Mr. Hooligan (7 page)

“I loved that dog so,” she said, shakily, barely more than a whisper. “Had her for five years. My Miss Solomon. Smart as a whip. She was the prettiest pup in the litter. I went up to Tampa, Florida, to get her. The sweetest little Weimaraner pup, just gorgeous. Did you notice her coloring?” The minister’s face turned briefly to Harvey, who shifted in his chair. “Sable, an unusual color in dogs. I almost named her that—Sable. But from she was a pup she had this way about her, strong maternal instinct.” The minister seemed to choke up then, and paused. “She was pregnant, did you know?”

Harvey shook his head. “Aw, hell, didn’t know that.” Pursed his lips. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s sad. A litter of six pups. She was due in a few weeks.”

“I mean what I said, Mrs. Burrows. I’ll buy a dog to replace her. I know in your heart she can’t be replaced but if you allow me to make that gesture, I’d like to do that.”

“You can call me Minister Burrows. I’m not a Mrs.”

The woman was stern, eyes cold, gazing over Riley’s shoulder at the park, the clouds, or who the hell knows, but Riley was beginning to have suspicions.

When she refocused, she said to Harvey, “Miss Solomon was AKC registered, from a long line of registered Weimaraners. She can never be replaced.” Then she clasped her hands in her lap, lowered her gaze and seemed to withdraw into herself.

Riley piped up, “So what can we do to, you know, make this unfortunate incident more bearable, Minister Burrows?”

The woman didn’t even look at him. “Tell him, Victor.”

Victor Lopez sat forward. “We came here today to discuss fair compensation.” He put a palm on top of the manila folder. “What we have here is the means by which we can consider some arrangement.”

Riley looked at the beefy hand on the folder, the expensive gold watch in the coarse arm hairs, and thought: This guy is a straight-up gangster. Running with the Monsantos for twenty years had well attuned him to the type.

“First matter to discuss,” Lopez said. “Miss Solomon. You know how much a dog like Miss Solomon costs? She was the offspring of a show dog. The minister paid one thousand dollars U.S. for her. Those six pups, God rest their little souls, were also the offspring of a show dog from Naples, Florida, called Big Un, a champion in his class. The minister had to pay for that mating. And those six pups?” He shook his head. “It was tragic seeing that. You could understand, the necropsy. The vet lifting those small pink bodies out of Miss Solomon.” He mimed it, hands together, picking the puppies up and setting them on the table. “One, two, three … My heart was breaking, man. Couldn’t save any of them.”

Minister Burrows’s chair scraped the floor and she shot to her feet. “I can’t listen to this, I can’t.” She was near tears. “Where’s your facilities, please?”

Harvey stood up. “It’s toward the bar and hang a left. I’ll show you.”

“Sit. I’ll find it.” She said to Lopez, “Let’s hasten matters, okay?” and she hurried away.

“So sad,” Lopez said, watching her leave. “You know, each one of those pups was worth a thousand. That was gonna be the asking price. Six thousand dollars. Dead. Not a lot of money, but still, you know. It’s money.”

He turned to the folder. “Let’s see here now,” flicking it open. “Mr. James, you bought this—” He looked up. “That’s a curious name, uh? James, Riley James, like two last names or could be two first names, whatever pleases. You wouldn’t happen to be related to Otto James?”

Riley nodded slightly.

A smile crept across Lopez’s face. “Ahh, thought as much. You must be his son. Yes? Sure, who doesn’t know about Otto James. Your father, boy,” wagging a fat finger, “he was a character, I’m telling you. Salty exploits, run-ins with the law. Somebody ought to write a book.”

Riley jerked his chin at the folder. “You were saying?”

“Ah, yes.” Lopez scissored a page out with his fat fingers and shook it, produced small black-framed reading glasses and slipped them on. “Now, Mr. James, you bought this bar three years ago from one Mr. Paul Gillette. Says here … for one eighty grand—that’s a good price, prime seafront property like this, walking distance from the Princess Hotel down the street there.… So what else?” He squinted at the page, slapped it down, found another. “You made renovations to the place, expanded. Business picked up.” He peered over the top of his glasses at Riley. “Your subsequent divorce from Mr. Gillette’s daughter didn’t appear to damage the deal any.” He leaned in. “Or was that part of the deal?”

