Mr. Hooligan (26 page)

Riley just about spat out the words. “Don’t give me that shit you didn’t have a choice. You coulda come to
me,
you coulda warned
me.
We would’ve worked something out, we’ve always worked things out.”

“I was scared stupid, I know I know—”

“Now you know, yeah. You know you’re in over your head and it might cost you your life.”

Harvey said, “They’re coming after me, right? I
knew
it.” Looking like he was about to start crying again, shaking his head.

“Didn’t expect they’d find you this fast, did you? Don’t you ever doubt they know where you are. Think you’re going to fly away somewhere? Good luck with that, son.”

Harvey raised folded hands. “Look, put in a good word for me? Tell them I’m cooperating?”

Riley looked at him and walked to the door. “Where are the buckets, upstairs?”

Harvey’s hands came down. “Yes, they’re—”

“In the rec room?” Riley already walking out the door.

Harvey showed him where the four buckets were upstairs, in the locker by the foosball table. Harvey carried two, unbalanced because of his short arm, and Riley carried two, feeling a strong burn in his abdomen. They set them at the foot of the stairs, Riley in pain, Gert glaring from the kitchen, arms folded.

Riley looked at Harvey, who seemed to have lost weight, T-shirt wrinkled, pants droopy. “I thought I knew you,” Riley said, “but I never would’ve believed you could do this to me.” He bent down, grabbed the handles of his buckets. “Let’s go.”

“I-I can’t go outside. I don’t want nobody to see me.”

“Afraid they might shoot you?”

Riley took the buckets out to his car and put them on the backseat floor. He saw Harvey peeking out through the cracked door. Riley came back for the other two buckets, sweating, pulled the door wide open; Harvey recoiled. Riley smiled and marched on to the buckets.

From the kitchen, Gert said, “Look at you, like you got some right to decide who makes money and who doesn’t on something that’s illegal and nobody has license on. Who made you the—the arbitrator, Riley James, you’re a fraud.”

Riley stopped for a second, to see if she had more to say, then lifted the buckets.

Gert started up again. “You don’t think everybody knows about you? All these years we’ve been right by your side, thick and thin, but you can’t stand to see anyone making money the way you’ve been doing your whole life. Pulling the same shenanigans you pull, oh, you can’t stand it, so you turn against us friends that had your back and defended you against all those rumors people always spreading about you. ‘Oh, no, Riley isn’t like that, he’ll pay you on time.’ ‘Oh, no, Riley cares about his customers. Have another beer, on the house!’ ” Gert launched into a girly voice. “ ‘Your conch fritters too greasy? Sorry, our deepest apologies. Riley wants you to know you can have anything else on the menu on the house.’
Please
. I see right through you, acting so nicey-nicey, but it burns you up when other people succeed at anything, that’s why you had to cheat at it. All those years a cheat. A cheat and a thief.”

“Stop it,” Harvey said.

“No, I want him to hear me and I want—”

“Shut up, Gert!”

That shocked her. Harvey and Gert stared each other down, Gert’s nostrils flaring. Harvey’s lips curving downward, trembling. Riley and his buckets caught in between these two.

Harvey turned to Riley, palms upturned. “Riley…”

Riley thought of responding to Gert but it would’ve made no difference. He wasn’t sure of anything nowadays except this: Gert would always be a jealous woman.

As Riley was going out the door, Harvey said, “Please, man, you know these people. If I can’t get to the airport safe, where do I go? What’s gonna happen to me?”

Riley, walking out the gate, said, “Those are fine questions,” not looking back, trying to ignore the burning in his midsection and the disappointment that was weighing down his heart.

Harvey called from his door, “What’s gonna happen to me, Riley?”

Riley kept moving, opening the car doors, putting the buckets on the floor. He walked around to the driver’s side, hearing Harvey say, “Riley, what should I do now? Come on, talk to me. What’s gonna happen to me?” and on and on, his voice high and sharp as a blade in the sunlight as Riley started the car and drove away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Carlo sat slouched on the edge of his bed, a pair of slacks across a knee, waiting for his sister to finish her ironing. He was wearing nothing except boxer shorts but still felt hot. The windows were open wide and the ceiling fan was going but perspiration was trickling down his back.

