Mr. Hooligan

by Ian Vasquez

  Mariners Bar occupied the ground floor of a square concrete building. There were wood and zinc-roof houses all around, and next door a shop that was closed. Riley went under the overhang of the shop.

  He stood there like he was taking cover from the drizzle and saw the Mexicans glance up and down the street before they walked into the bar. He leaned a shoulder against a post and watched raindrops glittering in the glow of a streetlight.

  A young girl came out of a gate across the street holding a newspaper over her head and dashed across into another yard. A covered golf cart with two teenage boys rolled past and left a scent of marijuana. Riley could hear voices in the house directly across, its porch lights on, a swing there, flowerpots hanging from the ceiling.

  Life going on as usual all around him. He was shivering violently and it wasn’t only because of wet clothes. He had no idea how long the Mexicans would take but he wasn’t going to stand here too long.

  A man came out of Mariners, then another right behind him. They headed in opposite directions. Two minutes later, two more men stumbled out and passed by in the drizzle.

  Riley waited until they had gone down the street a ways before he detached himself from the post and strolled by the bar. The door was open. A jukebox playing reggae pulsed light from a corner in the semidarkness. The place was empty except for beer bottles on the tables, and Chino sitting at the bar in his long raincoat. Riley stood at the window and peered in. The bartender was standing still, not talking, just looking seriously at Chino, and Temio was nowhere to be seen.

  Riley returned to the overhang and wiped rain from his eyes. He inhaled, deep and slow to control his shivering. A woman stepped onto the porch of the house across the street, hugging a baby bundled in a white blanket. Thunder rolled across the sky.

  In a flash of lightning Riley saw the woman sitting sideways on the swing, legs out as she unwrapped the baby like a fruit, hiked her blouse and put the child to her breast. Riley lowered his eyes. Wished he had a cigarette even though he didn’t smoke, something to do with his hands so he didn’t look odd standing there. Hell, he wished he wasn’t there at all.

  The woman, a young face, was gazing in his direction, but he wasn’t sure she could see his features. He heard something from the bar and glanced over. Someone had shut the door. Just in case, Riley smiled up at the woman, playing casual, then looked down the street.

  Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, and Riley waited until it was dark again before he ambled over to the bar. He could hear shouts from inside. He peeked through the window and saw chairs and broken bottles scattered across the floor, puddles of water or beer.

  Temio and Chino were walking around the room, then Riley saw two men lying on their stomachs, hands roped behind their backs. Temio was speaking to them; Riley couldn’t hear what he was saying, the music was too loud. Temio squatted by one of the men and said something. The man twisted his body to the side and replied. Riley recognized the bartender. Chino rushed the man and delivered a kick in the ribs. The man curled up tight.

  Riley said, “Goddamn,” and looked up and down the street. He checked the door: locked. He hurried back to his post. He was hating this, made up his mind: If anybody who faintly resembled police arrived, he was gone, no looking back. He was getting in that boat and speeding off and fuck the Mexicans.

  He adjusted the pistol in his waistband, knowing he might need to drop it in the sea. He kept breathing deeply, not shivering so much anymore. A long flash of lightning lit up the street and the houses all around and he saw the young woman on the porch turn her face, and their eyes met.

  She was stunning. Black hair in twin braids over her shoulder and almond-shaped eyes. The sky went dark again and thunder clapped, and he could still see the image of her face and it disturbed him, something about her; it struck him deep.

  He knew she must’ve seen his face as clearly as he’d seen hers, so now he had to move. The rain had intensified, drilling the street and the zinc roofs. He scoped another house farther up the street with a verandah overhang he could use for cover. It would take him away from the bar but he needed to move, and it wasn’t only to avoid her identifying him, it was to get away from a kind of innocence he’d recognized when she looked at him. He didn’t care for the way it made him feel.

  He lowered his head and headed into the rain. The bar door creaked open just then and Temio poked his head out and called, “Hermano.”

  Riley trotted over, the pistol loosening under his shirt. He fixed it in place, walked into the bar, Temio locking the door behind him. The room was a mess.

  Temio motioned for him to grab two white buckets by overturned bar stools. Riley hesitated, but in his mind he saw the Mexican shooting Miss Rose, and Riley picked up the buckets.

  Chino stormed out of the restroom at the back, near the jukebox. He rattled off something in Spanish to Temio and Temio marched over to him.

  Riley put down the buckets and followed him through the pounding funk from the jukebox, and he walked into the flooded men’s restroom. The white tile wall was splattered with blood and there was a dead man lying under the urinals.

  Chino had opened a utility closet and was taking white buckets out from behind mops, brooms, and cardboard boxes. He set the buckets on the floor, four of them. Riley saw shoes sticking out from under a bathroom stall, the legs splayed.

