, Mr. Ken.

—Know any games?

—What?

—Just kidding. Though I far prefer your wah, to your what. One of the few times I feel like there’s a real Jamaican in the room.

I tell myself, This is bait, don’t bite, this is bait, don’t bite, this is bait, don’t bite.

—And what am I if not a real Jamaican, Mr. Ken?

—I dunno. Somebody on the make. Or maybe somebody performing. I’ll figure it out soon.

—I don’t know about that, sir, since your daughter clearly called the wrong agency. I don’t do maid work.

—Oh please relax, that dumb cunt thinks everybody here is the maid. I’m sure it was my son who called your agency, not her. Usually she ignores me, but I’ve been talking to my lawyer a lot lately so she’s probably worried I’m modifying my will. Somehow she convinced my son that I have come to the point where I need to be taken care of.

—Why?

—You’re going to have to ask my son. Anyway, I’m bored. Got any jokes?

—No.

—Oh for God’s sake, are you really this humorless and dull? Fine. I’ll give you a joke. You look like you need one. Okay, here goes. Why do you think sharks never attack black people?

I was just about to say look, this is one Jamaican that can swim when he says,

—Because they always mistake them for whale shit.

Then he laughs. Not a hard laugh, just a chuckle. I wonder if I should get all black American and scream offense, or if I should just let the silence hang until the moment dies out.

—How long does it take white woman to shit? I say.

—Oh whoa. I . . . I dunno.

—Nine months.

He goes red just like that. One long second of silence and then he bursts out laughing. He laughs for so long that he almost having a fit, heaving and
coughing and eyes wet. I really didn’t think it was that funny.

—Oh my God, oh my dear Lord.

—Anyway, Mr. Ken, I should leave. Your son needs to call a maid service and—

—No no no, hell no. You can’t leave now. Quick, why do blacks have white hands and feet?

—I’m not sure I want to know.

—They were on all fours when God spray-painted them.

He laughs again. I try not to laugh, but my body starts shaking even before the laugh comes out. He walks over to me now, laughing so hard his eyes almost disappear.

—On all fours, eh? I say. What do you do if you’re being gang raped by a bunch of white men?

—Oh sweet heaven, what?

—Nothing. Unless you worried about being fucked by a pimple.

His hand is on my shoulder now, and he’s laughing so hard I think that it’s for support.

—Hold on, I’ve got one for you, and it’s a white joke this time. What does a white woman and a tampon have in common?

—I don’t know. They both suck blood?

—No! They’re both stuck-up cunts.

Now my hand is on his shoulder and I’m the one who cannot stop laughing. We both stop and start again. I don’t know at what point my bag fell off my shoulder and landed on the floor. We both sit down in facing armchairs.

—Please don’t leave, he says. Please don’t.

John-John K

T
hree doors down
the kitchen was all bacon smell, crackle and pop. Dark wood cupboards went all the way around, one of which opened up to show Wheaties, Corn Flakes and Life cereal. A man, not much different from Brown Suit, was at the head of the table like Big Poppa or some shit, reading the newspaper and making lines with a red marker. Two boys on either side of him, one looking older with a moustache he was spending too much time Vaselining. Boy was cute and could’ve sworn he winked, but his ears were Alfred Neuman
Mad
magazine big. The other boy made me wish I had a dad who didn’t call me a fucking fruit every time I tried to grow my hair long back at twelve.

—Yuca! Yuca! Yuca!

—Arturo! How many times I say no shout at the table, she said. Her back seemed to sigh out every word. Her ribbed sweater gave her too many Michelin man curves, but her white slacks pulled it off, that tacky rich feel of men who bought but couldn’t sail boats. She had tied her hair tight in a bun, which made her eyebrows seem pulled when she turned around. Dark eyes, plenty mascara this early in the morning, and lips shinier than a teenage girl going down on a Lip Smacker.

—You short.

—Wha? Excuse me.

—Excuse me? Did I utter, mutter or stutter?

The older kid groaned.—You’re killing us, Ma, he said. She smiled.

—You like that, Guapo?

—Yeah, Ma, all the groovy cats be digging it.

—Don’t be no jiving turkey on my ass.

The older kid groaned again while the other held his plate up for more yuca.

—You, sit down for breakfast, she said, and pointed the frying pan at me.

I kinda stood still. I wasn’t sure who she meant, until Brown Suit pushed me, more like double-punched me in the back. Older kid looked at me once then turned away, younger kid sucked up what looked like albino fries and the man said nothing, not once taking his eyes off the paper. Go get him a plate, she said to no one. The man got up and grabbed a plate from the cupboard, then went back to the paper. She spooned out yuca into what I assume was my plate, and chorizo from a red frying pan.

—You the motherfucker who messed up my business, she said.

