Mr. Hooligan (21 page)

If Riley did nothing, he was worth nothing. He said, “Hey, wait up,” and climbed out of the boat.

The Mexicans continued walking.

Riley trotted up the dock and said, “Hey!” and they stopped and turned, almost casually. Riley raised his hand to tell them to wait, like he’d forgotten to mention something.

“I know the guy who lives here.” He waited to see if either face registered concern, however slight. Nothing came, and he said, “I know where he might’ve hidden the stuff,” walking past them now, taking the lead. “Two places. A pump room under the house, over there. Or it could be upstairs, like in a rec room closet.”

He had reached the end of the dock, but the Mexicans hadn’t moved. Deciding what to make of him.

When he spoke again, he couldn’t help the tremor in his voice, the pleading tone, “Look, we rush in there, let me handle things. We could get this stuff clean, no shots fired, no trouble.”

Temio approached, shaking his head. “No, no, we need to talk to this man. We need to leave a lesson tonight.” He called over his shoulder, “Chino,
vamos
.”

Riley hurried to stay well ahead of them, blowing on his hands to warm them. He said, “Look, I’m begging you, let me handle this, let me do it the easy way. Please.” But he glanced back and saw they weren’t listening anymore. He might as well have been that dog still barking on the other side of the canal.

Riley trudged through Harvey’s muddy backyard and thought, Well then. What else you got? The answer was nothing. So his hand ducked under the slicker and folded around the pistol in his waistband. He took two steps, spun around and said, “This can’t happen.”

They were about five yards back, coming up fast. Temio stopped, seeing him blocking the way. “What you say?”

Riley’s hand flew up from under the slicker and he shot Temio twice. Temio stumbled back, and Riley shot again, swiveled from the waist and swung the gun on Chino and fired as flame spurted from Chino’s carbine. He was carrying it low, how he’d produced it so fast Riley couldn’t say, Chino firing, muzzle
jerking. Riley fired back, feeling heat ripping through his abdomen.

He tried to lift himself off the ground. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there. He rose on hands and knees, his ears ringing. The shooting had stopped, he didn’t know why.

Chino was walking away, holding his throat.

Riley knew he’d been hit, his stomach was on fire. He knew Chino was hurting, too, staggering away, gripping his throat, coughing, a gurgle. Riley groped around in the mud for the pistol, glancing at Chino tottering toward the dock, Riley tossing handfuls of muck.
“Shit, shit, where is it.…”

Chino’s carbine fell, clanging on the dock. He reached the boat, hunched over, two hands clamped over his neck like he was trying to hold something in.

Riley found the pistol, wiped it off with one hand and shook water out of the barrel. He pushed himself up, his knees buckled. He took one step, another step, body clenching against the fire in his torso.

Chino was trying to untie the boat lines from the post. It was drizzling again, and the dog was barking crazily. Riley stiffened his back as tall as he could bear it and walked through the pain. Moaning. It hurt so fucking bad.

Chino had untied the boat and jumped into the cockpit, holding the rope. He swayed, lurched toward the helm and crashed into a seat. Riley walked to the boat. Chino used the steering wheel to pull himself up, hands slipping momentarily, but he was up and standing and he looked at Riley. He lifted a palm and said,
“Espera. Por favor. Espera.”

Riley reached the boat with his pistol held straight out, and he let off two quick shots. Chino shouted and dropped back against the gunwale, and Riley shot him two more times. Chino’s head slumped forward and he toppled sideways onto the floor.

Riley’s ears were ringing hard. Lights had come on in house windows across the canal. Lightning crashed across the sky and he could see Temio lying in the mud in Harvey’s yard. Rain was falling harder, and he needed to move, but his legs felt frozen.

Then some primal part of him took over, the old street Riley. He jammed the pistol back under his slicker. Looped the boat lines around a post. His torso clenched and he sucked in a breath before he continued.

