Mr. Hooligan Read online

  When they walked past the two young men on the deck, one of them mumbled something to the other and they both turned to look at Brisbane. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

  Behind the closed office door, Riley sat across from him and said, “So what’s new with you? Last time we spoke you were planning that house out by Buttonwood Bay. I’ve seen it, man. It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m enjoying it. We fish out by the dock every weekend. Can’t beat it.”

  Riley nodded, idly twisting a paper clip. “I could only imagine.”

  “I understand I live right down the road from your business partner.”

  “Harvey? Yeah, that’s right.”

  “He’s the one built that house with that huge turret on the roof?”

  Riley cracked a smile. “He’s the culprit.”

  Brisbane chuckled. “What an unsightly … a turret? It doesn’t go … You know what? I better stop.” And he and Riley laughed some more. “Can’t say I see him around much.”

  “Well, that’s ’cause nobody sees you. You’re in seclusion.”

  “I don’t go out much, that’s true. Don’t have a reason to. Living the life I always dreamt, Riley. That’s why I played around in that old business in the first place.”

  “I’m happy for you. Just kinda wish you’d parted ways with the Monsantos on better terms.”

  “Hey, it is what it is, what can I say? I have no regrets. They’ll always believe I led that girl on, and you know me, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Mirta’s been married and divorced since, you know that?”

  “No, I knew she was separated,” Brisbane said, picking lint off his slacks and flicking it away, “I didn’t know she got divorced. Wish her all the best.” He removed his hat, hung it on his knee.

  “How’s Roberto?”

  “Fine. You look at him, you wouldn’t even know he’s sick. That AZT is the best drug combination out there, we can attest to that.”

  “I wish you two a long, happy life, buddy.”

  Brisbane touched Riley’s knee. “I really appreciate that.”

  They regarded each other in silence, then Riley said, “I know you didn’t come here just to catch up, as nice as that is. How can I help you?”

  “Maybe you heard,” Brisbane said, “about my guns.”

  That could be taken two ways—that Riley had heard some of his guns had been stolen, or that Riley had heard who might be responsible. It was the cleverness of men like Brisbane that had unwittingly educated Riley over the years, though Brisbane was only a few years older, late forties at most, so you’d expect that he’d know Riley would not be jooked by trick questions. He ought to know better, but Riley didn’t take offense—after all, he’d built a life by lying low and being underestimated. He remembered another line from the Tao Te Ching, which he’d just told Turo about. Why is the sea the king of a hundred streams? Because it lies below them.…

  He was honest with Brisbane. “I heard about that,” watching Brisbane perk up, “from Miss Rose Robinson. She said they stole one of your gun safes? How much did they get, Brisbane?”

  Brisbane shook his head. “We were on a little weekend getaway, went to see The Bourne Ultimatum at the multiplex in Chetumal? Lovely weekend, then we came back and discovered the break-in. They came by boat, used my dock, broke into the house through a downstairs window and went straight to the safe. Didn’t take anything else. Not a thing. None of my neighbors saw or heard it. It was a group that did it, because that was one monster safe, and it was loaded.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Shit, what didn’t they take.” Brisbane released a sigh. “Five of my assault rifles. You know I have an affinity for the AR. They took my Rock River Arms, my two Armalites, the two old Colts. You know my Garand, the World War Two rifle I refurbished—that’s gone. My Mossberg shotgun, gone. Don’t even talk to me about the handguns. All the .45s I’ve been working on, the two Ed Browns, my Kimbers, and a couple of 9mm Sigs. Not to mention thousands of rounds—.23 caliber, .45s, and four brand-new pieces of body armor.”

  “Damn, very sorry to hear that. Any ideas who could be behind it?”

  Brisbane nodded, looking directly into his eyes.

  “You’re thinking the Monsantos.”

  Brisbane said, “The reason why I believe it’s somebody who knows me, nobody else but some friends and former associates know I stock weapons in that special back room I’ve got. Reason I know it wasn’t the contractor that built it, that gentleman isn’t around any longer.”