He could hear Mirta in the corridor outside humming at the ironing board. He fought the urge for a moment then went to the door again. She was in bra and panties only, peach ones, and he let his eyes linger. Telling himself to cut it out, go back and wait. But her skin …

He knew that she knew he was admiring her, just from the way she canted her head as she slipped the white blouse over the board. Her long hair, by supposed accident, swept to one side so that her neck and jawline were exposed. Now look at this, jutting out a hip, putting her weight on one leg. Her legs were fleshier than before she had kids, understandably, so dropping a few pounds wouldn’t hurt, twenty minutes or so every day on that recumbent exercise bike in her room she never used. Tightened, leaner—she’d be back to her old knockout self.

He returned to his seat on the bed. Time hadn’t changed the house that much—the walls in his room still brown and white, her room still the same one from childhood, seven paces down and across the corridor, the biggest change being that what used to be Israel’s room was now taken over by Mirta’s boys. There was still that parlor where they watched TV, with the bank of louver windows looking down on Albert Street, and they still ate meals in the dining room on the second floor, which was where Israel and family lived. And Carlo still felt his groin stir whenever he watched his sister like this.

“Mirta, you almost finished?”

No response. But after a minute she called, “All yours,” and he got up and hurried into the corridor with bogus exasperation. He caught her right before she turned to go into her room, a full rear view, and he also caught that second of hesitation, that glance over her shoulder as she half shut her room door. She laid her clothes on the bed, walked to her bathroom. There, a small flip of the hair, another over-the-shoulder look, glancing at him, his boxers. This was their game. Now he saw her enter the bathroom, Carlo pretending to fiddle with the iron but taking in the sight of her skin and swell of her breasts as she turned and clicked the door shut.

God a’mighty.

God will strike you down. Naw, God didn’t give a shit. Carlo’s mind spun with everything he had to do today, while he ironed his Hawaiian shirt, getting the sleeve creases tight. He owned about six shirts like this, soft and loose and comfy. Wearing them made him feel chilled out. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy if he shaved. So how come he was still single, or no woman was pressing him to ask her that certain question? He didn’t know why no woman could ever hold his interest for them to reach that point. He touched up the collar with the tip of the iron, thinking, That’s just the way it is, Carlo, you’re the fucking Serpent, too cool and slippery to trap.

Hell, he damned well knew why he was single. Unplugging the iron and gazing at Mirta’s room door. He stood there a while, holding his warm shirt, feeling adrenaline rising. The house was quiet; her kids were downstairs. He heard her coming out of the bathroom now. He draped his shirt over the ironing board and went to stand beside her half-open door, put his mouth to the space. “Mirta?”

No response.

He pushed the door open wide and said, “Can I ask you something?” walking in before she could answer.

She turned away from the long mirror at the end of the big room, the white blouse spilling down to her hips, the top shirt buttons open. She reached back, fluffed her hair out over the collar, shaking it loose for good measure and because she knew she looked sexy doing it. She said, “What do you want?”

Carlo sat on the bed and cleared his throat. There was a pair of dark jeans laid out. She’d look good in that, with the white blouse, maybe keep a couple buttons open, yeah … He said, “You talk to Pedro lately?”

Arms akimbo, she said, “Pedro, our cousin Pedro?”

“Stop saying that.”

“What’s this with you? Why do you feel you’ve got to find me somebody?”

He’d fallen into his normal slouch and now he set both hands on his thighs like a little boy, which sometimes around her was what he felt like, he never understood that. He wanted to say, Because if you go off with somebody else maybe then I’ll stop thinking you belong to me.

