Mr. Hooligan Read online

  For Nadia and Duncan,

  when they’re older

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Ian Vasquez

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Once upon a time,” Patricia said, “Charles Lindbergh landed the Spirit of St. Louis in a seaside polo field in Belize, or I should say in British Honduras. Which is what they called it back in the late 1920s. That field, you of course know, is where the Princess Hotel and Casino is, and that park, the one out there with concrete animals, swing sets, benches, all those things. Well, just across from the park, on Princess Margaret Drive, there’s a bar called Lindy’s, named after his truly. It’s a nice place, Lindy’s, it has a thatch-covered patio, pimento and hardwood walls, a bank of wooden jalousie louvers that’re always open to the breeze. One of those places where lots of tourists hang out, a weekend nightspot where the locals enjoy a few before going to a club. But what’s really interesting about the place, to me, are the photos along the walls near the bar. Old black-and-whites of Lindbergh in the field, in these jodhpur-like khakis, a white man standing tall in a sea of black faces, lots of children in rough-looking clothes, and all the men in suits and women in long dresses and all of them wearing hats, holding their hats down against the breeze.”

  “One second,” Roger Hunter said with a smile, sitting up in the hospital bed. “Is this how you’re going to begin this story? ‘Once upon a time’?”

  “All the best stories begin that way, but not all of them end ‘happily ever after.’ Maybe not even this one.”

  “Okay, fair enough. This tale, is this the one you’ve been wanting so long to tell me? Is this about the boy you used to counsel?”

  “The boy who’s now a man,” Patricia said. “Who owns that bar, Lindy’s. Who landed himself into some trouble years ago, long before he bought that bar. What, don’t you want to hear my story?”

  “On the contrary, I do. I just find myself wishing that it’ll be worth the wait. You’ve been hinting at this story for years. Giving me little bits and pieces. Now, I’m about to hear the whole thing. Why now?”

  “Because it’s time. I really believe his life is about to change. And because finally telling someone about what happened, what he told me—it’ll ease the burden on my conscience.”

  “So, conveniently, you’re telling a man who’s dying.”

  Patricia didn’t care for that.

  “Listen,” Roger said, “I didn’t mean to sound offended.”

  “You don’t need to keep reminding me that you’re dying.”

  “Pancreatic cancer is a perfectly logical end to life. You who left the convent because of your dedication to truth, it’s curious how you can’t accept the truth. I’m dying, woman.”

  Patricia sighed. “Well, you yourself used to say that every counselor needs a counselor.”

  “So what was this thing that our hero did years ago?”

  “He shot a man,” Patricia said. “Shot him several times.”

  Roger whistled, reached a bony hand for the cup of water on the bedside table. He drank and wiped his lips. “I would think,” he said, “that qualifies as a story I need to hear.”

  “Let me tell you what happened, then. Because, actually, in a few minutes he’s coming by the hospital to give me something and I’ll have to go downstairs.”

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t. When he was young, on the streets they used to call him Li’l Hooligan, but now everybody knows his real name.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Riley James, get your ass out here, we got to go, man.”

  Riley lifted two bottles of Lighthouse Lager out of the cooler behind the bar and popped the caps. He turned his face to the window and shouted, “Hold on, lemme get something,” and walked through the kitchen, holding the bottles by the necks in one hand, into his small office. He rummaged through a drawer full of a loose pile of invoices, paper clips, rubber bands, slammed the drawer shut, opened another and rifled through some file folders, shut that drawer, pulled open the one near the computer monitor and peered into it. He said, “Shit,” and banged it in with the side of his fist.

  Stormed outside to check behind the bar. “I’m coming, Harvey, I swear I’m coming,” moving bottles of Mount Gay and Bacardi and One Barrel to the side, peeking at the back of the shelf, shifting the tray of clean glasses around for a better view, getting more annoyed.

  “Looking for this?”

  Gert was holding up his Ziploc of herb, half an ounce of aromatic resin-sticky Belize Breeze.

  “Yeah … yeah, there it is.”

  “It was on the floor over there,” she said. “Sure it’s yours? I’ll just throw it out if it isn’t. Drugs, you know, being illegal and all.”

  “Gert…” He walked around from behind the bar, and she handed it over with cool disdain.

  “Patrons were in here with a little boy some minutes ago. What if they’d found it?”

  Riley stuffed the bag into the pocket of his jeans and ambled past her out onto the deck and down the short stairs into the sunshine where Harvey sat waiting in the old pickup.

  “Your wife busted me,” he told Harvey, and Harvey laughed and started the engine and aimed north on Princess Margaret Drive.

  Five o’clock Friday afternoon. Just a light breeze wafting off the Caribbean, but the promise of the weekend was enough to cool irritations, like that moment with Gert. The exciting hustle of Friday and Saturday nights at the bar to look forward to, the jump in sales, and then Sunday, long and peaceful, the only day Lindy’s was closed.

  This was what Riley enjoyed—sitting back sipping a brew and cruising through town, the late afternoon light, he and Harvey, just like when they were younger.

