Mr. Hooligan Page 8

  “You’re looking kinda pale,” she said. Wanting to insult him for being part of this operation, hell, for being DEA like her. But she was more upset with herself for painting herself in a corner from which she could foresee no clean escape. Didn’t matter if this was her job—the sense of betrayal was caustic.

  “Last time we met, you said you were shocked by how skinny my legs were. Now I’m pale. What’s next, my nose’ll be too big?”

  She went ahead of him, turning around and grasping the rope and placing feet carefully on the steep steps. She started down. Realizing, she stopped about halfway and looked up. Malone was standing at the top, scared. She climbed back up, leaning into it, and reached out to him. “Come. Like this. Keep your chest close to the wall … and take your time.”

  Near the bottom, he apologized, saying he didn’t know where this phobia came from, he’d never liked heights but it was never a phobia for god’s sake. He wiped his face when his feet touched grass. Gave a nervous laugh, but he was clearly embarrassed and walked ahead across the plaza toward the boat waiting for him at the dock. After a minute, he slowed down and said, “So where did you learn all this Mayan history? Been doing some reading?”

  “And some traveling. You need to get to know this country, Malone. Been here almost two years and never been to a Mayan ruin?”

  “These faces,” he said, tapping his satchel, “are all I need to know about this place for the time being. Maybe when my assignment is up, hey, I might take some road trips, island jaunts.”

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic. Anyway,” she said, gesturing toward the lagoon. “Your boat’s about to leave. We should say good-bye here.”

  “Remember. He makes any move, you tell us.”

  She said of course and walked away toward the small building that housed the restrooms, pretty sure he was watching her ass.

  “Hey,” he called.

  She turned.

  “May I ask how you came by those little bits of artifacts in your backpack?”

  “A friend,” she said, tiredly. “An American archaeologist friend gave them to me. You gonna turn me in?”

  “Well, let me think about that. I could blackmail you. Why don’t you and I go on a field trip, give me an education. What’s the name of that other place you told me about? You’ve got to cross by ferry to get there? San … something or the other?”

  “San Jose Succotz. That’s the village. You’re talking about Xunantunich. And if I say no?” Smiling. She adjusted the backpack straps, turned and walked to the restrooms.

  “C’mon,” he said, “what about it?”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” she said, without breaking her stride, and already she was remembering the ferry slipping across the glass-green Mopan River. She and Riley sitting together on the bench, legs touching, while the ferryman turned the crank, pulling them along on a cable strung across the banks, and Riley’s truck engine ticking in the heat, then the rocky road into Xunantunich. She and Riley sharing a canteen of cold water on the climb to the pyramid. Still one of the tallest structures in the country, he told her. Then she and Riley kneeling by a replica of a stone tablet in a display under a thatch shed in the plaza, their fingers tracing the hieroglyphs, and she remembered the smell of Riley’s skin that afternoon.

  She imagined her fingers in the grooves of his abdomen, her white hand on his chocolate skin, his abdomen rising and falling in the evening light on her damp blue bedsheets.

  * * *

  Riley unbuttoned his shirt and hung it over the bed rail. He removed his pants, folding them deliberately over a hanger, hung it in the closet, hung the belt on a hook behind the door. Going about this unrushed, fluidly, letting the rhythm placate him, not wanting to make a big deal of his hurt feelings.

  So he guessed that was her answer. An absence louder than words. His disappointment was strong, but in due time, he thought, washing his face, sliding on a comfortable T-shirt, cargo shorts, it would lessen, you just watch. Such is the flow of life. What did the Tao Te Ching say? Sometimes one is up and sometimes down.

  And yet one wouldn’t argue against a stiff drink. He walked into his kitchen and took down the half bottle of Knob Creek from a cabinet and poured two fingers into a coffee cup. From the freezer he plunked in three ice cubes and swirled the drink, thirsting for the melt.

  He looked out the window, over the fence and into her yard, but he refused to let his eyes wander up to her windows. He’d try to avoid looking at that house for a while.

