Mr. Hooligan (10 page)

He undid three buttons, regretting not wearing an undershirt. He got up to wait on the porch, it was cooler there. He put both hands on the balustrade and looked down at her yard that needed mowing, the street. Where are you, Candice? When he saw his neighbor Bill Rivero’s black Taurus coming up the street, he returned to the top step. Minutes passed, his patience slipping away. Riley was not a gloomy guy, and Candice was not an evasive, complicated person that his fears were making her out to be, so why couldn’t he shake the thought that maybe he’d misread her all this time. That somewhere, maybe some private restaurant corner, a dark hotel room, something was going wrong?

CHAPTER TEN

They were holding hands high atop the main temple at Lamanai, the Maya ruin on the New River Lagoon in Orange Walk. On the floor at their feet were photographs weighted down with pieces of Mayan pottery and stone knives.

Malone said, “That’s what these are? No kidding? They look like ordinary old stones to me.”

“They were excavated at Lubaantun. That’s way south of here, the Toledo district.” Candice looked at him. “You’ve been there, Toledo?”

“Toledo, Ohio, sure.”

“You’re really in need of an education, you’ve got to get out of the office more.”

She couldn’t tell if Malone was sweating because of the climb or his fear of heights. “Can I let go of your hand now?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” But he was wearing a dirty old man’s smile.

She removed her hand. “Now this one,” crouching and pointing to a dark, pointy stone, “was found at Cahal Pech, out in Cayo. Medium-sized ruin.”

“What does that mean, any idea? Cahal Pech.”

“Place of the Ticks.”

“Niiiice. And what does this place mean?”

“Lamanai? Submerged Crocodile.”

He panned the view around him, hands on hips. Treetops in the rainforest, the wide lagoon that stretched south.

She said, “This used to be one of the largest ceremonial centers. People lived here thousands of years.”

“Sure doesn’t look like much. And, I know, I know, it’s a
ruin,
but…” He was looking down at the smaller, rougher pyramids, a guide leading a group of tourists across the grassy plaza.

“They say people lived here from before Christ till up to the nineteenth century.”

Malone, looking around, said, “That long, huh? I did not know that. But these guys,” and he walked closer to the photos on the ground. “Now these guys I know. I know all about these scumbags.”

Five photos. Carlo Monsanto in a loose Hawaiian shirt, smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk outside his store. Israel Monsanto on a bench in Memorial Park, big sunglasses on, cane between his legs. Two photos of a red and white speedboat with chunky twin outboards,
Ravish
painted on the hull, roped to a pier. Riley James, smiling, good-looking in his understated way, chatting with a woman outside the entrance to Monsanto’s Dry Goods.

“Tell me about this boat,” Malone crouching next to her, tapping a photo.

“This is the one I think they’re going to use. They’ve been back and forth checking it, Carlo Monsanto or Riley James. It’s docked at the boatyard on the Belize River getting repairs. Note the stripes on the side, and this picture here shows the writing on the back.”

“Any idea what time Monday night?”

“I extended that invitation for an early dinner that night like you suggested, and expectedly, he declined. Business engagement, he says.”

“You asked him what kind of business?”

“ ’Course. He says it’s the bar.”

“You tried pushing for details?”

“Sure, but Riley’s a very private man. Doesn’t offer up a whole lot, and kind of clamps down when you ask too many questions. Far as anyone’s supposed to know, sure, these are things he
used
to do. Way back when. He can’t run from the rumors, but I think if he gets the sense I’m being nosy, he’ll just shut down. He’s sharp, so I try to be delicate.”

Malone had been watching her sideways. He stood up and folded his arms across his chest, looking over the trees to the east. A small wind blew and she put a hand on a photo to keep it down.

Malone said, “So you like this guy?”

She rearranged the stones unnecessarily. “He’s a good neighbor.” That’s as much as Malone was going to get.

“You have special clearance and I know we’ve emphasized you should do what you need to do to get information, but you ever find you’re getting too close, you need to step back.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good, good. No hope for me and you I take it?”

“Henry Malone, quit.” She straightened, stretched. “How’s your wife doing, by the way? She acclimated yet?”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“I’m asking.”

“Don’t use her to put me in my place. Hell, I can’t help it if I find you incredibly striking.”

What to do with this man? Let him have his obligatory flirting. But back to the subject: “What have you found out?”

“They’re doing it this way because they’ve been having difficulties with their wet drops. Considering we’ve intercepted three of the last five, nothing major, six hundred kilos altogether, I understand the reason they’re doing it by ship. Not along the Mosquito Coast either, the Coast Guard planes out of Puerto Rico are putting way too much heat on them that route. This time, it’s from Colombia to Venezuela to a container ship of Honduran registry.”

“So the speedboat will upload somewhere on the water, but where?”

“Calmer waters. We don’t know where yet. As of this morning, the ship is bearing northwest, toward the Turneffe Islands. Monday’s a national holiday here, which means more people out on the water so one more boat going out probably won’t draw notice. Coming back in will pose the challenge, and we’re pretty sure that it’s gonna be at night. We need to keep tabs on Mr. James all day Monday.”

“And what about help?”

“We’ve already cleared it with the locals. I informed the honchos, police commissioner all the way up to the deputy prime minister. We got the typical delays before the approval went through. Some of them here might not like the DEA but they understand, you better believe they understand, they want to keep Uncle Sam’s loan spigot flowing, cooperation is in their best interest.”

Candice only listened.

“What’s wrong?”

She said, “I don’t want to be at the office Monday night.”

“You don’t need to be. We have a sizable local contingent behind us. Coast Guard, members of the defense force.”