  “What you mean?”

  “He’s not around. Completely different incident. He did something and I had to take care of him.” Brisbane made a backhand gesture, crossed his legs, impatient with the turn of conversation. He noticed Riley had canted his head and was staring at him, so he obliged. “He called Roberto a faggot, okay? One day we’re haggling over some detail in the construction costs and he decides to get personal, insult Roberto, and I can’t have that, Riley.”

  Riley nodded, feeling a pulsing in his neck. “So that’s how come you know it couldn’t be that guy,” nodding, telling himself this is exactly why he wished Brisbane wasn’t here. “And how can I help with this problem today?”

  “By keeping your ears to the ground. Should you hear any rumors or happen upon any hearsay concerning my guns, or any guns for that matter, let me know?”

  “You bet.”

  “Putting my feelers out, you see, enlisting the aid of people with connections, people I can trust.”

  “In other words, ask around, but don’t raise the subject with the Monsantos.”

  “Or any of their crew for that matter.”

  Riley told him he could surely do that, and offered Brisbane a drink, but he said he had to be going, put his hat on and stood up.

  “You caught me at the perfect time,” Riley said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m traveling the same road you did, and I hope to be out of the business in a few weeks, after I tie up some loose ends.”

  “Then this makes my visit all the more urgent.” He touched his hat brim.

  Riley opened the door for him.

  “You taking care of that .45?”

  The Kimber .45 that Brisbane had given Riley as a gift years ago. “It’s well oiled and loaded.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  Riley smiled, embarrassed. “But I haven’t run it in a while.”

  Brisbane tsk-tsked. “Got to keep your hand in, Riley, got to keep your hand in. When last you been skeet shooting?”

  “Probably”—Riley feigned an effort to recall—“probably the last time I went with you.”

  “Aaah, shameful, just shameful,” Brisbane shaking his head as they walked out. At the steps, he snapped open his umbrella and turned to Riley. “Any news, you let me know immediately?”

  Riley assured him he would and stood at the rail gladly watching him leave, posture erect, steps quick and neat. Turo sidled up next to Riley and watched Brisbane get into his Lexus, swing onto the road and drive off, Riley exchanging a wave.

  Turo said, “You were asking me what’s an arsist?” He jutted his chin at the car going down the road. “That’s an arsist.”

  “That he is, I guess. And he’s also a sociopathic son of a bitch you don’t want to cross, son, so never let him hear you say that.”

  Riley poured himself a glass of beer to take back to his office, finish the paperwork. Gert, a rag over her shoulder, was staring at him. He said, “Yes? What did I do wrong now, Gert?”

  “I’m just thinking how nice it is that soon we won’t have to see people of that kind anymore popping in for a surprise visit.”

  Riley sipped beer, pretending to mull that over.

  “Because I’ve never trusted that man for a second. He might dress oh so clean and fancy, act so sniffy, and you don’t hear any bad news about him, but he doesn’t fool me.”

  Riley wiped foam off his lips. What did she wa
nt, an argument? “You’re right, Gert,” he said, cruising to his office.

  Once in there, he locked the door, put the beer on his desk, plopped down and closed his eyes. He thought, Guns? Like I need anything else on my plate. Sure, Brisbane, I might ask around for your guns. In your dreams. Shit.

  He needed to feel, and soon, that he was through with the Life, but the Life was like swimming across the Sibun River on a trip he’d made with Candice. That’s what it was beginning to feel like. Sinister. As soon as he had reached within a few feet of the grassy bank, stroking hard, exhausted, a cold, swift current would turn him slantways, far, farther away from Candice waiting for him on the blanket with their picnic basket of cheese and sliced watermelon, the river tugging him back to the deep spot he’d started from.

  * * *

  Green tea in rustic clay bowls. A stack of books—Zen and Japanese Culture, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Hombre—all different genres, on the kitchen table. A plate of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies, his favorite.

