Mr. Hooligan Read online

Riley said, “Hundred and twenty thousand.”

  Israel whistled. “Kind of trouble you in, boy? How soon you need this money?”

  “Soon as possible.”

  Israel squeezed and released the cane handle, squeezed and released, looking at Riley and sorting out the odds. “Terms. What terms you proposing?”

  “Well,” and Riley scooted to the edge of the settee, forearms on knees. “This run Monday night. We’ve never discussed compensation and I know you and Carlo may assume that my past cuts may apply in this case, but I don’t see it that way, Israel. No disrespect. This is gonna be one of the biggest shipments for us in the last couple years, and considering that you’re coming to me and not using anyone else, like that Robinson boy, it’s because you have a certain level of trust and confidence I’ll see things through.”

  “No one will dispute Julius Robinson’s still got to prove himself, whereas you don’t, but what’s your point?”

  “My cut. I’m saying that for this run, forty thousand. Not twenty or twenty-five, like all those previous times. Forty grand—to be deducted from this one twenty loan.”

  Israel adjusted his glasses. “If it was anybody else coming into my parlor saying this to me I’d tell them to get the fuck out, right before I whip this stick in their mouth, you know that, son?”

  Riley sniffed, nodded.

  “But because it’s you,” and Israel canted his head. “Tell you what, I promise to give it due consideration.”

  “The loan or the forty?”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?”

  “No. If you can’t see your way to offering me the loan, fine. I’ll go elsewhere. But the forty large is what my price is for this run. My final one with you gentlemen. Forty, or I’m not doing it, Israel. You can use somebody else.”

  Israel sat up, one hand squeezing and releasing the cane. “Don’t get too sure of yourself, okay?” He studied Riley for a few seconds. “So, one hundred twenty?”

  “There’s the issue of a sixteen-thousand-dollar tab that your brother has run up at the bar. Which can be deducted from the loan. So when that tab gets paid, that sixteen plus my cut of forty cancels out fifty-six grand, making the true loan amount sixty-four thousand.”

  “Where that bar tab is concerned, you’re talking to the wrong person. You’ll need to speak with my brother.”

  Riley shook his head. “It’s Carlo and his crew responsible. Julius Robinson, Boat, Barrel, Jinx, all of them that work for you. That surprise party they threw for you that time? Part of the tab. Your sister, Mirta, when she and her friends pass through, they put drinks on that tab.”

  “So you’re saying within a few months’ time you’ll return sixty-four of the one twenty—plus my twenty percent interest.”

  “Twenty percent?” Riley did a quick calculation. “Jesus, twelve thousand eight?”

  “Exactly. You sure you want to put yourself under that pressure, Riley? I will be expecting my money in full. No excuses. In full. Things are tough right now, price of blow almost in the cellar, you know that.”

  “The bar is doing pretty good. Who knows, I might be able to pay you back in five months, four maybe.”

  “Not doing so good that you could take care of your emergency yourself though, see my concern? This problem you have—something I can assist you with in any other way? Talk to someone, use my powers of persuasion?”

  Knowing what that could mean, Riley passed. “I can take care of it quietly, with money.”

  “And you want this soon and in cash, I presume.”

  Before Riley could answer, Israel touched his stomach and said, “Gracious me, good gracious, here we go.” Bracing against the cane, he struggled to his feet. “You could wait here if you want, but I warn you, I might be busy a good long time. Or you could go downstairs, I’ll tell Carlo to take care of you.”

  Riley considered it. “I prefer—”

  “Prefer not to deal with Carlo on this.”

  “Don’t want to say it blunt like that, but yeah.”

  Dunk, dunk, dunk—Israel limped down the corridor to the bathroom, saying, “That’s why I like you, son, always the diplomat. I shall return. Don’t fall asleep.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Riley was sitting in one rocking chair, Sister Pat in the other, her living room windows open to the verandah and the light breeze. A plate of Danish biscuits and two cups of tea on saucers sat on a card table between them. It was late afternoon and Riley knew he should be going but he wanted to stay a little longer, as always.

