Mr. Hooligan (33 page)

Miles threw Riley a look. Riley looked at the man, then the woman.

She flashed her gums. “Joking, mahn, joking.”

Same sense of humor, too.

“What you need?”

Riley told her and she nodded at the man. He went into another room. They could hear heavy stuff being moved around, dragged across the floor. He returned dragging a wooden trunk. Left it by the table and went back to the room, Riley all the while trying to be polite and not look around at the grungy house, the floor filthy, clothes lying about; the woman doing the opposite and being impolite, staring at Riley and Miles, sizing them up.

The man came out dragging a second trunk, a little boy sitting on it. The man shooed him off, the boy skipping over to the woman. She patted him on the back, told him to go play outside little bit till she’s done. He left, gaping at Riley and Miles.

The man set the kerosene lamp at the edge of the table and opened the trunks. He threw a length of oilcloth on the table, and one by one he took guns from the trunk and laid them down. Various assault rifles, black carbines, magazines curved and straight, one pump-action shotgun, pistols.

Riley said, “Any more light?”

The man shook his head, moved the lamp to the center of the table and adjusted the flame to better illuminate the hardware. The woman said, “Sorry, sweetie, I have a condition. Too much light’s not good for my eyes.”

Riley recognized the Garand, the World War II rifle, looking classic and clean. He handled the pistols, checking if the chambers were empty, dropping out the magazines and slapping them back in; locking back the slides, releasing them with a snap; dry firing with muzzles pointed at the floor. He hefted two of the carbines to his shoulder, flipped up the dust cover and checked down the sights. He put them back with a “Hmm,” touched an AK-47, nodded.

Half for show. Riley didn’t know that much about firearms beyond what Brisbane had taught him. But these, he recognized, were fine, well-maintained pieces. That’s because they were Brisbane’s.

“My friend said you might need some Kevlar?” The man pulled out the body armor from the other trunk and flopped the vests on the table. Next he set down two boxes of .223 caliber rounds and a military green ammo can.

Riley, faking it, picked up a vest, held it tight to his chest and looked down at it with a frown. “Yeah, yeah…” dropped it back on the table. “So how much?”

The woman said, “How much for what?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” glancing at the skinny man then smiling at Riley. “You a serious consumer.”

Riley stayed quiet.

“Why don’t you name a price?”

Riley waited, before he said, “Five thousand.”

The woman produced a soft pack of Newports from her bra and shook out a cigarette. The man took the occasion to fire one up himself. The woman, head tilted back, let out a cloud of smoke. “You gonna have to hit me again, sweetie.”

From the playpen the baby whimpered.

Riley gave a deep-thinking performance and said, “Five thousand five. With no ammo.”

The woman didn’t bother. She twisted around in her chair and reached a finger out to the playpen, the baby grabbing it.

Riley said, “Let me show you something,” stooping to unzip one of the duffel bags on the ground. The skinny man quickly shifted his feet, reaching behind his back. Riley said, “Easy, easy, it’s not like that.” The man lowered his hand, stepping away. Riley brought out a Ziploc filled with cocaine, lifted it high and set it down amid the guns. “Colombia’s finest. Two kilos.”

The woman turned around and straightened. The skinny man lowered his cigarette. Except for the baby—
ga ga ga
—not a sound in the room.

“Uncut. Weigh it yourself. You got a scale? Over ten thousand dollars right there in that bag.”

The man approached it and said, “A little taste?” Riley nodded. The man unsealed the bag, sank a finger in the powder and dabbed his tongue. He looked at the woman, who said, “Lemme see that thing.”

While she rubbed some on her gums, Riley said, “That plus a hundred dollars ought to do it.”

The woman put the bag in her lap and said, “Wait now,” by her tone, sorely disappointed.

“You saying that’s not fair?”

