Mr. Hooligan (19 page)

Said that Miguel had been calling him a musclehead, over and over, and he hated it and he hated Miguel. All Riley said was don’t worry, he’d talk to Miguel, and that weekend he worried about how he was going to approach it without being too confrontational, or appearing jealous.

Sunday evening when Riley took Duncan home, he walked upstairs with him, said hi and bye to Vicky and Miguel, kissed Duncan and left. But instead of returning to his truck, he lingered at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the voices in the house, the TV going, Vicky telling Duncan to please take off those filthy socks and go wash his hands, dinner would be ready soon.

Riley said he heard chairs scraping, plates being set and no more TV, and Miguel saying,
Come with me, musclehead, it’s time to eat,
and Riley started climbing those stairs. He’d already planned an excuse—“Stupid me, I think I left my keys up here”—now all he needed were the calmest words to address Miguel. At the screen door, he stopped and knew after he peered in that he didn’t need to carry it any further. Quietly, hoping no one inside had seen him, he turned and trotted down the stairs and got into his truck. On the drive home, he felt a bittersweet relief that his boy wasn’t only his, but was the son of another man now. Miguel, Vicky, and Duncan, the picture of them he kept seeing, the one he glimpsed through the screen door—Miguel lifting Duncan onto his shoulders in a fireman carry, roughhousing with him on the way to the dinner table, Duncan shrieking and Vicky spooning potato salad onto a plate with a look of good-natured exasperation. And Riley said he heard Miguel going,
Come with me, musclehead, it’s time to eat. I don’t know how in the world you got so big and brawny, must be the food, must be all this food.

Riley told Candice he saw how Miguel loved the boy, and that soothed his fears.

And this was one reason why she loved Riley.

And that soothed his fears.
In
her
mind, nothing was soothed. She felt crazy, she wanted to go for a run. She said, “Candice, Candice, make up your mind,” and she picked up the phone. She thumbed out the number and waited.

“Hey, it’s me. Calling to check in.”

Malone said, “What’s the good word?”

Candice didn’t know what she was going to say until she said it. “No word. No action here. The game looks like it’s been rained out tonight.”

“So all is quiet but for the thunder?”

“Yes,” Candice said, and as if Malone was there watching, she stood up and crossed over to the window, opened it and gazed through the rain at Riley’s house, the porch light shining. “House is all locked up like the owner’s fast asleep.”

“The perfect thing to do on a night like this. Or maybe the second perfect thing. ‘Western wind when wilt thou blow, the small rain down can rain, Christ if my love were in my arms and I in my bed again.’ Don’t be too lonely, Candice.”

“Say hello to your wife for me, Malone.”

Malone chuckled. “One of these years, one of these years soon, you may need to take a lover in the spring.”

“Good night, Malone.”

She leaned her forehead against the screen, stared out into the rain feeling sprinkles on her face and arms. She pressed her torso against the screen, enjoying the cold droplets. She wondered if the screen and the louvers could hold her if she pressed hard with all her weight. She wondered how much they could take before they broke and sent her hurtling over the edge.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Riley heard the clink of metal inside the black bags when the Mexicans slid them into the V-berth. Even in the pounding rain he heard the clink and didn’t need to guess that the only techniques of persuasion these two knew were the kinds conveyed in calibers.

He didn’t like what was going down, but it was useless to argue that it didn’t have to be this way. The possibility of violence had been inherent from the first run he ever made for the Monsantos; he should consider himself lucky a night like this hadn’t happened sooner.

They made their way slowly down the river and under the swing bridge in the blinding rain. Coming through the mouth of the harbor, at the lighthouse, he saw the bald Mexican reach into an ice chest by his feet and offer his
compadre
a can of Red Bull. The man didn’t hear, huddled under his raincoat, and the bald one said, “Chino,” loud enough for Riley to know now who was who.