  “I had another one of those attacks,” he said. “Couldn’t breathe, felt like my chest was being squeezed, my lungs, too.”

  “Out of nowhere?”

  “No, I was talking, at the bar. Somebody mentioned the Manatee Road, and that triggered some rapid thoughts and then, boom, I was in it. Dizziness, the whole works.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Breathed. Focused on my breathing, slow and relaxed.”

  “And?”

  “The feeling passed.”

  “Of course. Breath is the essence of life. In turmoil, return to the breath. Simple.” She motioned to the plate. “Have another.”

  Riley munched a biscuit, raisin-filled and buttery. They sat facing the white curtains swaying in the window. Passing voices rose up from the street below.

  “You know, Riley, you still might want to consider Lexapro.”

  He shook his head.

  “Still not going there, huh?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you relieved about Monday night? You’re out of it now, liberation day is finally here.”

  “Very relieved.” He picked crumbs off his shirt, dusted his fingers off over the plate. “But I had to borrow some money from the old man. So I’m not really out of it yet. I ran into some problems with the bar, needed the cash. Soon as I repay him, then I’ll be out.”

  “Sorry to hear. These problems, they aren’t major, though?”

  “Minor business complications.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  Her cup rattled on the saucer when she picked them up, sipped her tea. He did the same. Ate another biscuit, chewing meditatively. Sister Pat asked had he read any good books lately. He said he was in the middle of one now but it was ponderous, a book on genetics, why we are the way we are. Hey, did she ever get around to watching that DVD he lent her, The Lives of Others, beautiful flick? Tonight, she said.

  The rest of their conversation followed an established pattern. Flitting about from one topic to the next, like the butterflies at her front yard hedge, never settling on one petal too long; conversation that was just as beautiful to Riley for its effortless dance, and as nuanced as the colors of a Blue Morpho’s wings. Once or twice a month, he visited Sister Pat, no longer of the order of the Sisters of Mercy, but he couldn’t stop calling her Sister, it just didn’t feel right. And they’d talk about books and belief and everything he could never speak of with most people. She’d serve tea, and they’d sit. Today it was Darjeeling with sugar and milk for him, green with a dollop of honey for her.

  “About this elephant in the room,” she said. “How’d it go with Candice?”

  “You calling my girlfriend an elephant?” he said, all mock horror.

  “Silly boy.”

  He stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, laced his fingers over his stomach. “Well, tonight I’ll find out how it went. She’s thinking it over.”

  Sister Pat’s gaze rested on his face, searching. “You’re certainly handling it well.”

  “I have no other choice. If I show my anxiousness, she may flee.” He smiled at that, not believing it completely but liking the compliment that he was being cool. He looked out the window at the pale sky, hearing passersby. Sister Pat’s street dead-ended at a lagoon. On the other side of the lagoon was Bird’s Isle, a tiny island connected to the city by a narrow road that was the venue for sports events, dances, concerts. He said, “Last time I went to Bird’s Isle … man, l
et’s see. My friend Miles Young was making his comeback.” He shook his head. “God, time ain’t nothing but one bit of nostalgia after the next.”

  “I wish you all the happiness, Riley.” Her eyes had never left his face.

  He admitted something to himself. “I’m nervous.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  He finished his tea and stood up. “I better get going.”

  She nodded at the dining room table behind them, the rolled-up Ziploc of marijuana on a place mat. “Thanks. It’ll last me a while.”

  He crossed over and hugged her, Sister Pat giving his arm a squeeze as they said good-bye. At the door, he asked, “How should I do this, you think? If she seems doubtful, should I be polite, accept it? Or should I try to make my case? I don’t know, Sister Pat. I love her. But I’m not gonna beg.”

  “Just be yourself. And relax.”