He dragged Temio’s body by the legs down the dock. Stopped to rest. Dragged it farther and tumbled it into the boat. Went back for Temio’s carbine in the mud, picked Chino’s carbine off the dock and carried both rifles into the boat. Then he collapsed in the captain’s chair.

He moaned, pressing a forearm against his abdomen. He said to himself, “Come on, punk, get your ass up, get moving.” But it took forever—to lift himself off the chair and haul the rope in; fumble with the key and turn the ignition; push the throttle—every movement hurt.

Swaying in the chair, he navigated the boat through the canal at an unsafe speed. Emergency speed, because he had no doubt he was bleeding to death. He’d reached a hand under his slicker and under his shirt and touched a warm ooze. His fingers had come away sticky and covered in blood.

Out on the sea, the boat tossed and rolled from the high waves and his clumsy steering. Visibility was poor, but he knew that if he held to a line along the shore and followed the houselights he’d be able to pick out the Monsantos’ dock, the only question, would he pass out before he arrived.

He didn’t want to look at the wound. He feared how his mind would react when he inspected the damage. Recognizing a pattern of houselights, he guessed the distance he’d traveled from the canal, then aimed the boat at the shore. He batted the throttle down to idle and he closed his eyes, couldn’t help it, as the boat dipped and rose toward land.

With a start, he remembered, and pulled the pistol out. He pitched it overboard. He stumbled around while the boat listed. Found the rifles and thought, What am I doing? You don’t need to get rid of these. You’re not thinking straight.

At the Monsantos’ dock he secured the boat as firmly as his trembling fingers would allow, threw the rifles into the V-berth and padlocked it. Pressing both forearms against his abdomen, he walked down the dock, wincing all the way, through the backyard and up the stairs.

On the front porch he dug into the soil of a bamboo tree in a big clay planter, plucked out a matchbox and took out a house key. He opened the door and walked into the foyer and then the kitchen, trekking soil and water and drops of blood on the marble tiles. He grabbed the phone and bumped along the hallway walls and into the bathroom. He flicked the lights on and set the phone down. Self-consciously deliberate, he took off his slicker, his shirt, and looked at the vanity mirror.

His abdomen was smeared with blood. The front of his pants soaked dark red. At first he couldn’t find the hole. At one point, he thought he was going to vomit. He found it, just under his navel. Two holes. In and out—the bullet had passed straight through that fatty middle-age pouch.

He said to the mirror, “All right, you son of a bitch, you might live.”

He picked up the phone and dialed his friend’s house.

“Miles, please. Yes … tell him it’s Riley.” After a few seconds, “Miles? I need your help. You better … come quick.”

He gave Miles the address and hung up, dropped the phone on the counter. He stripped naked, kneeled in the tub and turned the faucet on. He washed the wound gently with warm water and a bar of soap, letting the tub fill up. After a while he sat far back, water sudsing pink with blood, rising to his waist.

To his chest.

He shut his eyes and waited for Miles, the fast-rising water lapping at his neck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The waiter set the platters of stewed snappers and the bowl of yellow rice on the table, and another glass of Sprite for Candice.

Malone rattled his glass of ice at the waiter. “I could do with another Johnnie Walker Black. Less ice this time?” He handed off the glass brusquely.

After the waiter left, he said, “Notice he didn’t bother asking me if I wanted a refill.” He leaned over the food, examined it. “What’s this on top of the fish?”

“Those are onions,” Candice said.

“Huh. Why are they red?”

“If you look closely, the entire fish is red. It’s a local seasoning. You ever heard of
recado
?”

Malone eyed the fish. “Why do they serve it like this, with the head?”

Candice said, patiently, “Because that’s how this dish is prepared. A whole stewed snapper. That’s what it’s called. It’s not a fillet, Henry.”

“I don’t know about this…”

Candice spooned yellow rice onto her plate, Malone watching her. She broke off a section of her snapper with the edge of the spoon and put it on her plate. She ladled some of the broth and onions over the rice.

Cautiously, Malone followed her lead.

