Mr. Hooligan (23 page)

Riley took a moment. “I’m sorry. What are you sick with?”

“Life. Hoping too much, wanting too much. But they call it cancer. Of the pancreas.”

“I’m sorry.” Riley not knowing what else to say.

“I’m angry. Well … maybe not. I’m beginning to accept it. My mind. My body gave in to it a long time ago. Life is like that, I’m afraid. The human brain, it’s always playing catch-up to nature’s will.”

Riley nodded, staring at the darkness beyond the screen. He could hear crickets chirping downstairs, waves lapping.

“Roger Hunter,” the man said, sticking out a hand.

They shook. The man’s wrists were bony but his grip wasn’t bad. “Riley.” He looked at the man closely. “Where do I know you from? I think I know you from somewhere.”

“I used to live here, in the city, many years ago.”

“Roger Hunter…” Riley musing on the name. Then, “Yeah,” snapping his fingers and grinning at the old man. “Father Hunter, Jesuit.”

“You were a St. John’s boy?”

“Yes. But you never taught me. I think you left a couple years before I got kicked out. Father Hunter, man. It’s been a long time.”

“So, I suppose I left behind some stories?”

“Maybe. You quit the priesthood because of a woman, that’s what they say. Among other things.”

That brought a smile. “So that’s what they say? It’s not true. I quit because, well—why did I quit? Because I hated being a priest. I wasn’t a very good priest.”

Riley smiled. “Heard that, too.”

Roger Hunter lifted his chin and shut his eyes, inhaling a deep draft of sea air. “I wish I could say I’m ready to go, but I’m not. Are you afraid of dying, young man?”

Riley said, “I don’t think so. I figure when you’re ready to go, you go. Like falling asleep. What’s there to be afraid of?”

“Then are you ready to die?”

“Now I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

Roger Hunter focused straight ahead. “Because you still have too much living to do. Long walks. Books to read. A glass or two of single malt in the evening. Women to hold.” He turned to Riley. “Funny, I find myself craving a woman’s company. Which I find perplexing. Assaulted by that sort of desire when my body is withering away like this?”

“Can I ask you a question? Something I heard, way back. They said you fought alongside rebels in El Salvador. Is that true?”

The old man shook his head. “Rebels? Funny how the word gets twisted and appropriated by the people in power. They were
campesinos
. Poor farm workers. Dirt poor. That was Salvador, late seventies. I took up arms, yes, I walked with them, but it was all too brief.”

Riley said, “What do you mean ‘walked’?”

“Do you know what liberation theology is? No? It’s the name books give to the movement I was a part of. Christian socialism, they call it. I prefer to call it justice. Christian justice for the poor and oppressed. Being politically active on behalf of those whose daily existence is an unfair struggle, not merely preaching about it and praying for it, but
demanding
it. It’s what I did for several months there. I believed in it.” He smiled and patted Riley’s forearm. “Didn’t mean to preach at you like that.”

“You didn’t. Believe me, it’s better listening to you than to sit here just champing at the bit to go home. So go right ahead, tell me more.”

“Not much to tell. After Romero was killed and nothing was done about hunting his killers, no one brought to justice … I fought. I fought like hell. But we were outgunned, we weren’t as organized, we suffered too many causalities, and I lost faith in some of the other leaders. So I folded. Gave myself a break from the constant fighting.”

“You left?”

“I’ve always wanted to return. But that time has passed. Sometimes, I think that my friends should’ve picked up guns
before
Romero died.” Roger Hunter shook a fist. “
Create
change. Seize the power. You know who Romero is, don’t you?”

“I remember a priest if that’s who you mean. Assassinated during a mass or something?”

“An archbishop, but yes, it was during a sermon. A single shot to the heart. I was still in the priesthood then. I was in El Salvador for his funeral. It was huge, I tell you. Over two hundred thousand people from all over the world gathered in the Plaza Barrios for the funeral mass. Never seen so many people in one place. It scared the government. They thought they had silenced that one loud voice—Romero—now they were hearing thousands. A chorus.”