  “Hmmm.” He saw himself standing tall in front of Candice, her red hair and blue eyes, a smile curving her lips and him saying, “I want you to be happy…”

  He said to Sister Pat, “I know what I’ll say. I’ll say this: ‘I want you to be happy, and if you think marrying me…’ ”

  * * *

  “If you think marrying me won’t help to make you happy, then I’ll respect that and do my best to accept it, and let’s still be friends.…”

  He stood tall. He was wearing a crisply ironed white long-sleeve, thought it glowed against his dark skin. He was freshly shaved, sweet with cologne but not overly so. He waited. Felt a frown and relaxed it, all easy now.

  His reflection stared back at him from the mirror.

  Nah, that didn’t go right, the tone too high, the timing off, and his expression would need to be self-assured from the start. He shook out the tension from his shoulders and arms, clapped once, looked down then slowly raised his head. “Candice, I’m tired of living alone. I want to live with you. Want to marry you. But if you think marrying me won’t help make you happy … if you think…” Wait. “I want you to be hap—”

  Know what? To hell with this. He shouldn’t be trying so hard. He patted down his hair, straightened his collar, and headed out the door. The words that would come at the moment he asked would be the best ones.

  Riley sauntered through his yard in his white shirt and clean chinos and shined Rockport oxfords. At his gate, confidence ebbed. But as he closed the gate and turned to the street, a little boy on a bike hailing him, confidence surged. He halted at her gate when he noticed her car wasn’t in the yard.

  Car problems maybe? She might be upstairs, waiting, while her Honda was in the shop. She had complained weeks back about the engine sometimes not kicking over. He trucked on. Up the driveway and up the front stairs, onto the tiled front porch. He shaded his eyes, peering through the slightly parted louvers into her quiet house.

  It was obvious no one was home. He corrected himself: that she was not home. Sitting on the top step to wait, he thought, Not like anyone else but Candice could be there. Wasn’t like she was messing around.

  It was nearly sunset but the day still carried heat and humidity that had begun to soak the back of his shirt. Was there another someone in the picture, someone she was visiting, the reason she was having difficulty giving him an answer? A simple yes or no, that’s what he needed. He was a big boy, he would deal, but don’t prolong this thing is all he asked.

  He undid three buttons, regretting not wearing an undershirt. He got up to wait on the porch, it was cooler there. He put both hands on the balustrade and looked down at her yard that needed mowing, the street. Where are you, Candice? When he saw his neighbor Bill Rivero’s black Taurus coming up the street, he returned to the top step. Minutes passed, his patience slipping away. Riley was not a gloomy guy, and Candice was not an evasive, complicated person that his fears were making her out to be, so why couldn’t he shake the thought that maybe he’d misread her all this time. That somewhere, maybe some private restaurant corner, a dark hotel room, something was going wrong?

  CHAPTER TEN

  They were holding hands high atop the main temple at Lamanai, the Maya ruin on the New River Lagoon in Orange Walk. On the floor at their feet were photographs weighted down with pieces of Mayan pottery and stone knives.

  Malone said, “That’s what these are? No kidding? They look like ordinary old stones to me.”

  “They were excavated at Lubaantun. That’s way south of here, the Toledo district.” Candice looked at him. “You’ve been there, Toledo?”

  “Toledo, Ohio, sure.”

  “You’re really in need of an education, you’ve got to get out of the office more.”

  She couldn’t tell if Malone was sweating because of the climb or his fear of heights. “Can I let go of your hand now?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” But he was wearing a dirty old man’s smile.

  She removed her hand. “Now this one,” crouching and pointing to a dark, pointy stone, “was found at Cahal Pech, out in Cayo. Medium-sized ruin.”

  “What does that mean, any idea? Cahal Pech.”

  “Place of the Ticks.”

  “Niiiice. And what does this place mean?”

  “Lamanai? Submerged Crocodile.”

  He panned the view around him, hands on hips. Treetops in the rainforest, the wide lagoon that stretched south.

  She said, “This used to be one of the largest ceremonial centers. People lived here thousands of years.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like much. And, I know, I know, it’s a ruin, but…” He was looking down at the smaller, rougher pyramids, a guide leading a group of tourists across the grassy plaza.

  “They say people lived here from before Christ till up to the nineteenth century.”