She said, “What’s wrong with you today?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I’ve been watching you. Your body’s here, but your mind is out to sea.”

She lowered her eyes and ate some rice. Yes, she
was
a ball of nerves. She didn’t know where Riley was. She’d called his house and the bar several times. No answer. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Malone tried to shake salt on his food but nothing sprinkled out. He banged the shaker on the table and tried again. “Couldn’t they have put a little rice in here? Haven’t they heard of humidity before?” Banged the shaker again. A woman at a window table turned to look at him.

They were at the Château Caribbean, windows open to the sea air, and before Malone’s little snit-fit everyone had been having a quiet lunch. Candice reached over and calmly pried the shaker away. Malone laid his forearms on the table and exhaled heavily. She unscrewed the cap, turned it over and cleared the holes and the opening of the bottle with a finger, screwed the cap back on and set the shaker down in front of him. “Would you look at that. The magic of patience.”

He sprinkled salt over his fish. “Sorry.” He picked up his knife and fork, looked out the big windows facing the sea. “Just in a pissy mood today.”

After his drink came, they ate in peace. He admitted the fish was much tastier than it appeared, except he might have to pass on the head, those teeth. Like the fish was grinning at him.

Candice said, “But we get the last laugh because we’re eating him and he’s so yummy,” hoping to lighten things up.

Malone wiped his lips with the napkin. “My wife is leaving.”

Candice set her fork down.

“She said she’s had enough. Enough of this heat, the dust. How there’s nothing to do here. She says she misses all the conveniences of the States. She wants to catch a sale at Macy’s, she wants to swing by 7-Eleven and grab a Slurpee, I’m not kidding.” He tossed the napkin on the table and sat back. “As if I don’t have enough to think about.”

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“Well, what are you gonna do, right? Maybe now I can put more time into smoothing out this new wrinkle. This wrinkle being that we have reason to believe the people who stole the Monsantos’ shipment are local police officers.”

Candice said, “Why does this not shock me?”

“Furthermore, our sources identified who might be in possession of the shipment, and guess what? One of the men whose names came up was found dead in a bar this morning. Shot in the back of the head, execution style. No witnesses. No suspects so far. No drugs found on the premises.”

“Premises being where?”

“A bar on Caye Caulker. The place was ransacked, and if drugs were there, they’ve been taken. By whom is the question. We may yet answer that if we continue to investigate, but the bigger question is whether this operation will continue or not. We’ve got to sit down with the police commissioner and the head of the Coast Guard. I’ve arranged a meeting for tomorrow.”

Candice said, “We’d heard from the start that some of the local police were not to be trusted, isn’t that the case?”

“What’s your point?” Malone getting defensive.

“I’m simply imagining the conversation tomorrow. The commissioner, he’ll say the same thing he said last time, you remember? Bang that desk a few times, act huffy, bluster, ‘No, never, not on my watch! We’ve rooted out all the rogue elements from this force.’ Might even imply that Mr. Yankee shouldn’t come into his office making these unsubstantiated accusations if he expects cooperation.”

“He might, but it’ll be hard to ignore the facts. The man killed last night in the bar was a police officer. Furthermore, we have reason to believe—and this comes to us from another person involved who didn’t like the way the stolen shipment was divvied up and he complained to someone who just happens to be our informer—we have reason to believe that a person with considerable authority spearheaded the robbery.”

“Someone on the police force? The defense force?”

Malone spread his hands. “Pick one. But it’s someone with muscle. Political clout.”

Candice put her knife and fork down and pushed her plate away. “Okay, I see where this is going.”

Malone sipped his drink. “If we can’t be assured of getting local law enforcement support we’re in for a tedious campaign. If we uncover something that some big shot wants uncovered, then…” He shrugged. “At this point we don’t have a clue how high up the hierarchy this is going. We’re tugging one way, someone or some group is tugging the other. We need to find out where we stand in this game or we just might not play anymore, and that’s why I’m arranging this meeting. To tell them how it’s going to be.”