Mr. Hooligan (18 page)

“No—I’ll be fine.” She flushed the toilet. She ran cold water and stared at herself in the mirror. She leaned over, splashed water on her face, laved it over her neck and straightened, cool water sliding down her back. And the night had been so beautiful.…

Or maybe that was all too superficial. Behind her giddy grins, the girlish glee, the other woman inside her skin, the adult, was screaming. She thought, You are so messed up, Candice.

When she said yes to Riley, she’d narrowed her life to two choices, and the day was speeding her way like a tunnel train—with Riley dashing off somewhere in the middle of the night, which she knew was because of his shadow life—that moment was hurtling at her, when she’d have to decide: Let’s start a family, my love. Or turn coldhearted: So long, Riley, you should’ve known better.

Riley said at the door, “Sure you don’t want anything? You’re going to be all right?”

“I hope so, Riley,” she said, wiping her eyes dry. “I sure hope so.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Riley didn’t like the vagueness. Why did they have to meet now, an odd hour like this, on a rainy night? This matter can’t wait, Carlo said, that’s why. Could Carlo at least give him a hint what it was about, he was in the middle of something here. “Just come, Riley, we got two men who’ll help us I need you to meet. Can’t say any more at the moment.”

So Riley borrowed Candice’s umbrella and returned home in the rain. His yard was soggy and thunder rumbled deep in the pitch blackness to the west. He strapped on tattered Chaco sandals, got his rain slicker off the peg behind the bathroom door, and what else…? Looking around, considering. The vagueness had put him on edge, the suddenness of the call.

In his bedroom, he opened the closet and cleared shoes and boxes out of the way to reach the small safe in the back, bolted to the floor. He dialed in the combination, tugged open the door, surprised at how heavy it was. It had been several months since he’d opened it. Inside was his passport, assorted house and business documents, and right behind an emergency bundle of cash and a twenty-count box of Spear .45 ACP rounds, there it was, looking intimidating, the Kimber 1911 Brisbane had given him.

Riley took it out, and in swift moves dropped out the magazine, cranked the slide, checked the empty chamber, like it was yesterday. He fondled the pistol, held it out straight and looked down the sights and thought, Naah.

He reseated the mag and returned the gun to the safe and shut it, feeling wise about his decision.

He drove his truck through empty streets, no radio on to distract him, just the pleasing swoosh of tires in the rain. He headed up the BelChina Bridge and realized there was a blackout on the other side of the river. It didn’t take much of a storm to knock the power out in some areas of the city.

He rolled onward on Youth for the Future Drive. He liked that name, especially considering that a good bunch of the youth on this street were seeing to their future doing odd jobs for the Monsantos. He hung a right on Ebony Street and another right down a pothole-riddled lane with no name sign, headlights beaming for the river. He jounced along in the blackout and hard downpour on an unnamed lane to meet unknown men for some unclear reason. Men who could “help them.” Great, sounds fabulous, please, get him out of bed for this, count him in for sure.

Riley punched the high beams on just in time to see where the lane dead-ended at the river. He stomped the brake, telling himself to cool it, check your attitude at the door. He parked behind a wreck of a car on cement blocks and made sure he locked all the doors. In areas like this, you paid for your carelessness.

He flipped up the hood of his slicker and walked through puddles toward the boatyard at the river’s edge. He made his way along a trail of planks thrown on the ground, past the shadows of tugboats and skiffs under open sheds and a chained pit bull barking at him.

In the back, behind a stack of lumber and boats on dry dock, was the watchman’s shack, where Carlo told him to go, but the plank windows were down and the door closed, the whole place in darkness. Listening to the dog and the rain pelting his slicker, Riley cursed, thought of going back to the truck for his flashlight, when a back door opened and a figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by a wavering light from the room.

“Hey, Riley? That you, Riley?”

Riley said, “Hey,” and advanced, raising a hand.

“The one and only, the mystical one,” Carlo said, escorting him into the house.