—Excuse me?

—Again with your excuse, excuse, excuse. Do you need to go potty?

The younger kid laughed.

—How does it hang?

—It’s how’s it hanging, Ma! Fuck!

—My
muchachos
, don’t think I talk English too good. I tell them I am businesswoman in America and I need to sound more American, right? Keep on truckin’.

—Righteous, Ma.

—Anyway, you—yes, I mean you, I’m talking to you. You the bitch who messed up my hit.

—I didn’t mean to. Your boy—

—That boy is historical.

—History, Ma!

—History. That boy is history. Got sloppy. Always happen when you give a job to a black-black. No discipline, no nothing, all they do is talk your business yap yap yap yappa-doodle. What he tell you?

—Nothing, really. Said he was going to wipe out a table full of some wetbacks—

—Mind your fucking mouth,
putito
.

—Sorry. Said he and his boys were going to wet some Cubans in the club. Tipped me off to get out of there. Told my buddy Paco that we got to go. He said he was going to warn his friend. Figured it was some bouncer or something, not some—

—Enough talking. Your side of the story is . . . not interesting. You know what’s interesting? Them
maricones
haven’t been in the same place in six months. Six months, honko.

—Honky, Ma, Jeezus sakes—

—Enough with your disrespect at the table, she said and pointed at the boy. He lipped up quick.

—Back to you. You know what I am? I am American businesswoman. You just cause me a lot of money. Lots and lots of cash. Now what I wanna know is what you plan to do about it.

—Me?

I bit into a yuca. Figured if this was my last meal it makes some sort of sense it would be breakfast. The sound of the TV finally drifted into the room, something about a forty-foot gorillillillillilaaaa! The man was still deep in the newspaper. I never thought anything interesting happened in Miami that somebody would sit down to read about it. But this was good yuca. Not that I’ve ever had yuca before, but this was a home-cooked meal and that must mean it was good, even though my ma’s food sucked.

She slapped me hard. Said something about me not paying attention, but the slap struck me fucking blind. I reached inside my jacket so quick I forgot I didn’t have a gun. Before the sting burned my fucking face, before Griselda pulled back with a hot pan full with oil ready to strike, before I jumped up and the chair fell backward, before I could even call her a motherfucking cunt son of a mangy wetback bitch, I heard the clicks. Five, ten and fifteen all at once. I couldn’t remember when the Hawaiian Shirts came into the kitchen but there they were. And the man in the brown suit. And the man at the kitchen table. And the older boy, all looking at me with the same furrowed brow, all pointing guns at me, 9mm’s and Glocks and even a six-shooter with a white ivory handle. I raised my hands.

—Sit down, the man at the table said.

—You all better fucking learn to respect this mamajama, she said.

Pink Hawaiian Shirt gave her a manila envelope. She ripped it open and pulled out a photo. Griselda giggled hard and started to wheeze and shake. Fucking thing must have delighted the shit out of her. She handed the photo to the man at the table who looked at it with the same stone face that he read the newspaper. He threw it at me. It spun in the air for a few whirls but landed, almost perfect and straight, right in front of me.

—Looks like el gator prefer to kill his own meat, no? Next time I feed them an alive motherfucker, not a dead one, eh?

It was Baxter. Alligators couldn’t figure out what to do with his head. Try not to vomit, say try not to vomit over and over and you won’t.

—What was the point to rubbing Baxter out?

—Sending a message. Who have ears let him hear, that’s what the sister use to say at the what they call it here? Convent? Uh-huh. Baxter fucked up and you did too. But my boys been doing some checking around, eh? Word is you did a job in New York that even the police thought was clean.

I nearly laughed. Everybody knew I was sloppy. How bad Miami boys had to be where I can come off like a smooth operator?

—This is what you gonna do for me.

I must have blacked out for hours when I hit the sack. Didn’t have a clue that somebody was in the bed until,

—No I don’t know what I’m gonna do for you.

The greasy-haired trick from last night. God, I hope I didn’t take this faggot home only to pass out under him. But he’s still here so either he liked it or he couldn’t find my wallet and wants to get paid. Or maybe he got nowhere else to go. Well this is one mess, me on the floor with just my t-shirt on, this Colombian bitch jumping in on my dreams with her shitty directions and me not even remembering my flight from Miami to New York City. Let’s see, landed at seven p.m. Checked in hotel room in Chelsea at nine (why you wanna go to Chelsea? Pink Hawaiian Shirt asked me. I didn’t ask why his eye popped open when I said Chelsea), scoped out this little
trick wearing tight running shorts and a Ramones t-shirt like he meant it in the meatpacking district at eleven-twenty.

—Eh? What now?

—You said you want me to do something for you. Unless you paying extra, I gotta go.