Grinning, thinking he was funny.

Riley said, “Go ahead.”

“Well, yes, let’s see here.” Lopez frowned, all business again. “You built a back room, it appears. Remodeled the kitchen, what else, added a deck.” He lowered the paper. “This one right here?”

Riley nodded.

“Handsome deck. Fine work in the back. Before you came I took a little tour of the place. I knew you wouldn’t mind. The place is much improved. Mean to say, judging from what I used to hear about it, how run-down it was getting and so.” Lopez adjusted his glasses and made a face, inspecting the paper. “The only problem I see here…” Tilting his head back, making big eyes. “No permit. For that work, thousands of dollars’ worth of work I got to assume, and not one permit pulled with the city? Not good. No permits and therefore no inspectors for all that electrical work among other things you had done in the kitchen.” He sucked in air, raised his eyebrows. “Not good,” and slapped the page on the table. “Dangerous, Mr. James.”

“Mr. Lopez,” Harvey said, scooting forward, “it was minor, minor stuff in that kitchen, we simply—”

Riley put up a hand and said, “Wait, let’s hear what the man has to say.” Throwing Harvey a look.
Be quiet, please.

Lopez had another paper in hand. “There was a health inspection this morning. The results here, not good at all. Says here, ‘Roaches found in mop room and under utility sink area.’ ‘Garbage bin outside back door left uncovered.’ ‘Cutting utensils improperly cleaned.’ ” He waved the paper, glancing from Riley to Harvey. “Long list. I could go on if you want.”

“No,” Riley said. “I think I’m understanding your point.” Meaning he had picked up the unmistakable scent of a shakedown.

“Already, your establishment is facing a hefty fine.”

Harvey said to Riley, “The paperwork’s in the office. Haven’t had a chance to tell you.”

Riley shrugged, said to Lopez, “So you finished, now?”

“In addition,” and Lopez raised a finger, “last but not least, as they say. That back room. A legal question. I have it from good sources that if I was to enter there, say, on a Friday or Saturday night looking for, oh, maybe some poker action, I hear tell I just might find it. I hear that Lindy’s has a VIP room. Don’t know how true but being a gambling man I’d like to find out.” Lopez sat forward, smiling. “In other words, Mr. James, I would like in on the game. If you know what I’m saying.”

Riley let a moment pass—a car rolled by, Harvey was rubbing his forehead—before Riley forced a smile, becoming serene. “So like I asked your boss. What can we do to make this incident more bearable? Why don’t you go ahead and name your price?”

Lopez shook his head emphatically. “It’s not just a matter of price. This is about
principle
.”

Riley said, “Name your price, please,” and fixed the man with a stare.

Lopez sat back. Folded his arms across his chest. “Sixty percent ownership.”

Riley squinted at him. “Ownership? Of what?”

Lopez pointed at the floor. “This place right here.”

And Harvey said,
“What?”
gesturing and knocking over the minister’s drink, glass tumbling onto the deck, water spreading across the table.

Lopez picked up the folder and shook off the water that had touched the corners. Harvey jumped to his feet and said, “Shit. Turo, Gert, somebody get me a towel.” He flapped the legs of his shorts, the front wet. “You must be out of your fucking mind,” he said to Lopez and stalked away.

Arms folded, Lopez sat there, looking amused. Watching Harvey leave, he said to Riley, “No need to get emotional about this.”

Riley turned in his chair so that he was facing the road. In the park across the way, palm tree fronds were fluttering in the breeze. Soft sunlight on the water out there under low-lying clouds. “You have no idea—”

“Who I’m messing with?”