“You have to quit this, Carlo, playing matchmaker,” and she paused, looking at him funny, making him realize he was staring at her legs. He’d seen a glimpse of panties under the shirt, moved his eyes away and heard her say, as she was going to the dresser, “What do you want, Carlo?” Carlo watched her select earrings from a vanity tray. Put them on with a toss of the hair and a cant of the head to one side then the other.

Why didn’t she put on her jeans, finish getting dressed? Why was she taking her sloooww sweet time now spritzing her neck and the inside of her wrists with perfume? Standing there with her blouse that had ridden up enough to show off her gorgeous ass under the tight panties. Because this was their game. His voice sounded heavy when he said, “Mirta, is it true—” He began another way. “You had C-sections with your boys, so is it true it hurts when you’re moving, when it’s healing?”

She turned around, put her hands on the dresser and leaned against it, legs out. “Why’re you asking?”

“Just asking. Curious.”

“Yes. It hurts like hell. Just another thing that women have to go through.”

“Is it a big scar?”

She shrugged. “Big enough.”

“Can I see?”

She screwed up her face. “No…” Then, “Why?”

“I just want to see it.”

“Carlo…” She gave a little sigh, seemed to think it over, then her hands went to the front of her shirt, she turned her face to the side with a bored expression and lifted the front of the shirt with one hand and turned down the elastic of her panties quickly. Then it snapped back, the shirt spilled down and she said, “Satisfied? It’s not pretty.”

Carlo said, “I didn’t hardly see. You did it too fast.”

“Carlo.”

“Please, Mirta. I want to see it.”

She said, “Jeeesus, Carlo.” But she started again then paused, Carlo’s eyes all over her, the crease in her panties, her pale thighs. “Close the door,” she said.

He got up fast and did it. Sat down again and patted the bed next to him. “Come, I want to see it up close.”

She rolled her eyes but she took three big steps, pointing her toes like a ballerina and was there in front of him. “This is as far as I’m coming,” she said. “See,” and she lifted the shirt, fingers rolling down the panties one fold, to reveal a dark indented line of scar tissue.

It was beautiful. He swallowed, reaching his hand out, looking up at her, their eyes locked.

She said, “Carlo.”

He touched the scar with a finger, tentative, tracing it. Back and forth. He was breathing faster. He put his other hand flat against her stomach and she drew in a breath sharply. He pressed his palm against her warm softness, his finger tracing the scar, gentle, then firm. He swallowed, said in a hoarse voice, “It hurts when I do that?”

She shook her head fast and turned her face to the side, Carlo watching her. She leaned into him, her eyes drifting to the walls, face taking on that bored expression, like he wasn’t there. His palm roaming upward, to her ribs now, the thumb of the other hand slipping in just under the elastic of her panties. Like he wasn’t there, except now
her
breathing had quickened and her eyes were closed.

A door slammed somewhere in the house and that brought her back. Her eyes were open again and she said, “Okay, okay stop,” letting the shirt fall and pivoting away before he had a chance to object.

He sat awkwardly, his mind reeling with possibilities. Okay, Mirta, until hopefully another time.

The buzzer outside in the corridor rang, probably Israel from downstairs. Carlo stood up and looked at her sitting on the end of the bed, pulling on her jeans. “That’s probably breakfast,” he said. She rose, zipping up her jeans, went to the dresser and picked up a brush, flung her hair to one side and began brushing. Carlo jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go eat breakfast, then.” Mirta brushing with smooth downstrokes, not paying him any mind. He said, “Okay, then, I’ll see you later, then,” and waited for a beat before he left the room, feeling lonely.

*   *   *

The breakfast table was cleared except for Carlo’s big mug of coffee and Israel’s glass of Metamucil and a plate of sliced avocado. Israel stirred the glass one more time, set his spoon on a napkin and said, “El Padrón wants to move on this deal. He’s losing money and patience, and money is time.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. First, let’s take care of our problems at home. Riley called this morning and said he has the buckets and is bringing them by, so now as a gesture of goodwill to El Padrón, we do him a favor, okay?”