The room was hot. Riley hauled off his slicker, dropped it by the door. Two men were sitting at a table jammed against a wall of the small room that passed for a kitchen. A kerosene lamp burned in the center of the table, the flame fluttering when Carlo swung the door shut. He pulled out a chair for Riley. Riley nodded at the men, sat down.

Carlo said, “Riley, this is Temio and Chino. They came in from Mexico this evening.”

Neither man offered a hand, faces expressionless.

Tinny calypso was playing in the next room with walls that didn’t reach the ceiling. In the flickering light, Riley didn’t recognize either Mexican, one with a thick mustache and male-pattern baldness, the other lean and dark with straight black hair and Indian features. Riley didn’t know, because Carlo didn’t make clear, which one was Temio, which one Chino, probably not their real names anyway, but Riley had a feeling he was going to find out, whether he wanted to or not.

Carlo fixed Riley with a stare. “What took you so long?”

Riley figured he was trying to pull rank in front of the Mexicans so he let him have his show, Riley not taking it too seriously. “Like I told you on the phone, I was getting ready to have some cheesecake.”

Carlo’s brow knotted. “What?”

There was movement at the other side of the room and Riley turned to see Israel coming from behind a curtain in the doorway to the other room, toweling his pate dry. “Nasty weather,” he said. He removed his glasses, dabbed at his eyes, pushed the glasses on and took in the room.

Carlo said, “Fucking cheesecake. He’s late because of cheesecake.”

Israel shrugged. “Must’ve been some tasty cheesecake.”

Carlo seemed to ponder that. He said to Riley, “What kind, one of them fancy ones like
dulce de leche
?”

“Plain. With a little strawberry topping.”

“Strawberry syrup running all down the side?”

“Yeah.”

“A fat slice, like with a couple beefy strawberries on top?”

“Yeah, you know it.”

Carlo nodded deeply. “Very nice.”

Israel stepped forward and said, “Riley, you know why we called you here?” looking for a place to put the towel among the pots and pans and stacks of canned goods on the counter. He finally tossed it by the sink, by rotting backboards and a dish rack. He faced the room, holding on to the counter, no cane tonight.

Riley said, “I have a feeling.”

“Tell me.”

Riley’s eyes passed over the two Mexicans. “Something to do with the shipment.”

“Excuse me a second,” Israel holding up a hand and cocking an ear toward the other room. He raised his voice at the gap between the wall and ceiling. “Turn up the volume, please.”

There were footsteps behind the wall, and the calypso music got louder.

“Regarding that last shipment,” Israel said. “Our friend El Padrón is giving us some assistance. We located the shipment. Thanks to a little double-crossing bird named McCoy that flew in and sang a sweet song over the phone. He told us who has it, and now we’re getting it back. For a nominal fee to this McCoy.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Riley said, coolly, “Okay,” but he was thinking,
Tonight?

“These two gentlemen are professionals in the retrieval arts. We don’t expect any difficulties, but they’re also highly skilled in techniques of persuasion. Your job is to take them where they need to go, in the shortest time possible, and return with the cargo intact.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes tonight,” Carlo said, walking into Riley’s line of vision. “You got a problem with that?”

Riley tried to look past him and address Israel, but Carlo wasn’t moving. Riley expelled a breath and relaxed. “Where we going?”

“On the water,” Carlo said.

“Where on the water?”

Israel said, “Caye Caulker, Riley.”

“Twenty-odd miles out on the sea, in this weather?”

“The element of surprise,” Carlo said.

It figured he’d come up with B-movie shit like that. Riley stood up and walked around him so he could reason with Israel. “Look, I understand how important it is to get this thing back ASAP, but you think maybe we could wait until tomorrow night? We’re talking serious waves out there tonight. If you can avoid it, you avoid it.”

“It can’t wait,” Israel said. “We’ve set up the meeting for tonight. McCoy says he can’t guarantee things will be in the same spot more than twenty-four hours.”