  “Let’s see what you brought here,” he said, shuffling through the stack of Harvey’s CDs piled on the seat. “Rusted what?” He held up a CD.

  “Root. Rusted Root. Good music, sweet percussion. Drop that on.”

  “Legend, Bob Marley. You still rocking Legend? Man, that’s the equivalent of Frampton Comes Alive every American used to own back in the seventies.”

  “And your point is…?” Harvey’s short arm rested on the steering wheel as they made the curve past the old fisheries building a
nd he helped flip through the CDs. “How about Burt Bacharach?”

  “Better shut the hell up and watch where you’re going.”

  They settled on playing the radio, the surprises it offered. Riley hung an arm out the window and took a swallow of beer. They were going across town to pick up speakers for the three-man band that was performing on the outside deck at Lindy’s tonight; heading on a “mission” like so many others he and Harvey had made since they bought the bar three years ago. Riley had known Harvey since they were about seven years old, the red-faced boy with one short arm who sat next to him one day at the start of third grade and said, “My arm looks like this ’cause when I was a baby I had polio but don’t let it fool you ’cause I can still fight.” Laying down a challenge that Riley had never felt remotely inclined to take up. From that day, he and Harvey had been tight.

  They passed joggers and a woman pushing a stroller along the promenade fronting the sea. In the distance toward the mangrove isles, a skiff tore through the water, a white swath behind, bearing for the cayes. Instead of continuing the scenic route on Princess Margaret, Harvey had turned left on A Street. “Why you going this way?”

  “Well, there’s a certain person that I got to see if she’s home.”

  Riley groaned. “Now? Really, man?”

  “Yes indeed. If she’s back in town, I may be paying a little visit tonight.”

  Riley looked out the window at the fine two-story homes they were passing, kids playing soccer in a big yard. “Careful. One of these days you’re gonna get caught.”

  Harvey looked at Riley. “Gert knows I love her. This thing here, it’s nothing to do with love. It’s pure beastly, hot, animalistic, athletic, nasty freakiness, yeaaah baby. See, I admitted it.” He slapped the horn and gunned the engine, probably feeling the beer already, having never been much of a drinker.

  “On that note,” Riley said, leaning to one side and reaching into a pocket, “I have a little something I plan to give Candice tonight.” He opened the tiny box and showed the diamond ring tucked into the fold of padded velvet.

  Harvey grinned, looking down his shoulder at it. He punched Riley’s arm. “Look out! R.J. is getting hitched.”

  Riley drew up his top lip for a buck-teeth effect. “Aw shucks.”

  “So why now, Riley? Because of the Monsantos?”

  Riley nodded, drank some beer. “One last run Monday and I’m through. Debts paid, respect given, and that’s it, me and the Monsantos will be square. One more run, make the pickup out by Turneffe reef, drop it off next day and that’s all she wrote. Me and old man Israel already had the talk, so I figured the time was right to ask Candice. You know?”

  Harvey nodded, looking a little distracted, another question on his mind. On Baymen Avenue he occasionally had to steer to the side for approaching trucks to barrel by, the street narrow and walkers showing no respect for traffic. The usual Friday evening madness.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m leaving,” Riley said.

  “Your woman is an American, don’t forget. She won’t want to live in Belize. Three months after the I do’s, you’re gone, up to Foreign, you watch.”

  Riley sipped beer and stared out the window. Harvey was right, of course. Leaving Belize was a possibility Riley had imagined for some time. If it happened he would not be the saddest man in the world. Just because you didn’t pursue something didn’t mean you wouldn’t accept it, and right there lay his ambivalence about his lifestyle, the work he had made a name with, a good living, but which had also produced its share of regrets. Smuggling had been a job he couldn’t let go, he told Candice not too long ago. But he’d said it like it was in the past. She never interrogated him, and he loved it when she said, Well, now you’ve let that go you’ve got to just hold on to me. The woman was golden.

  “Harvey, if that happens, I leave, like I used to threaten when I got drunk? Listen to this: The bar is yours.”

  “I can’t afford to buy you out.”

  “No, you’ll run it. Send me a small cut.”

  “So you say now.”

  “I’m serious. That’s Mr. Long Time over there?”

  A tall skinny-legged man was coming out of a shop swinging a pack of bread. Riley leaned out the window and hollered, “Yo, get off your hands, Long Time.”

  Long Time flashed him the finger as they rolled by.

  That tickled Harvey.

  Riley said, “Pull over, pull over.”

  They parked on the side and Riley poked his head out the window. Long Time had stopped. Riley said, “Man, get your ass over here, man.”

  Long Time loped up, self-consciously. “Yo, Riley, I don’t got no cash right now. I’ll catch you later this week maybe.”

  “Two hundred and ten dollars, Long Time. Three weeks. What the fuck, brother? Look, don’t come to the bar tonight if you don’t have my money. Skip tonight. But you better scrape up some change soon, I’m done tired a this waiting.”