And so the real negotiations started. It went back and forth for maybe two minutes, the woman remonstrating, never letting go of the Ziploc, Riley insisting they were taking advantage. “Ain’t that right, buddy?” to Miles; Miles, the only words he said the whole time they were in there, “You got
that
right.”

In due time a deal was struck, and they came out of the house perspiring. The Ziploc bag and two hundred dollars for everything—guns, ammo, Kevlar. While the man and woman weighed the bag in a back room, Riley and Miles paced the stretch of yard at the side of the house.

Miles palmed his forehead dry and shuddered. “Hoo boy, she got some serious BO. It was like a spirit in there, like a dark presence, sweet Jesus.” Walking along the fence, he stopped. “Hey…”

The woman, sporting gigantic sunglasses, was standing in an open doorway at the side of the house. She took a long drag on her cigarette, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth. She said, “Price increase. Forty dollars more. Think you could handle that?”

Riley said, “I guess I have to,” reaching into his pocket, peeling open his wallet. “Inflation is a bitch.”

She snatched the money and said, “Come inside and pack your things,” and returned to her cave.

Miles said, “Man, I’m sorry about that.”

Riley shrugged. “Hey, the truth hurts.”

Minutes later, they crossed Handyside Street to the car, each carrying a heavy duffel bag that occasionally clinked like tools.

*   *   *

That evening at Miles’s house, Harvey said, “Lopez just called me. He’s in.”

Riley lowered the book he was reading. “In all the way? As in tell Riley James he’s not a target anymore?”

“That’s what he said.”

Riley knew that look. “But?”

“Well. Part of it I’m not comfortable with.”

“And that is…?”

“He wants me to do the driving.”

“To the farm?”

“Yes, but I told him, I let him know, man, I don’t want to be involved hands-on like that.”

“Harvey? Shut up. Seriously.”

Harvey shook his head and released a big breath. “That’s what
he
said.”

“It’s just driving.”

Harvey clucked his tongue. “No, it’s just me getting pulled along as insurance. Insurance that you, or we, don’t fuck him over.”

Riley smiled at Harvey. “That’s true, no doubt about that. So let’s not fuck him over.” Getting in a dig, but Harvey was off somewhere in his head. Riley said, “Think about it, then when you have your mind settled, grab two beers from the fridge and meet me upstairs. We’ll talk some more and I’ll show you the kilo you’ll give Lopez as a sign of good faith. Then I’ll show you the weapons you’ll present to them tomorrow that should put
their
minds to rest.”

He lifted his book, his worn copy of the
Tao Te Ching
. Harvey sat like he wanted to say something else, then got up and sloped out of the room.

Riley searched the pages for words that he might find reassuring. It was a habit, but a man had to draw support from where he could find it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Riley drove off the Western Highway and down a rocky dirt road that curved around an overgrown pond and snaked through a row of shade trees and brush in the cool morning light. The truck squeaked and trundled over ruts and splashed through a patch of mud. After a bend in the road, the land cleared, and he heard the gunshots in the distance.

He parked in the field and walked toward the shooting. He came upon a group of young men lounging on camp chairs and perched in the backs of two big-wheel pickup trucks. He traded nods with them as he passed, clean-shaven faces, good-looking guys, some of them he recognized as occasional bar patrons. Brisbane, in boots and shooting jacket, stood poised with a shotgun, facing the skeet field. He lifted the gun to his shoulder, hollered, “Pull!” A clay disc flew out of the high house, Brisbane tracking, tracking, then the gun boomed and the disc exploded in a puff against the cloudless sky. “Pull!” From the low house this time, the disc sailing up to the left, Brisbane tracking, tracking and a boom, the disc shattering into small pieces that sprinkled to the ground.

Brisbane broke open the barrel and moved to the next station, the midpoint of the semicircle. He plucked out the old shells, then fished out two fresh ones from a jacket pocket and fed them to the gun, snapped it closed.

Riley approached and they stood side by side looking out at the field.