Roger Hunter sniffed the air, eyes closed. He said, softly, “I was a damn fool. To think that the powers that be wouldn’t perceive that as a threat, that they would tolerate it.”

There was a long silence. Riley said, “So what happened?”

“Too much,” Roger Hunter said. “About twenty minutes before the mass began, a bomb went off somewhere in the square. It felt like someone had thumped me hard in my chest. People started running and screaming, then the shooting started. I didn’t know where it was coming from at first. People were pointing here and there at the surrounding buildings, people were scattering, some were falling down, and only when they didn’t get up I realized, only then, that it was because they’d been shot. It took me
that
long to accept that it was really happening. I ran, ducked my head and fled to a building to take cover behind some columns. It was mass panic. Women, men, teenagers—everyone was a target. I saw gunfire flashing from rooftops, and everybody was running, absolutely terrified. Good god, it seemed to go on forever.

“When it was over, when the shooting finally stopped, there was this chilling quiet, I’ll never forget it. Then the people on the ground started moving. Some of them were trying to crawl away, you know? Moaning and crying. Me? I was transfixed. There’s this image I can never shake. Piles of shoes in the square. People who had escaped had practically run out of their shoes, and I couldn’t get over that. I couldn’t stop staring at the shoes. I was in complete shock.”

Roger Hunter shook his head, returning from the far-off place in his mind. “What a day. That day—that was the day I most felt that I was going to die. And yet, that was the day I felt most alive. And what brought me to that point? The fact that I dared, by my presence alone, ask for what I thought was right, something those very rooftop shooters would’ve asked for themselves if they’d been poor and struggling. A chance for a better life, just a chance. Not charity, not welfare but
opportunity
. And then to be shot at like a hunted duck? No, no … that was much more than my psyche could handle. Never again, I told myself, never again. You want something in this life, you cannot plead, you cannot appeal to the better nature of people, you must be firm and do your best to meet them on equal terms, and if that means leveling the field by the necessary tools—you understand what I’m saying?—then that’s the way it must be.”

Roger Hunter coughed, covered his mouth, and coughed again. He was worked up, his face had reddened. Riley tapped his feet for want of something better to do and said, “I agree with you,” wishing he had something meaningful to add, but all he could think of was, Don’t worry, I know where you’re coming from. Riley felt like explaining that since he was a kid he’d never waited for someone to deign to give him opportunity. He had created it himself, maybe by undercover means, but it had worked for him. Just like it works for certain government ministers with their hands in the public till. Justice? Riley’s method had its own justice. He’d dispensed some last night and now he’d have to live with that, his psyche would have to overcome that.

Roger Hunter said, “Listen to me sermonizing like this. I’m filled with this fire and self-righteousness, and all for naught now. I used to fancy myself a man of action. Up until a few months ago, I’d have wild dreams of being in the thick of battles, honestly. I still want to hear gunshots, yells, warnings.
Look out! Watch it!
I never thought it was going to be like this, death coming so quietly and slowly, maybe visit me when I’m unprepared in the middle of the night.”

Riley nodded with understanding. The screen trembled in a gust of breeze.

“Uh-oh,” Roger Hunter said, “I should get back to my room.” He was looking past Riley, down the hall. A short nurse in bright whites tramped toward them, a stern Caribbean Florence Nightingale.

Roger Hunter rolled his wheelchair backward and spun it skillfully up the hall. He looked over his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to depress you. I hope that gunshot wound heals fast and you can get out of here, back to your life. All the best, young man.”

He wheeled away. At the room two doors down from Riley’s, he spun to his left and rolled in. The nurse marched past Riley, muttering.

Riley sat there for a moment before he thought, Wait. I didn’t tell him I’d been shot.

He guessed word just got around. He returned to his room on steady legs, feeling like he could sleep now. He lay in bed and covered himself with the thin sheet and heard one of his roommates peeing into a urinal bottle.

Before Riley shut his eyes, he thought how he didn’t want to be full of rage when he died. He wanted to be at peace with his life. At the same time, he didn’t want death visiting unexpectedly, slipping into his room in the darkness. He wanted to see it coming.

