Mr. Hooligan (3 page)

“You know if I ever taught him? I can’t say I remember the name.”

“You may have, but the question is, did you reach him. Chances are you didn’t. I say that because in no time he fell in with a dangerous crew. You know the Monsanto brothers?”

“The Monsantos … who own that store on Albert Street? Oooh boy.”

“My sentiments exactly. Try as I might I could not get through to Riley. He was following hard in his father’s footsteps. The old man, by this time, was somewhere in his late seventies, feeble, but he’d garnered a reputation that many people with an underworld persuasion quite respected. His mother was ill—cirrhosis. Riley was, in effect, his own man. Age seventeen, bringing home more money than most adults in his neighborhood, for god’s sake. See, he’d become a messenger, he knew the rural roads, the rainforest, the coastal waters, he learned all that in those few summers he managed to spend with his father. So Riley, now a tall, dark young man, he ran packages and money and guided traffickers through the channels in the reef, or up the rivers inland to their drops. He was valuable, no one in the Monsanto crew knew the land like he did. Then one night he gets stopped by a policeman on a motorcycle. And this is how he got in trouble, this is what started him off on a long, bad trip with the Monsantos that may be finally coming to an end.”

Roger said, “How long ago did this happen?”

“About twenty years ago. Sometimes it feels like last week.”

“Patricia, I know I’m jumping ahead, but just tell me. This person that he shot. Did this person die?”

Patricia took a deep breath.

“Patricia?”

She nodded.

Roger leaned back on his pillows propped high against the headboard. “Can I get a little more ice, please?”

Patricia filled the cup with cubes from the plastic ice bucket, poured water and sat down again, watching him drink. She looked around the room, the large white tiles, blue cement walls, the closed aluminum jalousie windows. In the upper corner of this new building, a cobweb. Some things never changed in Belize. Caribbean Hospital, by the seawall on Marine Parade, had been built in the style of the old Belize City Hospital, which was at one time the only hospital in the city and the premier one in the country. But neglect, shabby medical care, and lack of funds had closed the colonial-style tin-roofed buildings of heavy shutters and echoing breezeways. Not too long afterward, the buildings were torn down.

When Roger had heard that a group of doctors had opened a new place—only the third hospital in the city—cement-walled but with fortified steel roof and colonial charm, he returned from self-imposed exile in Mexico and chose it as the spot he wanted to die.

Outside the open door, a nurse passed by in the hallway which had screens that faced the sea. There was only one other patient in the five-bed ward, the old man sleeping in his bed near the window.

Roger gave her a tired smile and folded his hands on the sheet. “Go on. I’m listening.”

Patricia closed her eyes, imagining again the events that Riley had told her so many years ago.

“So, the policeman stops him,” she said. “It was a simple traffic violation. But Riley made a big mistake. He knew the Monsantos had sweetened many officials’ pockets over the years, and so he thought he was protected, and so what does he do? He mouths off to the policeman. The policeman promptly lets him eat his backchat. Now, this officer just happened to be notorious in Belize City, not only for his rouge style, but also because of his distinctive features. Light-skinned black man with freckles and red hair. Everyone called him Red Boy, and in some quarters, where he gambled and boozed, they called him Red Dread. So Riley goes home that night having been soundly roughed up by Red Boy—in his words, bitch-slapped, the ultimate humiliation on the streets. And the slaps, well, they come with a message for the Monsantos: You use my streets, you’ve got to pay a fee for me to look the other way.”

“Uh-oh,” Roger said. “Knowing what I know about the Monsantos, that sounds like retaliation.”

“And that’s what Riley thought, too. But the Monsantos are shrewd businessmen, above all else. They know Red Boy’s reputation and they know you don’t antagonize the police. They give Riley a fat envelope to deliver to Red Boy. Riley is
furious
. Shouldn’t the Monsantos be protecting
him
? Just look at the bruise on his face, this Red Boy embarrassed him. But no, take the envelope, the Monsantos tell him, take it. One day you’ll understand. And so, Riley obeys, and from then on, the last Friday of every month, he drives to an alley off North Front Street by the Holy Redeemer School playground, and he drops an envelope into a mailbox at a house gate and rings a bell. And then an old woman, Red Boy’s mother, comes down the stairs to get the envelope. Month after month, that’s how it happens.”

Roger said, “But then…?”