  His cell phone chirped and he searched the kitchen counter, found the phone behind the coffeemaker. “Yes?”

  “Riley?”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? This is Riley. Who’s this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Candice?”

  “Yes, Riley. You asked me, and I’m answering you. It’s yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

  Oh, man. It stunned him. He couldn’t help it—his face split into a grin. He laughed. “Wow, really and truly, huh?”

  “That’s right. Ask me now.”

  “Wait.” He took a gulp of bourbon, held some on his tongue to savor it. So nice, everything suddenly so nice. “Candice, will you marry me, love and honor and especially obey me for the rest of your life?”

  She cackled. She told him come on, be serious, and he was so giddy it required considerable effort. Then he asked it straight and she gave him the yes once more in a level voice. She apologized for not showing up. No, it wasn’t cold feet, it was a difficult client who kept her back, and she’d forgotten her cell phone at home. He said sitting on those steps waiting and sweating, he’d made up his mind to divorce her two times for revenge, but first, first maybe he wanted to undress her slowly in his room, middle of the afternoon after a shower, lie down under the ceiling fan. He said, “How about a little celebration? A party?”

  “Like what, an engagement party? I don’t know…”

  “Something small, at the bar.”

  “Very small.”

  “A few friends. Tomorrow night?”

  “As long as it’s small, sure. Why not?”

  “Tomorrow night then.” He drank his bourbon, grinning like a happy idiot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Next morning, business before pleasure: Before giving Harvey and Sister Pat and his buddy Miles Young the news, he made one important phone call and showered, dressed, and drove to Lindy’s.

  Harvey and Gertrude were already there, drinking coffee at the bar, and Turo was hosing down the deck and sweeping water off with a deck broom. Riley fixed himself a cup, creamed and sugared. “You guys didn’t have to be here.”

  “This is half our place,” Gert said, “and you’re paying off somebody to ensure our survival and we don’t have to be here?”

  “You got a point.” He sipped his coffee, looking at Turo coming, unfolding a sheet of paper from a pocket of his baggy pants. The sun was out, but rain clouds hung on the horizon, a bluish shadow far out on the water, a Sunday morning breeze.

  “Mistah James, remember that deal about my landlord?” Turo stopped a ways off, meaning he wanted Riley to go there, wanted a private word.

  Riley came around and Turo gave him the paper. “I wrote this letter that you could please proofread for me?”

  The paper was folded into about sixteen squares. In the middle of the page, a block of neat letters:

  Dear Parter,

  There has been a rumor said by a certain loqwacious arsist on Pickstock Street that I am defrauding you of your prize tools. Two persons, certain pessimistick nonentittys are suspected of such ficticious acusations. I am gathering clues for the discovery of such infidels and to assist no one.

  Yours gradigually,

  Arturo Godoy

  Riley said, “Quite a letter you got here. Maybe a few misspellings.”

  “Keep that copy for your corrections. I got another one home.”

  “Good thinking.” Riley folded and slipped the letter into a pan
ts pocket. “How soon you need this back?”

  Turo reflected on that. “Next Wednesday before five P.M. That’s when my landlord comes back from Cancún.”

  “His name’s Parter?”

  “No. That’s, like, German. For father. His name is Joseph Jones.”

  “Okay, I’ll get right on this.”

  “Appreciate it. It’s very important,” and Turo picked up the broom and got back to work.

  Riley exchanged a look with Harvey and shrugged.

  The Range Rover pulled in at 10:30 sharp, and Harvey and Gert swung around on their stools to watch Lopez scurry around to open the minister’s door. Riley was standing at the railing and set his coffee down while they came through the gate. He heard grumbling behind him and Harvey telling Gert, Be nice.

  Lopez was dressed in a spiffy bowling shirt and Minister Burrows had on a white strapless dress with low heels, both of them looking post–Sunday brunch. Riley wondered about them. What was their real connection? Were they sleeping together?

