Mr. Hooligan (6 page)

Driving to Lindy’s, he called Patricia on his cell. Her machine picked up and he said, “Sister Pat, listen, sorry about yesterday evening. I had a … little situation, an accident, and I couldn’t meet up with you. I apologize, but this evening maybe I can get something, if you’re home? Call me, please.”

Then he called his ex-wife’s house to chat with his son, but the phone rang and rang and no one answered.

Arturo was already at the bar, picking up cups and bottles from the outside tables and off the deck, his old bicycle chained to the fence. The boy nodded at Riley. “Mistah James.”

Riley nodded back. “Turo.” He took out his keys and opened the padlock to the corrugated shutter, slid it up. Turo followed him into the bar area. While Riley opened the wooden jalousies and fixed a pot of strong coffee, Turo got the deck broom and garbage bags from the storage closet in the back. They drank coffee, looking out at the road.

Riley watched Turo pour more cream, spoon in two hills of sugar. Riley went into the kitchen and returned with a container of chicken fried rice and plastic utensils, put them on the bar. “If you get hungry, help yourself, hear?”

Turo was embarrassed, so Riley said, “Look, I bought too much last night and I’m not gonna eat this. You don’t want it, no problem, just toss it,” and he moved away, opening the cooler and taking inventory, giving the boy room.

Riley inventoried the soft drinks, the liquor, bottled beer and kegs, jotting numbers on a slip of paper. Turo sat eating at the bar. Riley told him he was leaving to pick up a few crates of Cokes, some rum, a couple kegs, they were running short ’cause of the holiday crowd. He should be back in an hour, the phone rings, just take a message, and please go ahead and clean the lines so they could switch out the low keg.

Turo said, “Mistah Riley?”

Riley paused at the stairs.

“Think you could help me write a letter? My landlord wants to, like, you know, kick me out. Saying how I stole his wheelbarrow and sold it.”

“Wheelbarrow?”

“Yeah. And plus pilfered a few baubles.”

Riley fought back a smile. “Pilfered a few baubles?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

Riley said sure, he could do that, and didn’t chuckle to himself until he was in the truck.

The first stop, Ramirez Brothers on New Road, should have prepared him for the problematic morning. But he was expecting nothing other than an ordinary transaction, and when the girl at the front, Sarita, told him they were out of Blue Parrot rum, and sorry but Cane River, too, he still didn’t think there was anything strange. It wasn’t until he walked to the far end of the counter and glimpsed the stack of Blue Parrot cases in the back room that he figured something was off. “What’s that there?”

“Sold.”

“Everything? That’s … five, six … seven. Seven cases.”

“Sorry. Sold.”

“So you’re telling me Ramirez Brothers, manufacturer of four kinds of rum, has no rum to sell customers?”

Sarita wouldn’t look at him.

“Did I square my account with you last month?”

Sarita stapled a sheaf of pink and yellow invoices together and reached for another stack. A man walked in, exchanged nods with Riley.

Riley said, “Sarita?”

She straightened her glasses and sat forward, folding her hands on the desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. James. I’m just … That’s what Mr. Ramirez told me this morning, everything we have here today is sold.”

The other man came down the counter. “You got Blue Parrot, miss? I’ll need like a case.”

Riley looked at Sarita.

She turned to the man. “Uhmm…”

“They’re sold out,” Riley said.

The man said, “What’s that?”

Sarita raised a finger and said, “One moment,” and rose and clip-clopped in her heels down a narrow corridor to an office in the back.

Riley asked the man, “I take it you haven’t paid for yours in advance?” The man said no, and Riley asked, “And you don’t have an account?”

The man watched Riley. “Since when you need one?”

Sarita returned. “Mr. Avila? Mr. Ramirez would like to see you in his office. Come around the counter over here, please.”

Riley walked out of the store and stood by the front door. What the hell was that all about? He mulled it over, then strode back inside. “I want to talk to Mr. Ramirez.”

Sarita sat back, blinking. The other man, Avila, was leaving the back storeroom lugging a case of Blue Parrot. He came around the counter and shrugged at Riley, saying, “Hooked one. Good luck.”