  Malone, looking around, said, “That long, huh? I did not know that. But these guys,” and he walked closer to the photos on the ground. “Now these guys I know. I know all about these scumbags.”

  Five photos. Carlo Monsanto in a loose Hawaiian shirt, smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk outside his store. Israel Monsanto on a bench in Memorial Park, big sunglasses on, cane between his legs. Two photos of a red and white speedboat with chunky twin outboards, Ravish painted on the hull, roped to a pier. Riley James, smiling, good-looking in his understated way, chatting with a woman outside the entrance to Monsanto’s Dry Goods.

  “Tell me about this boat,” Malone crouching next to her, tapping a photo.

  “This is the one I think they’re going to use. They’ve been back and forth checking it, Carlo Monsanto or Riley James. It’s docked at the boatyard on the Belize River getting repairs. Note the stripes on the side, and this picture here shows the writing on the back.”

  “Any idea what time Monday night?”

  “I extended that invitation for an early dinner that night like you suggested, and expectedly, he declined. Business engagement, he says.”

  “You asked him what kind of business?”

  “ ’Course. He says it’s the bar.”

  “You tried pushing for details?”

  “Sure, but Riley’s a very private man. Doesn’t offer up a whole lot, and kind of clamps down when you ask too many questions. Far as anyone’s supposed to know, sure, these are things he used to do. Way back when. He can’t run from the rumors, but I think if he gets the sense I’m being nosy, he’ll just shut down. He’s sharp, so I try to be delicate.”

  Malone had been watching her sideways. He stood up and folded his arms across his chest, looking over the trees to the east. A small wind blew and she put a hand on a photo to keep it down.

  Malone said, “So you like this guy?”

  She rearranged the stones unnecessarily. “He’s a good neighbor.” That’s as much as Malone was going to get.

  “You have special clearance and I know we’ve emphasized you should do what you need to do to get information, but you ever find you’re getting too close, you need to step back.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good, good. No hope for me and
you I take it?”

  “Henry Malone, quit.” She straightened, stretched. “How’s your wife doing, by the way? She acclimated yet?”

  “You don’t care, do you?”

  “I’m asking.”

  “Don’t use her to put me in my place. Hell, I can’t help it if I find you incredibly striking.”

  What to do with this man? Let him have his obligatory flirting. But back to the subject: “What have you found out?”

  “They’re doing it this way because they’ve been having difficulties with their wet drops. Considering we’ve intercepted three of the last five, nothing major, six hundred kilos altogether, I understand the reason they’re doing it by ship. Not along the Mosquito Coast either, the Coast Guard planes out of Puerto Rico are putting way too much heat on them that route. This time, it’s from Colombia to Venezuela to a container ship of Honduran registry.”

  “So the speedboat will upload somewhere on the water, but where?”

  “Calmer waters. We don’t know where yet. As of this morning, the ship is bearing northwest, toward the Turneffe Islands. Monday’s a national holiday here, which means more people out on the water so one more boat going out probably won’t draw notice. Coming back in will pose the challenge, and we’re pretty sure that it’s gonna be at night. We need to keep tabs on Mr. James all day Monday.”

  “And what about help?”

  “We’ve already cleared it with the locals. I informed the honchos, police commissioner all the way up to the deputy prime minister. We got the typical delays before the approval went through. Some of them here might not like the DEA but they understand, you better believe they understand, they want to keep Uncle Sam’s loan spigot flowing, cooperation is in their best interest.”

  Candice only listened.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She said, “I don’t want to be at the office Monday night.”

  “You don’t need to be. We have a sizable local contingent behind us. Coast Guard, members of the defense force.”

  “I’d rather not be there…” her voice trailing off as she turned away and gathered up the photographs. She slid them into a manila envelope, stuffed her collection of Mayan pieces into a pocket of her backpack. More than ready to leave. She handed over the envelope. “Here you go, I’ll also send copies electronically.” She hefted the backpack, shouldered it, watching him slip the envelope into a smooth black leather satchel best suited for the office. He hung the satchel over one shoulder and across his body.