  Everyone traded greetings, and Lopez, Riley, and Harvey went to sit at one of the high tables with bolted-down stools on the inside deck. Riley looked over his shoulder and beckoned Gert to join but she wouldn’t. Stood right there shooting the minister daggers.

  Minister Burrows clacked around examining the Lindbergh photos on the walls, the drawings of the Spirit of St. Louis etched into the bar counter.

  Riley said, “Well,” and was about to begin, but Lopez pointed his chin at Turo rolling up the hose. They waited until Turo wheeled the hose cart away, broom in the other hand.

  Riley said, “I think you’ll be pleased. Took some doing but I was able to come up with a hundred and fifty grand.”

  Lopez made a face, turned his head slowly, and looked along his shoulder at the minister.

  Leaning forward to inspect an etching on the bar, she shook her head slightly.

  “No,” Lopez said.

  “No, what?”

  “No deal. I precisely remembered us sitting here and agreeing on the amount needed and that has not changed, Mr. James.”

  “Agreeing on the amount. Was more like you dictating to us the amount. Furthermore, what’s to stop you from coming back asking for more? We need a guarantee that won’t happen.”

  Harvey said, “That’s right,” arms folded across his chest.

  Lopez put a hand on his forehead and massaged his temples. “Look, you two. I leave here today unsatisfied, it’s because when I return,” sweeping his hand across the table, “you won’t be here. Not one trace that you ever owned the place. And the keys to the house will be in my pocket.” He looked at Riley, putting on the befuddlement. “You must think I’m playing a little game with you. I will shut this fucking place down,” he said, finger stabbing the table. “By noon today, you and you,” pointing at them now, “will be the former owners of the establishment once known as Lindy’s.”

  At the bar, the minister cleared her throat loudly, stepping over to the bank of windows, very casual, fiddling with the knobs.

  “Okay, then,” Lopez said. “Okay, you want to go smaller than two hundred grand today, here’s an offer. In addition to the payment today, give me a five percent cut of your monthly gross, five percent or a thousand a month, whichever is greater. You do that and you won’t see me here again. But one fifty today? No, that won’t do it. Understood?”

  Riley looked at Harvey.

  Harvey turned down his lips. “Five percent or a thousand? I don’t think so. Let’s go with one fifty-five today and three hundred a month.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Riley said to Lopez. “If not that, you’ll get nothing because giving you a grand a month will put us out of business.”

  Lopez scratched his weekend stubble, smiling.

  Riley said, “One sixty. Three hundred monthly and one sixty today, but you’re absolutely killing me, you’re killing me.”

  “You don’t believe a word I just said. I’m beginning to think I might need to go ahead, prove myself to you.”

  Riley plucked the cashier’s check from his shirt pocket and slapped it on the table. “It’s what I got.”

  Lopez rubbed his palms together and looked down his nose at the check. Sat staring at it.

  On his periphery, Riley saw Minister Burrows swipe the windowsill with a finger, give the finger a disapproving look and flick away the dust. Harvey’s right knee was pumping, and Riley reached under the table and held it down.

  Riley and Lopez studied each other. Lopez shook his head.

  Riley said, “Damn,” slumping his shoulders. He scooped up the check, tucked it in his pocket. “Well,” he said and threw up his hands, slapped his thigh. “I tried, I really tried.”

  Harvey turned to him. “Wait, hold it now … that’s it?”

  “What you want me to do, Harvey? Blood outta stone?”

  “This is how you’re going to take care of it? This how you say you got things covered?”

  Riley turned his head away. Rested elbows on the table and admired the sunlight on the palm trees out in the park.

  “One sixty,” Lopez said. “That’s the best you got?”

  Delivering the opening line Riley was waiting for. “I suppose…” He nodded, scratching an ear. “My personal savings, you know … I suppose…” He detected the change in Lopez’s body language, a small forward tilt, raised eyebrows. “One moment,” Riley said and got up and walked away, past Gert and the minister, their eyes following him, into his office.