  Sister Pat finished knocking ashes out of her glass pipe and washing her hands. She came away from the sink, tucking the pipe into a pocket of her apron then drying her hands. She sat across from Riley and double-palmed her bowl of tea, warming her fingers.

  Riley liked being here. Books and candles everywhere, on shelves high and low, in the built-in bookcases out in the parlor, on the side tables in the sparely furnished living room that smelled of polish and wisps of marijuana. She kept her stash in a Russian nesting doll, in the second innermost doll, among the knickknacks on top of a bookcase. She smoked only in the evenings, using her Pyrex pipe, a sturdy double-blown piece beautifully swirled inside with red and green streams. She was proud of her pipe and considered it part of her smoking aesthetic.

  She never offered Riley a hit. Not because he wouldn’t partake; they simply both understood it was her private ritual, that pipe in her living room while a bowl of green tea awaited.

  She asked, “Which one will you read first?” talking about the books on the table.

  “Probably the Western. You can’t beat Elmore Leonard for a crackling good story. Besides, it’s the slimmest and lightest of the three, probably the most funnest.”

  She groaned. “The most funnest…”

  Riley munched a cookie. “I’d told her I’m prepared to leave my life here behind, but now that it might really happen, that she’s willing to marry and we’re ready to start afresh? I don’t know…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re having doubts. About leaving that business.”

  “No, not that. The bar is the one. I like running the bar. I like the smell of cigarettes and beer. Seriously. Hearing voices and people laughing, having a good time, glasses clinking, bottles smacking that counter and feeling crumpled dollars and hitting the register? I like all that. Even seeing all my utility bills ready to mail out, checks signed, envelopes with stamps placed just so, and knowing we got through another month? Sister Pat, nothing can’t beat that feeling.”

  Sister Pat sipped her tea. “Maybe because it’s your own business, something you’re honestly working hard at.”

  “If honestly means legal, yes, I agree.”

  “A legal and above-board enterprise, the success of which depends on you. So that’s one reason you’re having doubts. Any other?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Duncan.”

  Riley said, “It’s not like I wouldn’t come back to see him, spend some time, maybe summer vacations. But it’s when I think about him I still see a Buddha-belly baby, and he isn’t, he’s six. In a few years, he’ll be a teenager that probably won’t even want to hang out with his old man, but it’s the years in between I don’t want to miss. I want to be around. In a way my old man wasn’t.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “I haven’t seen Duncan in almost two weeks. Unprecedented. I keep calling the house but no one’s ever home. I’m a little irritated. But I know when I see him again, that’s all gonna wash right off, I know it.”

  “And another reason you’re having doubts about leaving, could it have something to do with the fact it’s because, well, you’re leaving with someone you’ve known only a year or so? That maybe you don’t know her that well? It would be only natural to have doubts.”

  Riley considered the question carefully. “Actually it’s thirteen months,” was all he could come up with.

  Sister Pat looked down, circling the rim of her bowl with a finger. “How well do you think you know Candice, Riley?”

  Riley sipped some tea. “How well do I know anybody?”

  “Oh, don’t give me that, you know what I mean.”

  “You’re asking me if I could trust her to be the person she appears to be?”

  “That’s it on the nose. And who does she appear to be? Someone who’ll enrich your life, make it fuller. A sound influence, a faithful companion? All those things we’ve discussed so many times?”

  “Yes to all of the above. I’ll tell you the truth, she’s an artist to me, Sister Pat. She’s got a mind that attracts me. Stop me if this is too much information, but it’s way more than physical and I enjoy the hell outta that part, but it’s—hey, it’s deeper with her. We can hang out, cook together and we’re in this zone where it’s peaceful but full of energy at the same time, and we riff about anything, God or if there isn’t a god, music, art, and maybe I don’t know that much about Edward Hopper but I’m learning. Sometimes she talks about her fiancé who got killed in a crash, how much she missed him, and I could see a part of her is still hurting, so I listen, and I think it makes us closer. I’ve taken her all over Belize. The cayes, the ruins, camping in Placencia, snorkeling at Half Moon Caye … I guess I’m saying it feels natural with her, Sister Pat, it feels effortless. Real. We argued a couple times, yeah, but basically there’re no pretense between us. Either that or I’m fooling myself.”