That was about the last thing Temio, the bald one, said for the rest of the trip, sitting in front of the wheel, head bobbing with the rolling waves. Chino sat on the other side of the cockpit, slump-shouldered, looking down at his tennis shoes getting soaked with the spray lashing in and the boat pitching and yawing. A few minutes later, the rain and waves eased and Riley gave the boat throttle.

Satisfied with the speed and feeling less antsy, he decided to make small talk, asking Chino if he could help himself to a Red Bull. Chino didn’t hear so Riley reached across and touched his shoulder and said, with a bad accent, messing around,
“Oye, mi amigo, dame un—Toro Rojo, por favor.”

Chino didn’t crack a smile. He wiped his eyes and looked at Riley. “We speak English. Say in English you want, I understand.”

He stooped over to get Riley a Toro Rojo, but Temio had a foot on the cooler. Chino tapped Temio’s leg and said something in rapid Spanish, and Temio turned lazily in Riley’s direction, turned back and kept his foot on the cooler just long enough.

Chino handed Riley the can without looking at him. Riley popped the Red Bull and said, “Cheers.”

Chino said nothing. Riley said, shouting into the wind, “You guys been to Belize before?”

Chino nodded.

“Where about have you been?”

Chino raised a finger. “
Mi hermano,
please.” He touched the finger to his head. “I need to think. I need to focus.” It sounded like
I nid too fuckus.

Riley said, “No problem,” lifting his drink. You go ahead and fuckus,
mi hermano,
just don’t fuck me tonight, I want to get this over with and be back home without any blood on my clothes.

The rain had ceased but the air was brisk, colder as they neared the mangrove islands, and a wind picked up. The boat weaved through the mangroves, and then Robinson Caye rose out of the dark, Riley pushing back the throttle and the bow setting down to a slow glide toward the dock.

Chino helped moor the boat, but when Riley climbed out, no one followed. Chino had pulled the black bags out of the V-berth and was stooped over, checking something. Temio was using a flashlight to read what looked like a black day planner. Riley told them he was going to a shed down the trail for a drum of gas, roll it over.

Temio nodded, handed Chino the book, and Chino put it in one of the bags.

“Don’t get up,” Riley said, “you gentlemen sit tight and let me handle this.”

He went down the pier, thinking, Such pleasant chaps.

The dogs greeted him, nipping his fingers, scampering about. At the cement shed, he untaped the key off the top ledge of the door frame, opened up, fumbled around on a shelf in the dark until he found the Coleman lamp and turned it on. In the dull glow, he rapped the side of the metal drums standing on the sand floor. He found a full one in the back, lowered it onto its side and rolled it out the door. Rolled it down the trail, crunching seashells. It was drizzling.

The Mexicans crossed the trail, looking like old-fashioned seamen in their big raincoats, taking a leisurely tour of the island.

“Nice night for a stroll,” Riley said, pushing the drum, gas sloshing around inside. He rolled the drum onto the pier and stood it up by the boat. He went back to the shed for the hand pump, sweating lightly and feeling a chill. He didn’t see the Mexicans when he returned from the shed this time. He stood in the drizzle searching the darkness, holding the gas pump. He couldn’t distinguish anything but the shape of coconut trees, the outline of the Robinsons’ roof in the distance, and no sound but the trees stirring in the breeze.

Filling up the boat, cranking the pump lever, he yawned and rubbed his eyes, sleep creeping up on the Red Bull.

A burst of firecrackers woke him up. He spun around, toward the island.
What the hell?

There they went again—
pak pak pak
—and now he recognized that sound, dropped the pump and started running up the pier. He raced along the trail, veered right, through a stand of coconut trees. He saw the stilt house, nobody outside, a light on in the kitchen with one window propped open.

He slowed down to a fast walk, staring at the house, under the house, straining to hear something. Footsteps thundered on the plank floor inside the house, somebody shouted and Miss Rose came lumbering onto the porch, cradling a stick and rocking from side to side on her elephantiasis legs.