Riley said, “I’ve been thinking how to put this to you. Not like we’re strangers and we have to be bashful but why I’m here, it’s a business proposition. Concerning your guns.”

Brisbane lifted his black straw fedora with a free hand, inclined his head to the left and mopped sweat off on a sleeve. He sat the hat back on neatly and said, “Personally, I prefer direct methods. Talk to me.”

“I got reliable information a group of men returning from a robbery early tomorrow morning will have some of your guns.”

“Some?”

“Some. But if their morning is a success, they’ll have a chunk of cash in the neighborhood of four million.”

A smile crept over Brisbane’s face. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled toward the high house. A young man scuttled down the ladder and trotted over. He took the shotgun from Brisbane and walked toward the pretty boys by the trucks.

Riley said, “That’s Rodrigo? The same Rodrigo used to do your garden?”

“That’s him, yes.”

“Man, I feel old. Boy’s getting tall.”

“I adopted him, you know? So what’s this proposition?”

Riley said, “I might be able to get all your guns back, if you agree.”

“
You
will get my guns from these people.”

Riley said, shaking his head, “No, you. You’re gonna get them.”

Brisbane’s brow knotted. He was about to say something, then lifted his chin, eyes narrowing in a smile. “You want me to get that money, don’t you.” He nodded, grinning now. “Yeah, you’re supposing Brisbane wants his weapons bad enough Brisbane will do something reeeeal craaazy.”

“I’ll give you time and location where this crew will be. You’ll get back your weapons—some of them—and get me that cash, of which I’ll offer you a fair split.”

“Oh?” Brisbane cocked his head. “Me and my boys do all the work and
you
will be the one offering to split with me? I see. For four million? Hell, keep the fucking guns, I’d rather take the money. But let’s say I do this, the split will be on my terms.”

“Well, like I said.
Some
of your guns. The rest of them, which is most of them, I might be able to locate. If you agree to this today, we split the way I believe to be fair. Or maybe your Garand, your Ed Browns, some of your ARs? You’ll probably never touch them again ’cause I happen to know this crew will not have them tomorrow morning.”

“So that’s what you think you’re holding over me?”

“I’m not holding anything over you. I’m making a proposition, Brisbane. Listen to it. I give you all the details, you get your guns and some cash, twenty-five percent of whatever’s there. When I have my seventy-five in hand, I’ll do everything within my power to bring you the rest of your guns. If I can’t, then hear this: I’ll pay you for them. Twenty-five thousand on top of that twenty-five percent.”

Brisbane looked toward the field and laughed. He put his hands on his hips and squared up to Riley. “I know there’s a reason I went and asked you for help, I know it. Something told me, go to Riley, the boy’s got an ear to the ground, a hand on the pulse. So look at this now, this sounds very, very nice, but should I be worried that you might be dicking me around, Riley?”

“Think I’d walk in here, middle of your crew, everybody packing but me and do that?”

“I know, I know,” Brisbane nodding and looking at the truck, looking away. “When I used to run with the Monsantos, you’re maybe the only one I could trust day in, day out.”

“Likewise.”

“Seeing the feeling is mutual,” Brisbane leaning in, “how did you come to find out these people have my guns? Or maybe me and you can talk about where this four mil came from?”

In the long silence, face to face, Brisbane understood an answer was not forthcoming. Eventually, he sniffed, fooling with his hat. He stuck a hand out, Riley took it. Brisbane said, “Let’s go somewhere, grab a cold one we can talk further.”

*   *   *

At Miles’s kitchen table Harvey said, “They took two carbines, six magazines, the shotgun, all the ammo, the flak jackets, and three pistols.”

“Kevlar, Harvey, Kevlar.”

“Yeah, and, oh, it’s three of them, me the wheelman. Lawd have mercy, I can’t believe I’m saying that, wheelman. Somebody’s van we using, I don’t know who. Staging time, one o’clock tomorrow morning.”