Riley stared at Sarita. She raised that finger again, said, “One moment,” and clip-clopped back down the corridor. A minute later she returned. She folded her hands down in front of her and said, “Mr. Ramirez is in a meeting at the present time but you can call him later if you’d like.”

“What time?”

“Well…” She raised her eyebrows. “Why not give him an hour.”

“Today is Saturday, you close at noon on Saturdays. In forty-five minutes, you’ll be closed and you’re telling me call in an hour?”

She glanced away.

Riley took a deep breath, fighting to control his tongue. He wanted to stare at her long enough to provoke some response that might sound like a reasonable explanation for the game being played, but the phone rang and she reached for it. So he walked out, annoyed.

He drove to Bowen and Bowen on King Street for soft drinks and beer. Fuming. He was perspiring, felt it under his arms, face flushed, but it wasn’t from the heat. All these years and it didn’t take much for his youthful temper to rear up again, needle him. Truthfully? He wanted to punch something. Telling himself no worries, you’ll talk to Ramirez soon.

At Bowen and Bowen, he bought four crates of Coke cash and loaded them in the back of the truck. He thought, All right, at least I got one job done this morning. He trotted up the stairs to the office to buy his two kegs of Belikin, settle his account fast so he could surprise Ramirez with a visit and get to the bottom of—

His cell chirped. He dug it out of his pocket, thinking this must be Ramirez now—yeah, right. He read the number on the screen: the bar’s. “Yes, Turo.”

“Mistah James. Like sorry to bug you, but the health inspector didn’t want to talk but he asked me a whole pile a questions, you know, and by the time I catch a break to phone you? The man already left, and he dropped off some papers in your office so I—”

“Whoa, hold on, Turo, slow.” Riley entered the small office and found a corner free of bodies. It was pleasantly frosty in there, a relief from the heat and his frustrations. “Health inspector?”

“Yes, mahn. Two of them. The main one, I tell him you’re not there, he didn’t care, just walked into the kitchen like he own the joint, you know? And the other one, he went through—”

“On a Saturday? You sure they were from the health department, Turo?”

“Yes, mahn. I saw his papers. And the truck said it, too, on the side.”

Riley said he’d be there real soon and hung up. Didn’t bad news come in threes? Let’s see what would happen next. He approached the counter, working on his positive mood, his charming smile. “Terri,” he said to the heavy woman at the desk. “When are you going to take that trip to San Pedro with me, Terri? Everybody needs a little romance in their lives, Terri.”

“Listen to you, sugar mouth. Your white woman’s got you under heavy manners so you better fly right.”

They laughed. He said, “All I need this morning is two kegs, and let me go ahead and pay off the balance on my account,” pulling out his wallet. “Didn’t think I was gonna be here so soon, but that crowd hit us hard last night. I’m not complaining though.”

Terri heaved her considerable bosom, gripped the side of the desk, and hauled herself to her feet. “Wait one second, Riley. I think Raymond needs to talk to you.” She lumbered over to a small window and slid it back and called for Raymond.

The office manager came out of one of the doors and shook Riley’s hand. “Yes, Riley J., how’s things,” one hand on Riley’s shoulder. “See you inside my office a minute?”

Walking in with him, Riley said, “Gertrude didn’t pay the bill last month or something, Ray?”

“No, it’s not that,” Ray said, closing the door behind them. It was a cramped office, AC vent rattling. Ray dropped into a creaky chair behind his desk. “It’s just … you know, if it’s up to me it would be business as usual, I’d sell you the kegs.”

“Yeah, but…?”

“I got a call this morning from my supervisor. I don’t understand it, but he’s telling me to cancel your account.”

“Cancel my account? The hell you talking about?”

“No more purchases. The man, I don’t know why, the man said he doesn’t want to sell Lindy’s draft beer anymore.” Ray cleared his throat. “Matter of fact, Tuesday morning I’m supposed to send a truck to your place to pick up the draft machine, kegs, and whatnot. But I could hold off on that for a couple weeks.” Ray shrugged, put up his hands. “I’m sorry, man.”