Riley called out, “Miss Rose? Miss Rose, what’s going on?” and when she brought up the stick to her shoulder and aimed at him, he realized what it was and dove as the shot exploded. He stayed on his belly, covered his head with his arms.

He looked up, getting ready to run, sand in his mouth. He saw one of the Mexicans run out of Julius’s room and level a long gun at Miss Rose and fire two shots as she was turning around. She flew into the railing and her shotgun clattered down the steps.

Riley got up on one knee. Then everything started happening strangely fast in his head but in slow motion outside. He saw the Mexican, Temio, step over Miss Rose and walk down the steps. Under the house, a light beam flashed on and Chino appeared out of the darkness with a flashlight, a carbine slung over his shoulder, and Riley understood now—when they had crossed the trail they’d been carrying carbines under their raincoats.

Chino shined the light on the storeroom under the house. Riley stood up, knees trembling. He moved his feet in the direction of the stairs. He stumbled up and crouched for a moment by Miss Rose. There was no helping her. He headed into the house and slipped on something, almost losing his balance.

Blood slicked the kitchen floor. Julius lay on his stomach, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, and a piece of the back of his head was gone. His hand gripped a small Glock, finger on the trigger. His eyes were open, lips parted.

Riley pried the pistol from his fingers. He checked it: a round in the chamber, a stoked magazine. No small bullet casings on the floor; the boy probably hadn’t even gotten a shot off. Riley jammed the pistol in his waistband and left the room, passing Miss Rose without looking at her and going down the stairs. The double-barrel shotgun was lying in the sand. He picked it up, broke it open and plucked out the shells. He tossed the empty one and stuck the unspent one back in. He snapped the barrel shut and strode under the house.

The storeroom door was open and the Mexicans had their backs turned. Temio stood in the doorway and Chino was inside, messing with something. Riley halted about ten paces from Temio’s back and, clamping the gun stock under his right arm, he slowly raised the double barrel. He had a clear shot. He pulled out the Glock and held it in his left hand. Soon as Temio fell, Riley would start firing the pistol. He needed to be fast. He didn’t doubt himself, but his knees were still trembling. He stepped closer, muzzle aimed at a spot between Temio’s shoulders, and he heard Chino say,
“Aquí lo tienes,”
and watched him come to the door holding the handles of white buckets in each hand and Temio stepping aside.

Riley lowered the shotgun. Pushed the pistol back into his waistband.

Temio set his carbine down and went into the room and emerged with two more buckets. Riley propped the shotgun against a house post, and just like that, because Riley James considered himself a practical man, his allegiance to the memory of Miss Rose and her son was gone, and he moved forward to give the Mexicans a hand.

Eight buckets. Five minutes later, eight buckets of high-grade Colombian blow was in the V-berth, and Riley felt disgusted with everything. What the hell was Miss Rose thinking? Couldn’t have been Julius behind this, he wasn’t that smart. And what kind of people were these two Mexicans here? Riley watched them slip their carbines back into the black bags, zip them up, Chino yawning and Temio looking relaxed like all they’d done was a little target practice at the gun range.

For the better part of the ride to Caye Caulker, Riley pushed the worries away. It took intense concentration. The seas were less choppy, and now and again lightning crackled across the sky to the west.

The engines droned inside his skull. His body was humming. All the way to Caye Caulker the Mexicans didn’t say a word. It was cold and drizzly when the boat sliced through the calm waters around the back of the island, lights on in the wooden houses on shore. They idled past sailboats anchored in the deep near the long concrete dock, the Back Bridge. There was nobody there. Raindrops pattered the dock.

Chino climbed out and helped Riley moor the boat to the cleat on the dock. Temio consulted his black book again, hunched over, raising a finger to his mouth to wet it and turning the page daintily.

Pressure swelled in Riley’s chest, he felt a need to sigh. He shook off his raincoat. He leaned over the gunwale, cupped water in his hands and splashed his face. When he straightened, Temio was staring at him. Riley wiped his face with the front of his shirt. “Something you need?”