Kingston Noir by Colin Channer Read Free Book Online

too rass lie. So what you think, the AIDS fly up in him head or him conscience bite him and him commit suicide?”
    “It don’t look so—”
    “So is you supposed to find that out or them bringing in a sense man from town?”
    “Fuck you. Me know more than most of them little guys who call themself investigator. All them do is go on a little three-month course to England and come back like them is anything. Me learn more than them from CSI to bloodclaat.”
    And we laugh for bout two minute.
    “So you feel is kill himself?”
    “Yeah man. A man can’t do that kinda fuckery and live with himself.”
    “So you can’t get my money then. I catch you. You bugger you.”
    “You see how you stay?”
    “Just cool, man. Your dinner safe with your money.”
    “Me no bet for lose, you know, Brownie.” One Drop is a man like to boast sometimes. “Me no bet for lose.”
    “So how you find him?”
    “One of my sources. You know how that go. Find him down by the shrimp place on Black River, few miles up from the coast. The body lay out on the ground like it was in a coffin, tidy, with a pillow under the head.”
    I went over the night in my mind: I came back by land. Drove along the coast road then up into some hills then across some little dirt roads then walked down a track to the back of the jetty.
    “So what about the next of kin and all that?” I asked, squeezing the button of the hand brake. “You wrap up in that too?”
    “As a matter of fact, that is why I called you. Since you know her and she hire you, I thought you might want to tell her for me. Ease things a little. I can arrange for someone to call her later, but you going to see her, yes?”
    “Yeah, I can tell her. But make sure the station call. Just to make it official.”
    I rang Cynthia with the news right after me and One Drop hung up. She sounded afraid—nervous. I asked her what happen, baby, and she said some policeman came by there and asked her about her husband. I asked her what she told him. She said she was afraid. I asked her where she was.
    I could hear she was in her car so I tell her don’t go home. Meet me. She said her daughter was at home so she had to go there. I asked if the child was there too when the police come, and she said yes, that the little girl was traumatized by all the guns.
    How much of them was there? Did she remember any of the names? Was there a Wilson? She asked me where I was. I said out by the airport. I asked her if the police told her anything or if they just asked questions. She said just questions. When I asked for more information, she said we had to talk off the air, so I should come and meet her at home and drive fast-fast.
    I called the airline rep and lied.
    As I headed to Portmore, I kept thinking of how I felt when I went back to the jetty, the way the man sighed when he got the shot, and how it felt so indecent to leave him there like a cement bag, and how his body was still warm through the gloves when I moved his legs and arms and put the pillow under his shattered head in an attempt to fix him up.
    My body was trembling as I was driving. By the time I got to the power station out by Rockfort I had to stop the car on the roadside.
    I still remember the smell and taste of that vomit. A lump of it got stuck to the wall of my throat. I had to keep swallowing and swallowing to get it down.
    Killing people is not a easy thing. I know I might be repeating myself. Is not a easy thing, sir. Who to tell? Maybe some people do it and sleep good at night. But not me. Killing has marked me for life.
    Did I know I’d feel this when I went back to the jetty? I did. But sometimes you just have to do what you have to do, and when you finish doing it you fully consider the price. Otherwise you won’t get it done.
    I reached Portmore at around four o’clock, just when the traffic from Kingston start to get thick. It is strange how you can know when something wrong just by looking at a place. Or maybe this is