Mr. Hooligan (36 page)

Busha held the thing in front of Harvey’s face, smoke curling up. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you sure?”

Harvey pulled back from the smoke burning his eyes, Busha smiling down. Harvey said, “Do me a favor,
potner.
Call me by my name. Harvey.”

Busha glanced around, grinning, seeing if anybody else heard. Lopez was looking at them, and not smiling.

Busha left Harvey and pulled a chair at the dining room table and sat. Tic Tac picked up a paperback that was lying pages down on the table and sat across from him. Busha smoked; Tic Tac read. Lopez worked his crossword, pencil scratching and erasing. He said, under his breath, “What the hell’s Bath separatists?”

What the hell are we waiting on, is what Harvey wanted to know.

Busha lifted himself off the chair and peeked out the window by the front door, returned to his chair.

Tic Tac said, “What this mean—
pantheon
?”

Lopez lowered his pencil and reflected. “That’s … well…”

Busha beat him to it. “I just seen this thing on TV ’bout that. The old place in Rome where the lions used to slaughter the Christians, back in ancient times.”

Tic Tac nodded with appreciation.

Lopez turned to Harvey. “You ready?”

Ready? He wished it was over. He said, “Let’s do it.”

Lopez, who had grown a Clark Gable mustache, seemed obsessed with stroking it, eyes smiling at Harvey. “Then let’s do it,” and he got up and crossed into the dining room and passed through an arched doorway to the back of the house.

Tic Tac tossed his book aside, stood up and stretched, arms to the ceiling, yawning but stopping abruptly as Lopez came back carrying two assault rifles and a shotgun like firewood. He laid them on the table. Busha stood up, as if out of respect. One more trip to the back of the house and all the equipment lay on the table. The black assault rifles, six full magazines, one pump-action shotgun, three semiautomatic pistols, and the Kevlar vests.

They checked and rechecked the guns noisily while Harvey sat very still and tried not to look nervous.

Tic Tac said, “Don’t put that there, Busha, that’s where people eat.”

Busha moved a pistol off a place mat.

Lopez unfolded a map from his shirt pocket, jerking his chin at Busha. “Enough of that, now.”

Busha mumbled something but he stubbed out the blunt in the kitchen sink.

Lopez and Tic Tac consulted the map spread on the table, pointing here and there, Lopez murmuring serious, Tic Tac shaking his head, disagreeing with something. Lopez reiterated, tapping a spot on the map. They hailed Harvey over and showed him the route in Orange Walk they were going to take, the road off the Northern—just a thread on the map—and the road off that, which wasn’t on the map, Harvey having to follow Lopez’s finger as it slid up to a circle of red ink by the New River.

“That’s the property. We went by this morning. One road in, one road out. Three-quarter ways in, this farmer got a house, white maul, thatch roof, pigs in the backyard. I already talked to him, how I’m interested in property in the area, this and that, so that when we show up there again, it’s like, Hey, no big deal, they’re interested in buying … Busha, why you looking out there again? Pay attention.”

Busha turned away from the window. “Just … you know—”

“See what I told you, that weed gets you all paranoid. Quit smoking that shit.”

Harvey reviewed the map, the arrows in red ink that marked the route. They were all looking at him. Lopez stroking his mustache, Tic Tac fondling a carbine. Lopez said, “Problems?”

Harvey shook his head. “Nope.”

Lopez sniffed. He tilted his chair back and looked at his watch. “Then we wait.” He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and said, “Coffee anyone?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Broken plates, glasses, and a wire dish rack on the kitchen tiles. A puddle of tea and pieces of a shattered cup that had been arm-swept onto the floor.

Riley held on to the counter with both hands, head bowed. The house was quiet except for the soft unmelodic jazz playing on the stereo, his heavy breathing, and the occasional sniffle from Candice, who was sitting on the sofa behind him. He couldn’t stand to look at her, but he couldn’t power up his legs to walk out the door either. His mind kept saying, Leave, don’t look back.

“Are you finished?”

“Maybe,” he said. His .45 lay on the counter. He studied it and had no interest in it. He stuck it back in his waistband anyway.

“Riley, please sit down.”

“Hell, no.”

“Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”

“I could easily kill you, you ever thought about that?”

A long silence from her, and the jazz played on. Then, quietly, “You need to listen. Why do you think you haven’t been arrested yet? Why do you think you’re still here talking to me?”

“You want me to thank you?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Believe you? I don’t even
know
you.”

He eventually forced his body to move into the kitchen, kicking pieces of a plate out of the way. He pulled a bottle of red wine from the fridge and poured some into a glass. He drank, looking at her wiping her face.

“What a terrible night this has been,” she said. Their eyes met. “Riley … Riley?”

He shook his head, didn’t want to hear this. No time or patience to listen to more bullshit about how she was in love with him and so “racked with confusion” and how she’d been “withholding information from her bosses off and on” throughout the year—no, betrayal was betrayal.

“Last week…” She faltered, swallowed hard. “I don’t expect you to be anything but skeptical but I need you to listen to me. Look at me.”

“I don’t really want to. Don’t know who the hell I’m seeing.”

“Last week? They were on to you.”

“
They
were on to me?” He pointed at her. “You mean
you
were on to me. You are
they,
baby.”

She closed her eyes momentarily. She said, “Last week you could have been arrested.” Enunciating each word. “You made a trip to St. George’s Caye and somewhere else—okay, we won’t talk about that. What you do not know is, if it weren’t for me, you could have been intercepted on your return trip. If I hadn’t put in the call late? If I hadn’t misled them with photos of the wrong boat at the dock? You and I, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He threw back the wine. “But see,” he said, gesturing with the glass, strolling into the living room, “see, now, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“No,
here,
in this predicament between me and you.”