Patricia nodded. “But then one day, Riley drives to the agricultural show in Belmopan to pick up an envelope for the Monsantos. He meets a man behind a stall, pockets the envelope, and finds he has a couple of hours to kill before he drives back to the city.”

Patricia paused, guilty that she was betraying Riley’s trust but relieved that she was finally sharing the story with someone. “Roger, I know this story by heart, he told it to me so many times. But every time I think … I wish when I come to this part I could change it, say something else, change the ending.” She shook her head briskly. “Anyway, anyway … Riley starts walking the show grounds, checking out the sights. He stops at the rodeo grounds and peers through the fence at the calf roping. He meets a young woman he knows from his neighborhood, they start chatting, flirting a little. He leaves to get her a Coke or something. When he comes back, Red Boy is there, talking to the girl, he and another man, a Lebanese known only as Tarik, a small-time drug dealer who had done some business in the past with the Monsantos. They’re rather openly coming on to the girl, especially Red Boy. Even being rude and aggressive about it, trying to hold her hand, making suggestive comments about how tight her shirt is, things like that. He’s drunk, Red Boy, and he keeps it up even after Riley hands her the Coke. Red Boy ignores Riley, like he’s not even there, a nonentity. So Riley takes the girl’s hand and leads her away, leaves Red Boy and Tarik standing there just
glaring
.”

“How long before they come after him?” ’

“On his drive home. Not even two hours later. He was driving alone, an envelope filled with money stuffed in a pocket. It was around five o’clock, the sun was beginning to set, he was behind the wheel of an old Volkswagen he paid for himself, in full, so he had every reason to feel good. He’s just cruising, the radio on. Soon he notices a truck in the rearview, a hulking thing with massive tires and tinted windows and fog lamps and roll bars—not that I would know what those are but that’s how he describes it. Anyway, the truck begins to tailgate, edging close to his bumper then easing back. Taunting him almost. He can’t make out who the men are in the truck but he knows it’s two of them and he can see their teeth when they laugh. He speeds up, the truck speeds up; slows down, the truck slows down. He’s nervous, he has all this money. He waves the truck ahead. The truck stays behind. This dance continues for miles and miles till finally the truck darts out and rolls beside him, the window slides down and it’s Red Boy telling him to pull onto the Manatee Road when he gets there and drive a little ways, he wants to have a word.”

Roger adjusted the pillow behind his head. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Manatee Road back then, this is almost twenty years ago remember, it used to be a washboard dirt road, very dusty in the dry season. There was hardly anything on that road then.”

“Isn’t it still that way?”

“I think so, but back then, all you saw was brush and the occasional fence or the gate of some farm hidden in all that dusty vegetation. One or two rusting car wrecks hauled to the side, certainly no foot traffic. Just desolate enough to be unsafe. Which is what Riley was thinking when he turned onto the road. He was getting anxious, thinking he was in for a beating, two against one. What chance did he have? I’ll tell you. There was a gun in the glove box, an old .45 Carlo Monsanto had given him and taught him to use. It was perfectly illegal, just like the source of the cash in his pocket, so he takes the cash envelope and shoves it under his seat. Except for five hundreds. So now, he has parked on Manatee Road. It’s growing dark. He gets out and waits for them, leans against the car, arms folded.”

“Trying to strike a posture of cool,” Roger said. “Saw that so many times with those boys when I taught.”

“He admitted that’s what he was doing. He was young, somewhat insecure. Figured he needed to show these two older, bigger guys he wasn’t scared. The way he told me, he even greeted them first. ‘Hey, what’s up,’ sorta like that, trying to be casual. But Red Boy wasn’t having it. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and banged him hard against the car. He feinted a backhand slap and Riley flinched, I mean, it’s reflexive, but it elicited howls of laughter from Red Boy and Tarik. Then Red Boy says to him, he says, ‘Don’t piss yourself. I ain’t gonna slap you this time.’ He says, ‘But I want you to know, don’t ever fuck with me again when I’m doing police work.’ Riley says, ‘Police work? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ So Red Boy looks over at the Lebanese and says, ‘Tarik, tell this boy I was questioning that beautiful young lady at the fair as part of an ongoing coochie investigation.’ Tarik laughs and says, ‘Oh look his face, he is wanting his momma and going to cry.’ ”

Roger was smiling. “You do a good accent, Patricia.”