  Sister Pat said, “I like what I’m hearing, but more than that, I like what I’m seeing as you’re telling me this. Drink your tea, it’s getting cold.”

  They sipped tea together, Riley scanning the spines of the books on the credenza across the room to see what he might borrow next.

  Sister Pat said, “I saw Candice this afternoon as a matter of fact.”

  “Really? Then you beat me ’cause I haven’t seen her all day after that thing that happened to me last night.”

  “That thing I don’t need to know any details about, thank you very much.”

  “I know. Where’d you see her?”

  “Battlefield Park. Taking pictures of a man. Looked like an American.”

  “Maybe one of her Peace Corps friends.”

  “I don’t think so. This fellow was somewhat too well dressed. Too clean cut.”

  “Sister Pat. My personal spy. Hey, I’m teasing.”

  “That’s okay. This man, I’ve seen him before. Driving a U.S. embassy SUV.”

  “And you can tell it’s embassy because…”

  She set her bowl down and glowered. “Boy, don’t insult me. I know what an embassy vehicle looks like. From the tags. Which say U.S. embassy.” She let him off with a little smile.

  Riley shrugged. “Who knows? Candice’s business has taken off recently. She gets all these different clients. She sold two photos to Condé Nast Traveler last month, I told you about that?”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah, she’s got an eye. Like I said, she’s an artist.”

  Sister Pat pushed the plate of cookies toward him. He took one, bit into it and said, “So an embassy vehicle, huh? Cheating on me with The Man. That evil woman.” He chewed the oatmeal raisin, thinking Okay, who could this guy be? He looked at the cookie and put it down, his appetite gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  One evening, Riley peering over her shoulder, Candice had ordered a bunch of skimpy panties from the Victoria’s Secret Web site. Riley pointed to this and that on the screen, saying oh, yeah, that’s perfect. No, scroll down—y
eah, look, right here, Brazilian string. But wait, better yet, get the extreme string. Rubbing her shoulders and fitting his chin into the crook of her neck.

  She was wearing one now, a racy, black sliver of a thing—there’s something delicious and naughty about black panties, he told her, and she was inclined to agree—the panty tight with strings high on her hipbones, and a sleeveless form-fitting blouse hugging her midriff, while she sliced sweet red peppers and dropped them into a bowl with onions and potato wedges.

  The pan hissed when Riley spooned the red curry paste into the hot oil and stirred. He was sporting silky blue boxers she’d bought him, which he had vowed he’d never wear. Aromatic fig candles were burning on the far kitchen counter and on the dining table, the houselights were low, jazz drifting from the living-room speakers. An open bottle of chardonnay and two glasses of wine stood over there on the counter.

  “Where’s the chicken?” Riley asked, fanning away the spicy fumes rising from the pan.

  “In the fridge,” she said, opening a can of bamboo shoots, “where you put it ten minutes ago.”

  Passing by, he spanked her butt, took out the pan with the chunks of seasoned chicken breast. He stuck his head farther in the fridge.

  “What do you need?”

  “The fish sauce. I know I saw a bottle of fish sauce in here somewhere.”

  “It’s in the cabinet over there, by the sink.”

  She didn’t keep a close eye on him and when she looked up again he was rummaging around, toppling spice bottles, in the wrong cabinet, so she told him the other one, by the sink, you don’t listen, and he shook his head and said the fish sauce shouldn’t have been in there anyway, since anybody knows it belongs in the fridge or it goes bad, refrigerate after opening, right there on the label. She argued otherwise, and he cut her off and said now, dammit, he needed garlic powder, was that in the spice cabinet or maybe, should he like check the freezer?

  She went after him with a spoon and they ended the argument laughing through a ferocious kiss. When he lifted her up and sat her on the counter, water from the can of bamboo shoots spilled, and he stood between her legs kissing her, long and deep.