“You’re forgetting the reason I’m here, on this street, is you. And the irony is you’re not even the target, it’s the Monsantos, their Mexican associates, not you.”

“I’m one of their associates. Don’t try to tell me you’re on my side.”

She covered her face with her hands and groaned, then she swept her hair back, opened her eyes wide, seeming to arrive at a decision. She sprang up, came toward him.

He watched her, freckled skin, red hair, those taut legs he was wild about. Now, she was in front of him and took the glass from his hand and let it go, the glass bouncing once off the rug. Now, she was in his chest, searching his face. “You think I’m afraid of you?” She lifted her chin. “Huh? Do you?”

She was beautiful, and he wanted to touch her.

“I’m not afraid of you, Riley.”

He stepped back, groin stirring, disappointed in himself because he knew he was still too much in love with this woman. He went to the fridge for more wine. Poured her a glass as well and set it on the counter.

She sipped. “I don’t know why you just didn’t leave the Monsantos a long time ago. There was no reason for you to stay with them. I know you enough to know it wasn’t for the money.”

“You don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“Don’t owe—” He shook his head and looked away. “Yeah, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You come here, you think you know these people because of what they do, they’re criminals, that’s all you see, so you’ve got them figured out, right? Nah, that’s not how it works, though. The thing you don’t know is they’re the ones, the Monsantos, that fed me many evenings when my mother was so drunk off her ass she could hardly stand up, much less cook a little dinner for her son. Israel Monsanto’s the one took me in after my old man passed and I had no house to go to, Israel took me in till I saved enough to start renting my own little place, Israel paid my rent sometimes when I didn’t have the scratch. And now you’re saying, after all these years I worked with them, all they did for me in my desperate days, I just drop them and move on, no worries? Sorry, but you’re talking like a cop. What they did to help me? Now, that’s about respect.”

She swirled the wine in the glass, lips pinched. “You have to stop. Whatever else you’ve got planned with them—you need to stop. Don’t do it. Walk away. Please.”

“You’re telling me something I should know?”

“Listen to me, will you? Just quit. You can choose to quit. You don’t have to do this, you’re
choosing
this. Me, I’m so far into this I’m a goner. I—”

“You’re warning me, Candice. Go on and say it. You’re on my side? Just say it.”

“They know you’re planning another run this week.”

“They’re right.”

“Don’t go. Don’t do it.”

“What’re you gonna do? Turn me in? You gonna turn me in, Candice?”

He pulled an airline ticket from his back pocket and slapped it on the counter. A corner of the ticket touched the puddle of tea.

She gave him a pained look. “Do you actually believe we can run off someplace together? Antigua? Do you even know anything about Antigua?”

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said.

“No, no, I can’t listen to this, this is a fantasy. We’ve been living a fantasy.”

“I’m telling you reality. I’m telling you what I’m really going to do. Come tomorrow morning, me and the Monsantos will be through. I’m leaving this place, I’ll be gone by midday tomorrow. I want you to come with me. And I’m not coming back here.” He laid a hand on the ticket. “There it is. It’s your move.”

He headed for the door, Candice saying wait, don’t do this, Riley, think this over. Riley opened the door, where he stopped. He said, “Sister Pat knows me like a mother. But you, more than anybody, maybe ’cause you came along at the right time, you’re the only one who knows all of me, the good and the bad.”

She refused to look at his face.

He said, “Last week I got dressed up and asked you a big question. But what’s clear to me now, you haven’t answered it truthfully. You’re telling me the last run is my choice. Fair enough. What’s your choice? What do you choose?” and he left her considering her glass of wine.

*   *   *

Toads and insects were calling from the high grass. He heard them all through the restless hours lying in his bed. Dull moonlight seeped into the dark room. He rose, found his meditation bench, folded his legs under and sat.

Let the thoughts fall, let the thoughts fall away.… He tried to breathe evenly, let his body take over completely. Let the body put the mind at rest.

In his head, he began to compose a letter to his son explaining that he had to leave because of business but he’d be back to see him soon, and one day they’d take a trip to Half Moon Caye, just the two of them sleeping in a tent on the beach, or they could do whatever else …

Riley’s mind danced on. Soon, he found himself opening the fridge, then drinking a glass of water and staring up at her house through the kitchen window. He had his plane ticket and he was leaving, that’s what he knew, so why was he gazing at that house? He thought, Nothing up there for you. Close this window and get some sleep.

She had left her front door unlocked. He walked into her room, and she sat up in bed. Pale in the darkness. They looked at each other. Their breathing filled the dark. She moved to one side of the bed and flipped back the covers. He kicked off his sandals, peeled off his shirt, and got in close to her. Quietly, they fluffed the pillows and adjusted their positions until they were perfectly spooned. His hand wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her bare shoulder. They were comfortable, almost breathing in unison, until after a while, they were asleep.

*   *   *

Some time just before dawn—Candice so used to waking up early for morning runs—she felt his absence and reached behind her. She patted the bed, the sheet just a little cool. She didn’t know when he’d left. She stayed still, lying on her side and staring at the nightstand, the lampshade, the photo frames, the telephone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The bottle of One Barrel rum they brought for the farmer was overkill. He was already skunk-drunk, deep into a quart of something clear that smelled vaguely industrial whenever he breathed in Harvey’s direction.