Mr. Hooligan (20 page)

“We are meeting McCoy here. You take us to Chapoose Street. To a bar. Mariners Bar. Wait outside. We finish, we go home. Easy, no?”

Riley nodded, afraid of what he might say if he opened his mouth. His head felt tight, his limbs jangly with adrenaline. He knew he needed to calm himself even more or he could get in trouble with these two.

Chino hopped down into the cockpit and once again rummaged through the black bags. This time Riley waited in the boat while they fiddled with their weapons. Steel clanked and clicked. He watched them screw suppressors onto the muzzles of two pistols, push the pistols into the deep side pockets of their military pants.

Chino stood tall and said,
“Vamos pues.”

Riley watched them, two ordinary-looking middle-aged men who could pass for someone’s father or uncle or your old friend from high school but hardly cold killers. So as someone associating with them, what did that make him?

Riley climbed out of the boat and led them down the dock. The empty wet street reflected the streetlights. Riley turned left on Cruzita Lane, thinking about Miss Rose sprawled on the porch, the image stuck in his head. He passed a group of men on the verandah of a house talking and laughing uproariously, and he lowered his gaze, wishing he’d kept his raincoat on. The Mexicans had dropped back, one of them smoking a cigarette in a cupped hand.

Riley took a right on Pasero Street, sorting through what had happened, and the pieces he’d put together looked like this: One or both of the Robinsons had helped set up the ambush last night; people who you’d never accuse of craftiness had thought they could outcraft the Monsantos. Dumb move.

He went left on Atux Street, the Mexicans several steps behind. Spanish music floated out of a small bar on the right and a man in the doorway holding a beer bottle waved. Riley stepped over a puddle and carried on, staring straight ahead into the misting rain, to Chapoose Street. He turned right at the corner and pushed his hands into his pockets. His hair and shirt were soaked, he felt cold.

Mariners Bar occupied the ground floor of a square concrete building. There were wood and zinc-roof houses all around, and next door a shop that was closed. Riley went under the overhang of the shop.

He stood there like he was taking cover from the drizzle and saw the Mexicans glance up and down the street before they walked into the bar. He leaned a shoulder against a post and watched raindrops glittering in the glow of a streetlight.

A young girl came out of a gate across the street holding a newspaper over her head and dashed across into another yard. A covered golf cart with two teenage boys rolled past and left a scent of marijuana. Riley could hear voices in the house directly across, its porch lights on, a swing there, flowerpots hanging from the ceiling.

Life going on as usual all around him. He was shivering violently and it wasn’t only because of wet clothes. He had no idea how long the Mexicans would take but he wasn’t going to stand here too long.

A man came out of Mariners, then another right behind him. They headed in opposite directions. Two minutes later, two more men stumbled out and passed by in the drizzle.

Riley waited until they had gone down the street a ways before he detached himself from the post and strolled by the bar. The door was open. A jukebox playing reggae pulsed light from a corner in the semidarkness. The place was empty except for beer bottles on the tables, and Chino sitting at the bar in his long raincoat. Riley stood at the window and peered in. The bartender was standing still, not talking, just looking seriously at Chino, and Temio was nowhere to be seen.

Riley returned to the overhang and wiped rain from his eyes. He inhaled, deep and slow to control his shivering. A woman stepped onto the porch of the house across the street, hugging a baby bundled in a white blanket. Thunder rolled across the sky.

In a flash of lightning Riley saw the woman sitting sideways on the swing, legs out as she unwrapped the baby like a fruit, hiked her blouse and put the child to her breast. Riley lowered his eyes. Wished he had a cigarette even though he didn’t smoke, something to do with his hands so he didn’t look odd standing there. Hell, he wished he wasn’t there at all.

The woman, a young face, was gazing in his direction, but he wasn’t sure she could see his features. He heard something from the bar and glanced over. Someone had shut the door. Just in case, Riley smiled up at the woman, playing casual, then looked down the street.

Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, and Riley waited until it was dark again before he ambled over to the bar. He could hear shouts from inside. He peeked through the window and saw chairs and broken bottles scattered across the floor, puddles of water or beer.

Temio and Chino were walking around the room, then Riley saw two men lying on their stomachs, hands roped behind their backs. Temio was speaking to them; Riley couldn’t hear what he was saying, the music was too loud. Temio squatted by one of the men and said something. The man twisted his body to the side and replied. Riley recognized the bartender. Chino rushed the man and delivered a kick in the ribs. The man curled up tight.

Riley said, “Goddamn,” and looked up and down the street. He checked the door: locked. He hurried back to his post. He was hating this, made up his mind: If anybody who faintly resembled police arrived, he was gone, no looking back. He was getting in that boat and speeding off and fuck the Mexicans.

He adjusted the pistol in his waistband, knowing he might need to drop it in the sea. He kept breathing deeply, not shivering so much anymore. A long flash of lightning lit up the street and the houses all around and he saw the young woman on the porch turn her face, and their eyes met.

She was stunning. Black hair in twin braids over her shoulder and almond-shaped eyes. The sky went dark again and thunder clapped, and he could still see the image of her face and it disturbed him, something about her; it struck him deep.

He knew she must’ve seen his face as clearly as he’d seen hers, so now he had to move. The rain had intensified, drilling the street and the zinc roofs. He scoped another house farther up the street with a verandah overhang he could use for cover. It would take him away from the bar but he needed to move, and it wasn’t only to avoid her identifying him, it was to get away from a kind of innocence he’d recognized when she looked at him. He didn’t care for the way it made him feel.

He lowered his head and headed into the rain. The bar door creaked open just then and Temio poked his head out and called,
“Hermano.”

Riley trotted over, the pistol loosening under his shirt. He fixed it in place, walked into the bar, Temio locking the door behind him. The room was a mess.

Temio motioned for him to grab two white buckets by overturned bar stools. Riley hesitated, but in his mind he saw the Mexican shooting Miss Rose, and Riley picked up the buckets.

Chino stormed out of the restroom at the back, near the jukebox. He rattled off something in Spanish to Temio and Temio marched over to him.

Riley put down the buckets and followed him through the pounding funk from the jukebox, and he walked into the flooded men’s restroom. The white tile wall was splattered with blood and there was a dead man lying under the urinals.

Chino had opened a utility closet and was taking white buckets out from behind mops, brooms, and cardboard boxes. He set the buckets on the floor, four of them. Riley saw shoes sticking out from under a bathroom stall, the legs splayed.

He said, real tense, to the Mexicans, “Let’s get going,” and left the room.

He was seething. Things had gotten way out of hand. These guys were insane. He stood by the two buckets outside and waited. They were taking too long and he said, “Let’s go, man,” just as they came out of the restroom. Temio shot him a look, but Riley didn’t give a shit now. He needed them to understand he wasn’t putting himself at any further risk; he was not going to be an accessory to any more killings tonight. Fuck them, fuck the Monsantos, and when he returned to the city, he’d let Israel know it straight up, he wouldn’t hold back. You want to sink fast? he’d tell him. Keep working with El Padrón and these two wackjobs.

Riley and the Mexicans carried the buckets, two apiece, through the streets in the hard rain. All around, windows and doors were closed. Wind gusts shook trees in the yards. More than once, Riley looked back and saw that the Mexicans had stopped to rest. Standing in the middle of the street, hands on hips like two cowboys. Idiots, no other word for them.

He reached the boat and rearranged the other buckets in the V-berth to make space. He pushed his two buckets in and put on his slicker, took the helm and started the engines. While the Mexicans slid their buckets in, he undid the lines and swung the bow away from the dock before they could properly take their seats.

He didn’t know exactly when he’d stopped shivering, but he was wide awake, testy, in fact. He didn’t speak the entire ride back, glad to be occupied with the rough waves. Glad when he saw Chino grip the edge of his seat, looking like he was about to puke.