  When he came back, Burrows was saying to Lopez, “I think if we knocked this wall down and added more feet to the deck, it would be just as nice, or keep the general airy feel of the big windows, only put them farther out.”

  Oooh, Gert’s eyes were afire.

  Riley stepped to the table and set the check down, in front of Lopez. Next to the check, he plopped a paper sack.

  Lopez cracked his knuckles before he picked it up, tested the weight, the sack chunky with cash. “Added some sweetener?” He unfolded the top, peered in, and set the sack back on the table. “How much?”

  “Ten grand cash. Plus the check. One seventy, absolutely all I got. And don’t forget, the five hundred guarantee.”

  Lopez took a deep breath and stood up. He glanced over at the minister. If something passed between them, Riley missed it. He watched Lopez eye the sack … one second, two seconds, hand hanging loose at his side, twiddling his fingers. Then he snatched up the check and the sack, held the sack to his chest. He gave a little laugh, an embarrassed boy caught stealing.

  Harvey lifted his eyes to the ceiling and pumped a fist. “So we’re good?” He looked around at everyone. “We cool?”

  Lopez said, “Well, there is another little matter,” with a sly grin.

  “What now?”

  “We’re cool if you could fix me a good Bloody Mary. How I like it is with not too much black pepper, put a stalk of celery in there, fresh celery. The minister may care for a little refreshment, too.”

  “A ginger ale would be fine,” she said.

  “We’re all out,” Gert announced from behind the bar.

  Harvey said, “Maybe I can find some in the back?”

  “No bother. A Sprite will do.”

  Harvey sprang up to get behind the bar.

  “Tell you what I must insist upon, though,” the minister said, “is this photo here.”

  Riley turned to see her pointing at a photo on the wall: Lindbergh crouched by the propeller, repairing the plane in the field, amid a group of onlookers.

  “Gives me the feeling of those old days. Just look at their clothes,” the minister said, easing up to the photo. Her hands moved up to it. “Do you mind? A little gift for me?”

  Riley met Gert’s eyes, and Riley said, “Sure. Not a problem.” Gert was fuming.

  The minister took the frame off the nails in the wall and held it out, admired it.

  Harvey just about ran up bearing a tray with the drinks, although later he’d say that w
asn’t the case, Riley was exaggerating and he didn’t say, “No, masah, yes, masah,” either, but he did admit it was probably the best Bloody Mary he’d ever prepared and the tallest, prettiest glass of soft drink over crushed ice he’d ever poured.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Monday afternoon, Riley awoke to the sun glaring on his bed—no, not his bed, this was Candice’s—a jagged glass splinter in his brain. His mouth tasted like stale beer and cigars. Candice lay twisted in the sheets beside him, snoring.

  He stumbled out of bed, shifted back into last night’s smoky clothes. Just about everyone he considered a close friend had attended the get-together at Lindy’s. Sister Pat came offering kisses and congrats, but left around eleven, way past her bedtime. Miles Young, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks, came with his little girl, Lani, and sipped a couple of beers with Riley in a corner. “I got a feeling this time, marriage will settle you down,” Miles said. “Just the medication you need.” They tapped bottles and drank in full agreement, then Riley excused himself to speak with the other guests. His neighbor, Bill Rivero, showed up, too, and drunkenly informed everyone within spitting distance that he’d known all along Riley and Candice were gonna march up that aisle. Candice rolled her eyes. Given the fact, Bill said, Riley was always ogling her from his front porch when she took her morning runs and she knew it, too, ’cause those shorts got a little shorter as time went by, got a little tighter. Candice walked away when Bill kept going on and on.

  This person was there, that person—friends who brought friends. Candice seemed uncomfortable but relaxed after a second glass of wine in the smoke, loud music, and raucous laughter. Riley remembered one or two shots of chilled Don Julio with lime and snuggling with Candice and people shouting at them to get a room. He remembered Miles waving when he left, carrying his sleeping daughter.