When he awoke, his eyes were blurry in the morning light and he rubbed them hard, and the first thing he saw was Israel and Carlo Monsanto sitting on either side of his bed, Israel displaying his skeletal grin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Carlo said to Riley, “Morning, sunshine,” but caught a look from Israel and said to himself, All right, let’s do it your way, Israel. Always wanting to be the gentleman diplomat, to do the soft shoe like no one knows what you’re really all about and the business you’re in.

Israel said to Riley, “Don’t mean to pounce on you first thing in the morning but we need to talk. You need to freshen up first? Or we can talk now if you want.”

Riley pushed up to a sitting position carefully, obviously feeling some pain. “Guys, you should’ve told me you’re coming by. What you want to talk about?”

“Clarify some things. Shouldn’t take long. We thought now would be the best time for a visit. We have other goals to accomplish today. Bear in mind, a certain transaction remains incomplete.”

Riley got out of bed and padded over to the bathroom in socks and hospital robe. For a second, a split second, Carlo felt the urge to stick a leg out, trip him and send his ass flying. Juvenile maybe, but it would appear that Riley deserved it.

While Riley busied himself in the bathroom, Carlo and Israel sat there quietly. Carlo didn’t know why Israel was so surprised about the turn events had taken. He’d always told him his boy Riley was going to fuck them over good one day.

Riley came out of the bathroom looking brighter, patting down his hair, and Carlo stuck a leg out fast, like he was changing position, simply trying to get comfortable. Riley walked around it. If he noticed what Carlo was up to, he didn’t pay it any mind.

Carlo nodded at the other two beds, one empty. “One of your roomies was checking out this morning when we were walking in. That other guy, I hear a nurse say he’s got Alzheimer’s?”

Riley said that’s what he heard.

Israel said, “You’re looking better this morning. What’s the prognosis?”

“I should be out in a day or so. Rest about two weeks and take it easy.” Riley sat on the bed, swung his legs up carefully and leaned back on the pillows so that he was sitting up.

“You okay?” Israel watching Riley grimace.

“Soreness, that’s all. It’s actually worse than the first day.”

“My wife had our last two by Cesarean and she couldn’t move without something hurting her. You’d be surprised how much you use your abdominal muscles.”

Carlo said to Riley, “No big damage there for you though, that’s fortunate. Bullet went through and through, huh?”

“Hurt like a bitch, though.”

Carlo rubbed his stubbled jaw with the back of his knuckles, listening to the scrape. “So tell me again what happened at Caye Caulker.” He dropped his voice, “You’re there at the pier fixing to pull out, and somebody just walked up and started firing? That’s how it happened?”

“That’s about it. Didn’t see him coming.”

“Damn. You got lucky.” Carlo looked around the room, at the Alzheimer’s patient sleeping in his bed, partly hidden by the curtains. “Poor Temio and Chino got riddled. Chest, throat, belly, all over, it was bad, and you only got it once. Man, talk about luck.”

“That’s because they were on the pier. I was farther away. Down in the boat.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said, I remember,” Carlo nodding, scraping the stubble and putting on a frown.

Israel said, “It was a nasty sight, that boat. But we got it cleaned up, and more important—those Mexicans have been interred.”

“Listen,” Riley said, “I want to thank you for this.”

Israel raised a palm. “Thank me after you hear what I’m thinking. Carlo, get that door for me?” After Carlo did and had sat down again, Israel continued, in a grave tone, “Our friend in Mexico. I had to tell him. Explain the circumstances. He understands. He knows sometimes there will be casualties. We took care of this cleanup and whatnot on our end and as a way of compensation for any ill feelings, we’re giving their families a little something to help ease their grief. Chino had a little boy, just like you, a young wife. Temio left four children behind, two of them in high school. These were family men, it’s very sad. Very sad.” He paused to reflect on it. “So we think, me and Carlo, that it would be fitting if you were a part of this gesture to these families in their time of mourning.”