“I’d rather not be there…” her voice trailing off as she turned away and gathered up the photographs. She slid them into a manila envelope, stuffed her collection of Mayan pieces into a pocket of her backpack. More than ready to leave. She handed over the envelope. “Here you go, I’ll also send copies electronically.” She hefted the backpack, shouldered it, watching him slip the envelope into a smooth black leather satchel best suited for the office. He hung the satchel over one shoulder and across his body.

“You’re looking kinda pale,” she said. Wanting to insult him for being part of this operation, hell, for being DEA like her. But she was more upset with herself for painting herself in a corner from which she could foresee no clean escape. Didn’t matter if this was her job—the sense of betrayal was caustic.

“Last time we met, you said you were shocked by how skinny my legs were. Now I’m pale. What’s next, my nose’ll be too big?”

She went ahead of him, turning around and grasping the rope and placing feet carefully on the steep steps. She started down. Realizing, she stopped about halfway and looked up. Malone was standing at the top, scared. She climbed back up, leaning into it, and reached out to him. “Come. Like this. Keep your chest close to the wall … and take your time.”

Near the bottom, he apologized, saying he didn’t know where this phobia came from, he’d never liked heights but it was never a phobia for god’s sake. He wiped his face when his feet touched grass. Gave a nervous laugh, but he was clearly embarrassed and walked ahead across the plaza toward the boat waiting for him at the dock. After a minute, he slowed down and said, “So where did you learn all this Mayan history? Been doing some reading?”

“And some traveling. You need to get to know this country, Malone. Been here almost two years and never been to a Mayan ruin?”

“These faces,” he said, tapping his satchel, “are all I need to know about this place for the time being. Maybe when my assignment is up, hey, I might take some road trips, island jaunts.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic. Anyway,” she said, gesturing toward the lagoon. “Your boat’s about to leave. We should say good-bye here.”

“Remember. He makes any move, you tell us.”

She said of course and walked away toward the small building that housed the restrooms, pretty sure he was watching her ass.

“Hey,” he called.

She turned.

“May I ask how you came by those little bits of artifacts in your backpack?”

“A friend,” she said, tiredly. “An American archaeologist friend gave them to me. You gonna turn me in?”

“Well, let me think about that. I could blackmail you. Why don’t you and I go on a field trip, give me an education. What’s the name of that other place you told me about? You’ve got to cross by ferry to get there? San … something or the other?”

“San Jose Succotz. That’s the village. You’re talking about Xunantunich. And if I say no?” Smiling. She adjusted the backpack straps, turned and walked to the restrooms.

“C’mon,” he said, “what about it?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” she said, without breaking her stride, and already she was remembering the ferry slipping across the glass-green Mopan River. She and Riley sitting together on the bench, legs touching, while the ferryman turned the crank, pulling them along on a cable strung across the banks, and Riley’s truck engine ticking in the heat, then the rocky road into Xunantunich. She and Riley sharing a canteen of cold water on the climb to the pyramid. Still one of the tallest structures in the country, he told her. Then she and Riley kneeling by a replica of a stone tablet in a display under a thatch shed in the plaza, their fingers tracing the hieroglyphs, and she remembered the smell of Riley’s skin that afternoon.

She imagined her fingers in the grooves of his abdomen, her white hand on his chocolate skin, his abdomen rising and falling in the evening light on her damp blue bedsheets.

*   *   *

Riley unbuttoned his shirt and hung it over the bed rail. He removed his pants, folding them deliberately over a hanger, hung it in the closet, hung the belt on a hook behind the door. Going about this unrushed, fluidly, letting the rhythm placate him, not wanting to make a big deal of his hurt feelings.

So he guessed that was her answer. An absence louder than words. His disappointment was strong, but in due time, he thought, washing his face, sliding on a comfortable T-shirt, cargo shorts, it would lessen, you just watch. Such is the flow of life. What did the
Tao Te Ching
say?
Sometimes one is up and sometimes down.

And yet one wouldn’t argue against a stiff drink. He walked into his kitchen and took down the half bottle of Knob Creek from a cabinet and poured two fingers into a coffee cup. From the freezer he plunked in three ice cubes and swirled the drink, thirsting for the melt.

He looked out the window, over the fence and into her yard, but he refused to let his eyes wander up to her windows. He’d try to avoid looking at that house for a while.

His cell phone chirped and he searched the kitchen counter, found the phone behind the coffeemaker. “Yes?”

“Riley?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“What? This is Riley. Who’s this?”

“Yes.”

“Candice?”

“Yes, Riley. You asked me, and I’m answering you. It’s yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

Oh, man. It stunned him. He couldn’t help it—his face split into a grin. He laughed. “Wow, really and truly, huh?”

“That’s right. Ask me now.”

“Wait.” He took a gulp of bourbon, held some on his tongue to savor it. So nice, everything suddenly so nice. “Candice, will you marry me, love and honor and especially
obey
me for the rest of your life?”

She cackled. She told him come on, be serious, and he was so giddy it required considerable effort. Then he asked it straight and she gave him the yes once more in a level voice. She apologized for not showing up. No, it wasn’t cold feet, it was a difficult client who kept her back, and she’d forgotten her cell phone at home. He said sitting on those steps waiting and sweating, he’d made up his mind to divorce her two times for revenge, but first, first maybe he wanted to undress her slowly in his room, middle of the afternoon after a shower, lie down under the ceiling fan. He said, “How about a little celebration? A party?”

“Like what, an engagement party? I don’t know…”

“Something small, at the bar.”

“Very small.”

“A few friends. Tomorrow night?”