Mr. Hooligan (31 page)

Turo nodded, idly touching his bandage.

Riley walked to the kitchen to top off his glass of bourbon but once there he lost the feeling and emptied the drink down the drain.

Turo said, “I better go home.”

He was scared, Riley could hear it. “I’ll drive you home. Take all these bags with you. Most of these shorts will fit you good, some of the pants, those jeans maybe not, but you can alter them. If you want them, that is.”

“Definitely.” Turo stood up with his empty mug. He looked like he wanted to say something.

So Riley helped him. “What’s up, Turo?”

“Mistah James, like now the bar is shut down and things happening here I don’t understand … Like I’m not going to report this to no police or nothin’ but, if I, like, seek another opportunity somewhere else…?”

“No problem. In fact, I’d advise it.” Riley reached into his wallet and took out all the cash, two hundred fifty-three, folded the bills and walked up to Turo and pushed them into his shirt pocket. “To help hold you over till you find something else.” Partly out of guilt, partly out of a sense of responsibility.

“That other guy,” Turo said, “I’m remembering this now.”

“What other guy?”

“It’s coming to me, his face. I seen him before.”

“Who, Turo?”

“The guy that was controlling the bike, he passed under the streetlight, and I
know
I recognized him. I see him round the way sometimes, but in uniform, Mistah James. That dude’s a policeman.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Carlo was hanging out on the sidewalk in front of his store, closed on a Sunday morning, the streets quiet and cool, when Riley pulled up in his truck. He parked as close to the corner as he could so that no other vehicle would obstruct forward movement. He nodded at Carlo, scoping the area as he got out, flipping his shirttail over the .45 stuck in the waistband of his jeans.

Carlo was eating cashews from a fist, shaking them. “What’s happening, Riley?”

“I’m late?”

“Naw, Israel’s talking to the others in the back. Don’t go in yet, we’ll talk afterwards. So what’s new?” Carlo poured cashews into his mouth and chomped. “You looking jumpy, what’s wrong?”

Riley shoved his hands in his jeans, slumped his shoulders, and smiled to act relaxed. “Might be because I have good reason.” Looking up and down the street.

Carlo eyed him sideways. “Things cool between me and you, my boy. We ain’t go no beef.”

Riley said, watching a group of kids in church clothes trailing past, “Somebody took shots at me last night.”

Carlo spun to him. “Did what now?”

Riley nodded at a man he knew in an SUV rolling by. “Wouldn’t happen to have a clue who could’ve done it, would you?” and turned his head to Carlo.

Carlo said, “Uh-unh, no, don’t even look at me. We got business we need you to handle, how would that make any damn sense?”

“Hey, I’m just paranoid. That’s my feeling, maybe I should heed my instinct.”

Carlo was staring narrow-eyed at him.

To soften the damage, Riley said, “Could be this guy I eighty-sixed out of the bar last week, full of threats.”

“Hey, tell you what though, we wanted to, we would have and could have. Got me?”

Riley couldn’t disagree, and left it at that.

The thump of a deadbolt sounded behind them and Riley felt big relief. He was nervous standing out here in the open and overly conscious of the hunk of metal in his jeans.

Three men filed out, Barrel and two others Riley also knew only by their street names, Boat and Jinx. They were wearing jean shorts, flip-flops, sandals, Sunday morning casual, coming up to shake hands with Riley, saying they hadn’t seen him ’round a long time, goofing on him that his place was getting too high-class for them. VIP room in the back and all this mess? Look out now, royalty. They lit up cigarettes.

Riley strained a smile or two, not paying much attention, hearing them talk about drinking and some nightclub fight last week. He didn’t know much about Boat or Jinx and didn’t really care to, except that Boat, the wide-body, was quieter and smarter than Jinx, the handsome one, who considered himself dangerous and liked to say behind his pretty smile, “Jinx is no joke.”

After a minute, Carlo said to Riley, “Ready?” and Riley was only too.