The rain had slowed and the sea had leveled out to a medium chop when they saw the city lights, the Baron Bliss Lighthouse blinking. Temio stood, tucking away his black book and holding on to the back of his seat for balance. He gestured to Riley, pointing north. “Buttonwood Bay!”

Riley steered the boat north, cutting across the direction of the waves. They hugged the coast for a couple of miles and headed around Moho Caye, a shadowy clump of mangroves and moored sailboats. Riley was counting down the minutes. First thing, after they unloaded at the Monsantos’ bay house, he was going to shed these wet clothes, poke around in Carlo’s closet for something that looked decent, slip into them. Then maybe warm up with Scotch or bourbon or whatever they kept in their cabinet. Prepare himself for Israel’s and Carlo’s rants when he told them they were short four of the eighteen buckets. He’d sip his drink and listen, let them lean into him for a bit, then he’d warn them about ever dealing with the Mexicans again. He’d say his farewell to working with the Monsantos and he’d be done with it.

If they wanted to be difficult with him about the four missing buckets—what was that, 140 kilos?—well, maybe he’d offer to work one last shipment for free.…

What the hell was he thinking? He’d
never
do that. Losses were part of the trade, and he’d done enough. Get your head right, Riley. Seems that being out on the sea in this weather with two lunatics was corroding his brain.

But hold on—what was Temio saying? He was pointing northwest.

Riley leaned in, against the wheel, cupping an ear.

Temio said, “This way, this way.”

They were in the bay, lights dotting the coastline, and out of habit Riley had been steering the boat toward the land, the Monsantos’ dock less than a mile away. Now, Riley pulled back on the throttle. “You know where you going?” he said to Temio.

Temio had taken out his black book again, reading with a flashlight. He said, “Go to the canals. You know the canals?”

“Just around the bend? The new development?”

“Go down the second canal, to a house. I show you, okay?”

So that’s where the missing buckets must be. The long night wasn’t over yet. He idled close to the land so he wouldn’t miss the canal but stayed far out enough to avoid the shallows. It seemed to take forever before he spotted the entrance to the first canal, a towering white house on the edge, terraces, private seawall.

Temio pointed to the second canal up ahead, and Chino crouched by the V-berth and started pulling out the duffel bags.

Riley eased back on the throttle and steered the boat to the left, gliding into the canal, and he was shivering again. Temio and Chino were crouched by the bags, getting their weapons ready. The boat rumbled slowly past two-story houses, most of them dark, a dock here and there. Temio told Riley to keep going. Chino slung his carbine over a shoulder, under his raincoat. Temio pushed a loaded magazine into a pants pocket.

Some of the yards were lighted with spotlights from the houses. Cars and SUVs sat in carports. A dog behind a chain-link fence barked at the boat. Temio pointed to his right.

Riley’s throat had tightened; he was pretty sure where they were going.

Temio counted off the houses with a finger. One, two, three, and yes—that one, with the light in the upstairs window.

The one with the turret. Riley’s world turned darker. He steered the boat toward the dock, his fingers ice cold. The Mexicans stood up, ready. The boat edged closer to the dock, tapping the rubber tires nailed to the posts. Chino climbed out to tie the lines, while Riley looked up at his friend Harvey’s house.

Harvey, man, what did you do? What did you get yourself into?

Riley felt like he’d been punched in the heart.

Chino secured the lines and Riley cut the engines. Then all he could hear was the rain pattering his slicker and the lonely barking of the dog. The boat dipped when Temio stepped off and stood on the dock beside Chino.

Riley couldn’t be certain if they knew that Harvey was his business partner, his friend. He figured the Monsantos must have filled them in but he couldn’t be certain about anything tonight except this: Whatever he thought was of no consequence to the Monsantos and these two killers marching down the dock. Riley looked up at the window light, looked at the Mexicans, near the end of the dock now. He and his buddy Harvey were two zeros, one friend hired to lead two stone killers to the other friend’s house so they could slaughter him.