Riley sat down. “What the fuck, Ray?”

“Riley, me and you go way back, but you understand it’s not like I have a choice. I mean, if it was up to me…”

“I know Ray, I know,” Riley said, getting up suddenly. He opened the door, not wanting to hear anything else.

Ray stood up. “So this won’t affect things with us?”

Riley walked out of the office and through the main one, Ray following. Riley opened the door and stood half in the sunlight, half in the air-conditioning. “You know I don’t do business that way, to retaliate. The five sixty you owe got nothing to do with this. Pony up and you’re back at the poker table immediately, Ray. The VIP room is always open to friends.”

“Five
sixty
? More like four eighty, I think.”

Riley said, “Ray.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I might be miscalculating.” Ray extended a hand. “Sorry again, partner.”

Riley was getting into the truck when the phone rang again. He took it out, checked the number on the screen. “What now, Turo?”

“It’s me,” Harvey said.

“What? Impossible. Harvey Longsworth would never be out of bed at this ungodly hour of midafternoon. You, sir, are a flimsy imposter.”

“Yeah, well, I wish I was in the mood to fuck around but we got ourselves a little complication here ain’t no joke.”

Riley sat back. “Hey, don’t mess with me, it’s been a curious kinda morning. Like nobody-wants-to-sell-me-anything kinda morning that makes no sense.”

“Exactly what I’m telling you. Some people here to see us, you and me. To discuss ‘any obstacles Lindy’s might be encountering.’ I’m looking at them right now out there on the deck. How soon can you get here, Riley?”

CHAPTER SIX

Harvey’s Honda was parked in a space by the fence. Beside it, near the gate, was a white Range Rover with government plates, angle-parked, occupying two spaces—the work of a driver who didn’t want anyone near his ride, and who was also just plain inconsiderate. A small Belizean flag hung from a pole on the hood. Riley pulled up near the gate, and Turo helped him carry the crates of Cokes inside.

A man and a woman were sitting out on the covered section of the deck. They had drinks full of ice in front of them, and with a cooling breeze off the Caribbean, the woman looking relaxed, Riley could have mistaken them for contented patrons, but he knew from Harvey and Gert’s expressions when he passed by to wash his hands that the pair outside weren’t here for pleasure.

Riley came out toweling his hands. Gertrude was behind the bar, elbows on the counter, staring at them.

He said, “Any coffee back there?”

“No.”

Riley pitched the hand towel on the bar.

Gert was glaring. “That’s Eva Burrows. Minister of finance and development. The man is her driver.”

“Where’s Harvey?”

Gert’s eyes were flat. “In the kitchen. Slicing a lime. ’Cause the minister requested a slice of lime to garnish her drink, don’t you know.”

Riley said, “So what’s this all about?”

Harvey came bustling out of the kitchen with a saucer of lime wedges. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Talk to these people, see what the hell they want.”

Riley said, “After you,” and followed Harvey onto the deck, Harvey stiff-backed like a waiter, smiling at the man and woman, saying, “Here you go. Sorry that took so long. Wanted to get the pick of the lot for you, Mrs. Burrows.” Acting unusually nice, and getting Riley concerned.

It wasn’t until introductions were made and Riley shook the man’s hand that he recognized Victor Lopez as the man whose dog Harvey had killed yesterday.

They all sat down. There was a manila folder on the table next to their drinks.

“I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday, Mr. Lopez,” Harvey said. “Again, I’ll pay for any expenses. Your family wants a new dog, anything like that. I mean it.”

“I’m not the one,” Lopez said in a slow rumble, “that you should apologize to. Miss Solomon was Minister Burrows’s dog,” and he stretched out a palm, giving her the floor.

Minister Burrows released a dramatic sigh. She touched the base of her throat and started to speak but nothing came out. She was a slim biracial woman, midfifties, hazel eyes, proud bearing. Waiting for her emotions to settle, or putting on an act—that’s how it struck Riley.