“Not what I was going to say, but anyway…”

“Believe me, I know who you are. Police records might not show any convictions but your name is known. Everybody knows you’re involved with Israel and Carlo Monsanto, and everybody knows how they acquired their money and it ain’t from no dusty downstairs dry goods store. Many years ago, two men were assaulted out on Manatee Road, middle of the day. Your name came up. Don’t think I know that? I’m very aware of who you are. Now let me tell you what you’re up against. Besides the health department, the building codes department,” he said, raising the folder. “Consider where you buy your goods and services. Think about what happened this morning and imagine how much worse it could get. Electricity bills high? Who knows, soon they might become exorbitant, unaffordable, the faulty meters, you know? You might have a faulty meter back there, something like that. City water. Sure you paid your bills on time? Wouldn’t want to get your services cut off, would you? Mr. James, you consider how easy things like this could happen and you’ll come to understand you’re up against the whole
government
. Which is why I’m telling you, this is not just about a dog.”

Riley repositioned himself in the chair, leaned elbows on knees, invading Lopez’s space. “Now you know I ain’t just gonna hand over half my business to you or anyone else, so we want to keep on talking, give me a
figure,
man.”

For a moment, Lopez hesitated. He sort of sighed, nodded, and pulled a paper from the folder. Set the paper on the dry side of the table, slid it to Riley.

Harvey returned with a rag, started blotting up the water. Riley held the paper against his chest, waiting for Harvey to finish. Harvey looked at the paper and said, “What’s that?”

Riley held the paper out at a distance and read. It was a column of figures, a tally of health and permit fines, the cost of Miss Solomon and her six pups, the estimated legal fees “should a lawsuit be deemed necessary” and the bottom line, the sum required for all these problems to vanish. Using spectacular effort to maintain composure, Riley put the bullshit piece of paper on the table, spun it around for Harvey to scrutinize.

Harvey leaned forward, narrowed his eyes at Lopez. “You are fucking insane. For a
dog
?”

“For a business, my friend.”

“I’m not your fucking friend.”

Riley lifted a hand. “Easy now, let’s settle down.” He canted his head, smiled tightly at Lopez. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement, the terms of which will be satisfactory to both parties.”

Lopez, smirking, nodded. “I do like the sound of that.”

Harvey stood there shaking his head, looked at Riley then at Lopez.

Minister Burrows reappeared on the deck, chin high in queenly fashion. “Are we finished, Victor?”

“For now, I believe we are.” Holding Riley’s gaze. “I get the feeling we are well on our way to an understanding.”

“There are some lovely old Lindbergh photographs and engravings on the walls in there,” the minister said, examining her fingernails. “How did you come by those?”

Riley realized he was being addressed. Returning the favor of casual indifference, he kept his eyes on Lopez. “Came with the place. Have a good day, Minister Burrows. Mr. Lopez.”

Lopez stood up with the folder. “I expect by tomorrow morning you’ll have an answer for me? Or we could make that noontime, being the reasonable people that we are.”

“Noon it is,” Riley said, keeping his smile, but now a pressure inside his rib cage was building.

The minister led the way off the deck and down the steps. Lopez opened the passenger’s door for her, shut it carefully and quick-stepped around to the front. Riley stayed in his seat and watched them drive away.

Harvey came to stand beside him, rag hanging over a shoulder. Neither of them spoke while they watched the Range Rover disappear around the bend. Then Riley said, “Let me hear it.”

“No, I’m just thinking, that’s all.… Don’t mind me.”

“What you thinking?”

“Hey, just wondering, silly old me, just trying to think out of whose ass we’re gonna pluck two hundred grand. Two hundred grand, Riley. C’mon, man,” and he threw the rag at the railing.

Riley rose and walked away, suddenly dizzy, like he’d been holding his breath. The pressure under his rib cage had surged to the back of his neck, muscles clenching. Behind the bar, half floating and heavy-headed at the same time, he snagged a plastic cup, pulled the beer handle for a swallow of Belikin draft, just a quick one, but nothing poured.

Gert said, “It’s out, remember?”

He said, “Yeah, yeah,” swinging around to the cooler, getting a bottle out, fumbling with it as he popped the cap, the blasted thing slipping from his grasp and hitting the floor. He groaned, beer chugging out onto the wood planks over his Nikes.

Eventually, he got half a bottle of beer into his system and held on to the side of the cooler, looking out the window at the street, the park, the sea, while his heart thudded into his ribs. After all these years, two words could still do this to him. Manatee Road.