“Well, it’s like I was there myself, I’ve imagined that evening so completely. So listen, the second Red Boy releases his shirt, Riley opens his fist and lets the hundred-dollar bills fall to the ground. He says, ‘I think you dropped something just now.’ Well. It was an ill-advised and clumsy bribery attempt. You see, what he didn’t know because he’d never dared fool with any of the envelopes he delivered for the Monsantos, he didn’t know how much money they were giving Red Boy. Five hundred dollars? Chicken feed. Red Boy starts acting ever so insulted. He picked up the money and said something like ‘That’s it? You waste my time making me follow you out here for this?’ Starts cussing. Things like, ‘Bitch, you must could do better than this.’ That’s when they start to search him. Red Boy throws him up against the hood, legs spread, and Tarik pats him down and Red Boy keeps asking him, ‘Where the money? Where the money?’ He tells Riley, ‘I know you’re making collections. Tell me where you got the money and I won’t throw your ass in jail.’ Riley refuses to talk. Finally, Red Boy slugs him in the stomach, doubles him over and says, ‘Look, give me my money now and tell Israel how you needed to dip in to avoid a little trouble.’ Then Tarik lifts his head up by his hair so they can look into his eyes. Riley, poor Riley—he caves. He blubbers, ‘Under the seat, it’s under the seat.’ Red Boy finds the envelope and helps himself to a couple thousand dollars, tosses the envelope on the seat and he and Tarik walk back to the truck.”

Patricia smoothed the front of her skirt, taking a moment. Down the hall a child was crying. The fan on Roger’s table click-click-clicked as it oscillated, throwing warm air in her direction. “While they walk, Riley begins to agonize. Later on, he’d say that their walk back to the truck seemed to take a whole day because so many thoughts tumbled through him, so many fears. Not to mention the shame. He said to me he noticed a button on his shirt had popped off and that set him off thinking how weak and sorry he’d look if he went back to the Monsantos with this story. He would lose their confidence, hell, if what people said about them was true, he could lose his
life
. And the humiliation, too, even then it was burning inside. He checks the envelope, feels how light it is now, and remembers what was in the glove box. He doesn’t want to open the glove box so he starts repeating, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, just drive off, just drive off,’ like a mantra, you see, but he can’t lose the feeling, it’s stuck inside him, and so even as he’s saying, ‘Don’t do it, don’t do it,’ he’s opening the glove box and taking out the .45. He checks the magazine, he flips the safety, and meanwhile, behind him, they haven’t even gotten inside the truck; they’re at the doors, talking low, casting glances at the Volkswagen, like they’re considering—to Riley’s mind anyway—taking the rest of the money. By this time, Riley has
his
mind made up. He’s thinking no dice, no fucking way—pardon my language, but that’s what he says he was thinking, he was in a dark, dark state of mind. He jumps out of the car and marches up to them, points the gun at Red Boy and says, ‘Gimme the money. Now.’ ”

Patricia shakes her head. “You know what this fellow, Red Boy, does? He laughs. He says, ‘Really?’ and opens his door, reaches in, comes out with a shotgun, this scary sawed-off thing, Riley said, and Red Boy says something on the order of, ‘I’ll fix your little ass,’ and before he can raise it, Riley runs up pointing the .45, but he’s shouting, ‘No, no, put it down, no,’ pleading with Red Boy. The thing was, he’d realized right then that the situation had gotten out of hand, and he wants to stop, he wishes somehow they could just hop into their vehicles, drive away and try to forget this ever happened. But of course, it’s too late and Red Boy’s shotgun is coming up and Riley has a finger on his trigger and he has to go through with it, he has to or he’ll be killed.”

Patricia breathed out, shoulders drooping.

Roger waited.

“So Riley shoots Red Boy. At first, he thinks he missed, but he sees the sudden expression on Red Boy’s face, like somebody threw boiling water on him. But he’s still holding the shotgun, so Riley shoots again and Red Boy grabs at his face with both hands and tries to run but he falls in the middle of the road. Meantime, Tarik, who must’ve scampered for cover behind the truck, Tarik runs around and looks to pick up the shotgun. Riley is no longer thinking, he’s reacting now. He fires shots until Tarik falls. He said that even though he saw Tarik heaped motionless there against the front tire, he was so panicked that he would’ve shot him some more if the gun hadn’t jammed.