They walked through the darkened store and through the back door, crossed the cement yard and entered the storeroom, where Israel sat waiting, legs spread, hands clasped on his cane.

“My boy is here. Grab a seat and let’s talk, Riley. Pull that chair closer.”

Riley drew a chair next to Israel’s and sat down. Carlo told Israel about someone taking a shot at Riley last night.

“Jesus Christ,” Israel said. “Who you think did this, Riley?”

For a second, Riley considered telling him. Instead, “There’s a guy got kicked out last week at Lindy’s. Don’t worry, I know where he stays.”

“You need some help?”

Riley pretended to think it over. “Let me make contact with him first, see how that goes.”

“You need help just say it.” Israel belched silently and tapped his chest with the side of a fist. “Damned sour stomach.” He said to Carlo, who was just about to take a seat, “Get me a ginger ale from inside the shop, please?”

Carlo shook his head, sleepy-eyed with irritation, but he went to get it, Israel saying if they didn’t have that or Sprite then anything with good fizz.

Israel leaned on his cane and regarded Riley. “Come here, Riley, come,” beckoned him with a nod. Riley slid to the edge of the chair. Israel said, “How you feeling? How’s your belly?”

“Healing. Still tender, but not too bad.”

“That’s good, that’s good. You don’t want to be in pain when you work. Such a nuisance when you don’t have your health. You don’t want to be like me here, hurting all the time and doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with my gut. Last night I was in terrible shape, terrible. Nothing worked, antacid, Maalox, nothing. I’m holding a pillow to my belly, like this, see, I’m rocking, moaning, like a fucking baby, and I start worrying, I’m there groaning and thinking what if this is cancer? Who’ll take care of the business? Carlo?
Pffft.
Carlo’s not ready. He might think so but”—Israel made a face—“too emotional. Makes him unstable. I’m not lying. You understand what I’m saying, you’ve seen it. He’d need some help. What I’m asking you is this.” He reached out and gripped Riley’s wrist. “I have a place for you in my business. You sure, you a hundred percent sure in your heart of hearts that you don’t want to stay on with me? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that?”

Riley stared at the floor, then looked up. Israel’s grip was steely but his eyes were kind; sometimes the old boy was capable of gentleness.

“I need to know, son. I make a grand offer like this to you, show me the respect of a prompt response, that’s all I want. Be honest with yourself, and answer.”

Carlo reentered the room. He cracked a can of Sprite and put it on the metal table close to Israel, Riley self-conscious now with Carlo looking on; Israel’s fingers bony, his eyes wrinkled and more rheumy than Riley had ever seen. He’d known this man, this rapidly aging hustler, nearly all his life, and Riley had a feeling, looking at him now, that it might be cancer indeed, and felt sorry for him. And yet. “Yes, yes. I’m a hundred percent sure this is my last run.”

Israel released Riley’s wrist and slowly sat back. He strained to push himself up with his cane and got his Sprite. He took a swig and set it down, looked at Riley. “We know your friend Harvey is alive somewhere, okay. They didn’t find a single body in the fire. Aside from the remains of a dog or maybe it was a cat. I hear he might’ve run up to family in New York, but that’s fine, we’ll let that slide for now. The important thing, tell him this for me, it’ll be good for his health: don’t get ambitious again.” He’d gone from warm- to cold-hearted in a snap.

Riley said, “The man you want? It’s not Harvey. The man behind all this is a guy called Lopez, drives for Minister Burrows.”

Carlo pulled up a chair in front of Riley and sat down. “You want me to tell him, Israel?”

Israel put up a hand and said to Riley, “You don’t think we know who planned the setup? But we are not going to touch Victor Lopez. Foolhardy is what that would be if we mess with a man with governmental ties. However, since we had to send a message to people, better it was to people like your friend Mr. Clock.”

None of this surprised Riley, and only proved something to him. Let intuition be your boss. He had intuited correctly to keep quiet about Lopez being behind last night’s shooting; Lopez was his problem—that’s what it amounted to.