One of the Mexicans mumbled something.

Carlo waved a finger and said,
“No, vamos esta noche.”
He shook his head at Riley. “Bullshit.”

Israel said, “Riley, think of it this way. You do this tonight? Tomorrow you’re retired, enjoy all the fancy cheesecakes you want. But let’s get this job done. That’s only sound business sense. Weather? Weather is beyond our control. We’ve got to be practical businessmen regardless of the weather and bad roads and bellyaches and other such vagaries. Experienced man like you, you ought to understand this.”

Something moved at the doorway curtain, and Riley saw a little face poking out. Carlo said, “Hey,” snapped his fingers, and the little girl pulled back.

Riley smiled at that and thought, Let’s get this over with then. When he looked at Israel he didn’t need to say a word.

Israel shuffled toward the table and spoke to the Mexicans.
“¿Tiene sus cosas?”

They nodded.

Carlo turned to Riley. “The
Ravish
is out there. You need to gas up out at Robinson Caye. Other than that, the boat is stocked up and ready, flares, flashlights, everything.”

The Mexicans reached under the table and pulled out long black canvas duffel bags. They put on raincoats and stood holding their bags. Soldiers waiting for orders.

Israel came close to Riley. “They already know where they need to go. They have McCoy’s money. You just take them to Caye Caulker and dock at the back bridge, direct them to Chapoose Street and stand back. Now, you can’t wait by the boat because they might need your help to carry the stuff to the boat. If for some reason the shipment isn’t where it’s supposed to be, then our night will be a little longer, but don’t worry, they’ll fill you in, and then it’s the same routine—you take them to the destination, stand back, wait till they say go. You got that?”

Riley said he understood, and picked his slicker off the floor, checking out the bulk of the Mexicans’ bags, their loose T-shirts, perfect for concealing a carry piece or two, and the nervousness he felt at the start of the visit surged back. He shrugged into his slicker.

Carlo stood at the door and looked at them. “Everybody good?”

Hardly. But Riley nodded along with the Mexicans.

Carlo opened the door and a blast of rain swept in.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

One way Candice liked to relax, aside from shooting photographs, was by cleaning her cameras, the whole careful process of it in the spare bedroom. Making sure the fans in the house were off and the windows shut so there was no dust blowing in; laying the cameras and the cleaning accoutrement on the cloth on the carpet; sitting down and setting the camera on the slowest shutter speed, and unscrewing the lens to begin. The steps had a meditative quality that eased her.

She wiped the lens down with a microfiber cloth, triggered the shutter while she squeezed puffs of air from the blower into the sensor. Screwed the lens on. She snapped a couple of test shots and examined them on the screen. Cruelly, one image showed the phone in the corner, the phone she’d been trying to ignore.

She needed to make a call, didn’t know if she wanted to make that call. She wiped the camera body down, looking at the backdrop stand set up against the wall and picturing how Riley’s son would look standing there, or sitting on a stool, whatever made him comfortable. She couldn’t remember how tall he was, wondered if he still looked like the little boy she met once.

She didn’t want to make the call, but Riley had left almost twenty minutes ago. She folded the lens cloth on her lap, preferring to think about photographing Riley’s son, how much fun that might be.

She hoisted herself from the carpet and picked up the phone. Looked at it. Set it beside her camera bag. Sat on the carpet. Thinking about Riley’s son had made her remember the story he told her once when she asked how he got along with his ex’s new husband, Miguel, and Riley said he almost didn’t.

He explained that during the first year of the new marriage, from time to time Duncan would complain that Miguel was teasing him and Riley—trying to be mature and agreeable about the state of things—didn’t make a fuss and distracted Duncan whenever he brought up the issue. Weeks passed, Riley thinking bruised feelings were healing, and Duncan and his stepfather were beginning to bond, until one day he picked up Duncan for the weekend and the boy ran down to the truck in tears.