Mr. Hooligan (14 page)

Malone rose and walked through the grass toward the other bench. “You mean chirpy like you?”

“Chirpy? God, don’t say that, I don’t do chirpy.” Couldn’t even fake it now that her stomach was in knots. She wiped her palms off on her shorts, inhaled deep. This double life was more nerve-racking than she’d expected. Malone said he was troubled.
He
was troubled? He didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Because, Candice, she told herself as she positioned Malone on the bench, set the strobe stand at the proper angle, acting normal in this scene in her own drama—because, Candice, in your other world, you’re in love with a criminal. But the DEA didn’t know the
man,
and she did. The qualities that made Riley a successful drug runner—loyalty, patience, determination—were the qualities she would admire in anyone. Put him in any line of work, she always told herself, and he’d succeed. Before they met, he was only a name and a photo, and she’d wanted the man she was about to deceive to be mean and all-around dislikeable, but the day she moved in, his kindness threw her. Riley lugged her boxes up those stairs all afternoon, showed her a photo of his son, and in the weeks afterward when she saw more of his laid-back sweetness, his goofball humor, saw that smile on his face whenever he talked about his son, she lost her balance. She understood only one thing the night they first shared a bottle of wine on his porch, after they kissed and she tasted Chianti on his tongue—she could never hate this man. And the next morning, when she awoke and saw him propped up in bed, reading, glasses low on his nose, she got the sense that it was too late for her to return to her old self. Her priorities had been rearranged, seemingly without her volition, and Riley James now lived in that space that her fiancé’s death had left.

“Smile,” she said, talking to Malone there on the bench, talking to herself as well.

Behind him, a homeless man was sitting against the fence Indian-style in the grass, eating a ripe mango. He was into it, yellow juice running down his hands, forearms, dripping on the grass. The
scene
looked delicious; she snapped it. She edged closer, aimed the lens at the gnarled black hands clutching the moist peeled-back mango skin just above the grass, against the backdrop of the black iron fence.

Click, a perfect photo. Except her pleasure was short because when she lifted her eyes from the camera, she noticed a familiar face observing her from the sidewalk across the street. Sister Pat, Riley’s friend, was holding a Brodie’s plastic bag, shading her eyes. She waved, hesitantly.

Candice waved back, offered a tentative smile.

Sister Pat’s hand went down, she smiled, stood primly watching her and Malone and the homeless man. Waved again and left, down the sidewalk, into the crowd.

Candice scrolled through the last shots, walking over to Malone. She said, “Not that anyone here knows your job, but next time, let’s make this business-pleasure meeting somewhere less public, shall we?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Carlo Monsanto passed the bowl of grapes to his brother, sitting there with two hands on the hook of the cane between his legs. Israel screwed up his face at the grapes and shook his head like the grapes had insulted him. All he had to do was say no fucking thank you, none of this snootiness, like Carlo’s Chilean seedless weren’t sweet or juicy enough.

Israel said to Julius, who was sitting next to Riley on a metal chair in the center of the bare storage room, “The main question is in fact the only question we need to answer, is who ratted us out. We find this rat, kill it, we could resume operations. Until then, hell, I wouldn’t even consider to plan to try to ponder to give any thought to want to attempt one single shipment more. Not one.” He banged his cane on the concrete floor three times, saying, “Until we kill that rat!”

Carlo flipped a grape into the air, tipped his head back and caught it in his mouth. He chomped, Riley and Julius looking at him intently, the sideshow to Israel’s seriousness. Carlo had made a point of kindly offering them some grapes, to hide how pissed off he was. Get them relaxed, let them believe he was kicking back, not agonizing over the bad news. Let them feel comfortable and not realize he was checking out their body language. Make them comfortable and wait for a slip of the tongue.

“Think, tell me the truth,” Israel was saying, “you didn’t talk to nobody at any time about this? Think hard.”

Julius was quick to answer no, shrugging and shaking his head vehemently, dreadlocks moving. Riley now, he was relaxed, not happy but not scared. A tougher one to read.

Israel said, “Riley?”

Riley cocked his head. “How many years I been doing this? Why would I talk to anybody about my business?”

“That’s a good question,” Carlo said, “why would you?”

Riley looked at him, but Carlo wasn’t ready to engage him yet. He was only tapping, poking for weakness. He kicked out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and tossed up another grape, leaned his head back to catch it, but it bounced off his front teeth and onto the floor. When he bent to pick it up, he saw a trace of a smile on Julius. The fuck was wannabe Rasta smiling at? Carlo simmered. When he was a kid, people always teased him about having horse teeth, so call him sensitive. But, anyway, what happened just now, he wasn’t in the proper position, legs too far out. Okay, he’d let Julius have that smile.

“Call Barrel in here,” Israel said.

Carlo unlocked the door and walked across the pavement to the store’s back door. His sister’s two boys scampered past, screeching and shouting, shooting each other with plastic guns. He said, “Whoa whoa, slow down there,” entering the shop.

Barrel was at the counter, chatting up his sister. Mirta laughed at something he said, playing with her hair. Watch, she was going to flip it in a second. There was a customer in the store, a man she was paying no attention to. Barrel leaned in and said something. Mirta laughed and … there, the flip, look at that. Soaking up the attention.

Carlo said, “Hey, Barrel. You’re needed.”

Barrel turned away from the counter and waddled to the back, leading with his belly. Carlo had no inkling what Mirta saw in this fat dude. Carlo said, “Mirta, those boys eat lunch yet?”

“What?”

“Your boys,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “the reason I ask—”

“Of course they ate,” she said with a scowl.