Carlo said, “You taking notes?”

Riley’s mental notebook said it in bold: The Monsantos wouldn’t touch Lopez and Lopez would lay off the Monsantos directly, but everybody could touch Riley. That’s how this game worked.

Israel waved a hand. “Enough with all this old business. It’s time to discuss current affairs.” He hobbled over to the door and turned the lock with a click. “Now then.”

Ten minutes later the door opened and Riley departed alone.

*   *   *

And about ten minutes after that he was at Caribbean Hospital, at the bedside of Roger Hunter, who was not doing well.

“How so?”

“Weak,” Roger said. “Just a weakness in my arms and my grip.” He flexed his fingers a few times. “A general malaise. But I’m glad to see you. Thanks for coming.”

Riley dragged his chair closer to the bed. “Listen, Roger. I’m here partly for selfish reasons.”

Head propped high on the pillow, Roger stared at him. “You’ve sparked my curiosity.”

“You asked me when I was here if I needed a getaway, a safe place. That was very kind of you. I’m here again because I want to know if you’d be able to assist me with something else.”

“You’re also flattering me. But I like it. However this dying man can help you, he will. Any friend of Patricia is my friend.”

Riley said, in a low voice, “It concerns guns. I was wondering if you knew … If you had a source where I might be able to buy a few guns.”

Roger sat up on his elbows and motioned for Riley to help him. Riley took him by the hands and pulled him up, helped swing his legs off the bed, so that he was sitting straight, feet on the floor. He pointed a trembly finger at the cup of water on the table, and Riley stood up and brought it to him. He drank and looked at Riley. “Young man, are you humoring me?”

“What? No … I’m not.”

“Your eyes tell me you’re interested, but before I expose myself I need to know you’re really interested.”

“I am.”

Roger twisted around to check behind him, and Riley craned his neck to see the other patient asleep in his bed.

“I won’t ask why you need these weapons. I’ll assume that they’re for your protection?”

“Let’s assume that.”

Roger nodded, wiped his lips with the back of a hand. “I have reliable information. Information I’m passing on to you without any profit motive, without any stake in whatever may transpire.” He leaned his head forward and said quietly, “There’s a man who may have several firearms in his possession that he needs—in the parlance—to unload. Is it something like this you’re interested in?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Hands clasped, Roger leaned back. They looked at each other for several seconds. Roger sniffed and said, “It’s a man I’ve known for some years, a former felon I’ve counseled, who unfortunately has not turned his life around. Who has an assortment of firearms. This is what he’s confessed to me, that he’d like to sell.”

“Where did he get them from?”

“From someone’s house perhaps.”

“Stole them?”

“A safe full of them.”

Riley said, “A safe? Do you know how many guns? Or what kind?”

“So you’re really serious.”

“I told you I am.”

Roger said, “The safe has sixteen guns. Thousands of rounds of ammunition, and very importantly, Kevlar vests.”

Riley wondered why that sounded familiar. He was about to ask another question when a possibility occurred to him: Brisbane Burns’s guns? A safe full of sixteen guns and body armor? Of course they may be Brisbane’s. “Sixteen guns. Any assault rifles?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Handguns? Like any .45s? I’m used to the .45.”

“You’re in luck.”

Then these must be Brisbane’s, all right. Riley sat straight and took in the moment.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Roger said. “
Who is this old guy?”

“Well … yeah.”

“Look, I’m a cynical man, Riley. These guns, I understand, were taken from an individual who does not exactly deserve good people’s sympathies. Which is why they’ve probably not been reported stolen. Many of them, I’m sure, are quite illegal to own in this country.”

Riley looked at Roger, thinking renegade ex-priest, look at him. Old and seemingly harmless. Riley thought, You are Sister Pat’s friend for sure. Maybe that’s why Riley felt at ease when he said, “So let’s imagine I need these guns tomorrow. This would be between me, you, and who else?”