  Long Time nodded, looking away. “I know, I know…”

  “Let’s go,” Riley said to Harvey, and they peeled back onto the street.

  Coming up to a house on the corner of Calle Al Mar, Harvey slowed down. “Okay, Mr. Picky, tell me what you think.”

  A cocoa brown young woman in shorts that revealed the corners of ample cheeks was walking up the stairs. Harvey tooted the horn and she turned around. Harvey twiddled his fingers and the girl grinned and sauntered into the house. Harvey said, “Goddamn.”

  “All right, I must admit, you’re beginning to show some taste. She was very nice.”

  They rolled past the house, Harvey still peering up, a couple of cars cutting around and zipping by.

  “No, that’s not her. My one lives across the street there, but her car’s not in the yard,” and he floored it. “But I think I want to get to know her neighbor. Oh, my gentle Jesus.”

  They hit Cinderella Plaza, Riley explaining to him how they’d still manage the bar together if he left, and that was a major “if” since, first of all, Candice had to say yes. Harvey had his doubts, saying would Riley hand over the keys to the place he’d dreamt of owning for years, just like that? Could Riley really trust that he and Gert would run the bar to his satisfaction, especially Gert? Harvey said, “ ’Cause you know how you and Gertrude butt heads all the time.”

  Riley said, “It could happen. We’ll keep talking, but listen,” tapping his watch, “we’re late, I’ve got to meet Sister Pat at Caribbean Hospital, too, so let’s move it.”

  That’s all Harvey needed to hear, speed freak that he could be, banking a hard right onto Freetown Road and zooming past bicyclists and parked cars clogging the narrow street.

  “All right, you don’t need to get crazy.”

  Harvey slowed down a little. “The old Ford’s still got it.” He pushed the clutch and tried to downshift but it resisted, gears grinding.

  “Yeah, but the driver’s got no skills.”

  Harvey cursed, located the gears and picked up speed. “Natty Dread rides again!”

  They were coming up on a crowded intersection, a little girl dashing across the road, cars waiting at stop signs on both corners. A bunch of people milling outside the donut shop. Harvey eased off the gas, downshifted.

  A woman and a young boy were riding bikes, the woman on the outside. A few yards ahead on the other side, a man walking a dog was chatting with a woman. Kids outside the donut shop were horsing around, pushing each other, one of them running onto the street, scampering back, and Riley, about to take a sip, lowered his beer, to wait until Harvey navigated this cluster fuck, the streets seeming extra narrow and Harvey going twenty miles per hour too fast.

  A car at a stop sign nosed out and Harvey steered left to avoid it, then after that everything happened in a second. A basketball from the technical college court flew over the fence, bounced high off the sidewalk and onto the street, startling the boy on the bike, who toppled, knocking the lady off balance. She fell, Harvey swerved left, heading straight for parked cars,
someone shouted, people scurried out of the way, Harvey cranking the wheel right, mashing the brake and thump, the truck slammed into something. Riley flew into the windshield, beer bottle leaping into the air. He heard and felt his head hit the glass and sensed that he was blacking out, hearing voices and a woman screaming.…

  * * *

  When he came to—how long he’d been out he didn’t know—he heard shouting. Saw the spiderweb crack in the windshield, felt wet all over. He swiped his face, no blood. He looked down, shirt soaked with beer. Where was Harvey? CDs were scattered across the floor. He opened the door, stumbled out, steadied himself till his head stopped swimming.

  “Oh shit,” a man said.

  A woman shouted, “They killed Miss Solomon, oh Lawd, they killed Miss Solomon.”

  Kids came running from the donut shop, shirtless guys from the basketball court, drivers leaving their cars.

  The pickup was stopped at an angle in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Riley noticed Harvey’s door was wide open. Holding on, he walked to the front of the truck and saw people crouching, a woman standing amid them, hand over mouth, crying. Beyond them, Harvey was hunched over, hands on knees, saying, “Oh but fuck, oh but fuck…”

  Riley stumbled again, and the woman kept saying, “They killed Miss Solomon. They killed her!”

  More people joined the crowd on the street. Bicyclists stopped and looked on. Car horns blared.

  Standing at the front of the truck, Riley saw blood on the asphalt, near the left front wheel, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to venture farther, wasn’t prepared for more evidence just yet. A man in a tie and a woman were crouched over administering to someone on the ground, and that damn annoying woman in the middle of the crowd kept squawking, “Poor Miss Solomon, she never had a chance. Never had a chance.”

  Traffic was backed up in both directions, and a driver behind the truck caught Riley’s eyes and hollered, “Move that shit out the way, man.”

  But Riley didn’t snap to until he spied the police Land Rover up the road inching forward, parting the crowd. He slipped around to his door, reached in and got the two beer bottles off the floor, swept the beer puddles out with a hand. As sneaky as he could, he walked holding the bottles close and low in front, dropped them in the high grass by the open drain, knowing somebody was probably seeing this but he couldn’t give a shit right now.