“Don’t look at me like that. Yesterday you shoulda seen them, digging out chocolates and cookies all afternoon, and when Ma stopped them, they said because you didn’t give them any lunch, what’s up with that?”

Mirta strode down the counter and came at him. “Look, don’t tell me,” her voice steely, “about my kids. Like I don’t take care of them properly. You have no idea—”

“All I’m saying—”

“I don’t want to hear what you’re saying ’cause you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carlo said, “Barrel, go on back.” Fat man had stopped to listen. He rolled on out the door, and Carlo said to Mirta, “You’re here wasting time talking to him and like usual you’re not aware what your boys doing. Running through the shop causing chaos, that’s what.”

She slapped the counter. “I know damn well where my boys are. Don’t you even—”

“Wasting your time with somebody like Barrel. Ink on your divorce papers hardly dried yet and you’re in the market already.”

She rolled her neck, saying, “Unlike somebody I know, at least somebody finds me attractive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look at you.”

He wagged a finger at her. “Better watch yourself, Mirta, that mouth. Next time you need my money, probably tomorrow, just wait, we’ll see how smart your mouth is when I tell you keep walking.” He said, pointing with his chin, “Look, you got a customer.”

She shot him one last glare and swiveled around.

He said, “Hey, by the way.”

“What.”

“Pedro’s been calling for you. Left two messages yesterday. I’m just saying.”

“I don’t want to talk to Pedro.”

“What’s wrong with Pedro? Give the guy a shot, he’s got a good job, a house. Stays out of trouble. All the things you like to insult me with—right after you take my money. What’s wrong with Pedro?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong? He’s our
cousin
.”

“So?”

“I’m not having this conversation.” Throwing up a palm and turning away, smiling at the man waiting at the counter.

“Second cousin, that’s all. You can’t be choosy like that, you know.” She ignored him, talking to the customer. He left, but he paused at the back door for one last word. “You’re not young anymore, Mirta.”

Shit. He headed back to the storeroom. Yeah, but she was still pretty. Thing was, he’d never kicked the habit of sneaking peeks at her in the bathroom. That hole in the wall across from the shower had been there since the night he gouged it out with a steak knife when he was thirteen, maybe a little wider now, concealed by a picture frame. He’d felt a keen shame that afternoon their eyes met through the hole and he darted off—he was about sixteen when that happened. Over the years, that shame fell away, like the clothes that dropped off her body time after time when she stood there in front of the tub, in full view, casting backward glances at the hole. Knowing he was there. Stripping secretly for him all through her two marriages whenever she came to visit. The only times she took a hiatus was during her pregnancies, and, okay, Carlo could respect that, she wasn’t too appealing then anyhow. He still wanted the best for her, but, man, nobody could tick you off like family.

Like Israel now, let’s see how far he’d reached. Carlo reentered the room, locking the door behind him. He took his seat. Barrel was standing in the center of the room, near Riley and Julius, talking to Israel about the conditions of the marijuana trees they had planted in the middle of a friend’s cane field in Orange Walk, another subject entirely.

Israel said, “Sounds like that’s in good shape, but why I called you in today was, tell your cohorts here what you told me concerning how long you waited last night for the drop-off.”

“Like I told them. I got there around ten o’clock. Parked by the pier and smoked a cigar, didn’t—”

“Tell them, not me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Barrel said, shuffling around to face Riley and Julius. “I was saying, right? I didn’t come out the truck till closer to the time I figured you’d get there.”

Israel said, “Even though it’s a private yard.”

“Yes. Didn’t want to take any chances, see? Maybe somebody next door might could spot me hanging out. They call police, next thing you know … Remember that time—”

“Go ahead with you story. Tell them, not me.”

“Yeah, man, so I didn’t come out the truck till I looked at my watch and I said what! Almost one o’clock. So I begin to start worry, you know? Start to wonder maybe something went wrong with you two.”

“You had legitimate concerns,” Israel said.

“Correct.”

“So you called me.”

Barrel nodded. “That’s what I did.”

“On your cell phone.”

Barrel turned back to Israel, confused as to whom he was supposed to be addressing. “Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” Carlo piped in, “you called on your fucking
cell phone.
”

Barrel nodded stupidly.

“Where were you, may I ask,” Israel said, “when you called me at one o’clock on your cell phone?”

Barrel hesitated. “Outside, by the truck.”

“Not on the pier, or
in
the truck, but outside, in the yard, by the truck. Tell them, don’t tell me.”

Barrel said, “I was in the yard. Why I called, Riley, I was worried. Figured you guys got touched or something.”

Carlo watched Barrel begin his deference to Riley, shifting from one leg to the next in his long white T-shirt and jeans shorts, badly stained and crusty down the front like he’d been cleaning fish. And this filthy dude is the one trying to sweeten up Mirta?

“In the yard,” Israel said. “In sight of neighbors on two sides. Who if they walked onto their porches coulda seen you easy. Some strange man down there talking on a cell phone in the middle of the night. Which anybody, any fool knows you do not use a cell under any circumstances in these transactions because why? Cell phones can be tracked.” Banging his cane, he said, “On your cell phone. To me, on my home phone, imagine. Anybody listening in would know it’s me. Tell me what happened when you called me.”

“What you mean?”

“I said hello and what?”

“You asked what’s the problem.”

“And then?”

Barrel looked lost.

“I asked if this was a cell phone you were using, did I not?”

“Yes.”

“And…?”

“You, like, hung up.”

“I hung up. I
slammed
the phone down is what.” Israel said to Riley and Julius, “How late did I say it had to be before any calls?”

Riley sat up. “Midnight. If we weren’t out by the pier by midnight, then a call.”

“Midnight. And from where,” Israel said, turning to Barrel, “did I say make that call?”