  He said, real tense, to the Mexicans, “Let’s get going,” and left the room.

  He was seething. Things had gotten way out of hand. These guys were insane. He stood by the two buckets outside and waited. They were taking too long and he said, “Let’s go, man,” just as they came out of the restroom. Temio shot him a look, but Riley didn’t give a shit now. He needed them to understand he wasn’t putting himself at any further risk; he was not going to be an accessory to any more killings tonight. Fuck them, fuck the Monsantos, and when he returned to the city, he’d let Israel know it straight up, he wouldn’t hold back. You want to sink fast? he’d tell him. Keep working with El Padrón and these two wackjobs.

  Riley and the Mexicans carried the buckets, two apiece, through the streets in the hard rain. All around, windows and doors were closed. Wind gusts shook trees in the yards. More than once, Riley looked back and saw that the Mexicans had stopped to rest. Standing in the middle of the street, hands on hips like two cowboys. Idiots, no other word for them.

  He reached the boat and rearranged the other buckets in the V-berth to make space. He pushed his two buckets in and put on his slicker, took the helm and started the engines. While the Mexicans slid their buckets in, he undid the lines and swung the bow away from the dock before they could properly take their seats.

  He didn’t know exactly when he’d stopped shivering, but he was wide awake, testy, in fact. He didn’t speak the entire ride back, glad to be occupied with the rough waves. Glad when he saw Chino grip the edge of his seat, looking like he was about to puke.

  The rain had slowed and the sea had leveled out to a medium chop when they saw the city lights, the Baron Bliss Lighthouse blinking. Temio stood, tucking away his black book and holding on to the back of his seat for balance. He gestured to Riley, pointing north. “Buttonwood Bay!”

  Riley steered the boat north, cutting across the direction of the waves. They hugged the coast for a couple of miles and headed around Moho Caye, a shadowy clump of mangroves and moored sailboats. Riley was counting down the minutes. First thing, after they unloaded at the Monsantos’ bay house, he was going to shed these wet clothes, poke around in Carlo’s closet for something that looked decent, slip into them. Then maybe warm up with Scotch or bourbon or whatever they kept in their cabinet. Prepare himself for Israel’s and Carlo’s rants when he told them they were short four of the eighteen buckets. He’d sip his drink and listen, let them lean into him for a bit, then he’d warn them about ever dealing with the Mexicans again. He’d say his farewell to working with the Monsantos and he’d be done with it.

  If they wanted to be difficult wit
h him about the four missing buckets—what was that, 140 kilos?—well, maybe he’d offer to work one last shipment for free.…

  What the hell was he thinking? He’d never do that. Losses were part of the trade, and he’d done enough. Get your head right, Riley. Seems that being out on the sea in this weather with two lunatics was corroding his brain.

  But hold on—what was Temio saying? He was pointing northwest.

  Riley leaned in, against the wheel, cupping an ear.

  Temio said, “This way, this way.”

  They were in the bay, lights dotting the coastline, and out of habit Riley had been steering the boat toward the land, the Monsantos’ dock less than a mile away. Now, Riley pulled back on the throttle. “You know where you going?” he said to Temio.

  Temio had taken out his black book again, reading with a flashlight. He said, “Go to the canals. You know the canals?”

  “Just around the bend? The new development?”

  “Go down the second canal, to a house. I show you, okay?”

  So that’s where the missing buckets must be. The long night wasn’t over yet. He idled close to the land so he wouldn’t miss the canal but stayed far out enough to avoid the shallows. It seemed to take forever before he spotted the entrance to the first canal, a towering white house on the edge, terraces, private seawall.

  Temio pointed to the second canal up ahead, and Chino crouched by the V-berth and started pulling out the duffel bags.

  Riley eased back on the throttle and steered the boat to the left, gliding into the canal, and he was shivering again. Temio and Chino were crouched by the bags, getting their weapons ready. The boat rumbled slowly past two-story houses, most of them dark, a dock here and there. Temio told Riley to keep going. Chino slung his carbine over a shoulder, under his raincoat. Temio pushed a loaded magazine into a pants pocket.

  Some of the yards were lighted with spotlights from the houses. Cars and SUVs sat in carports. A dog behind a chain-link fence barked at the boat. Temio pointed to his right.

  Riley’s throat had tightened; he was pretty sure where they were going.

  Temio counted off the houses with a finger. One, two, three, and yes—that one, with the light in the upstairs window.

  The one with the turret. Riley’s world turned darker. He steered the boat toward the dock, his fingers ice cold. The Mexicans stood up, ready. The boat edged closer to the dock, tapping the rubber tires nailed to the posts. Chino climbed out to tie the lines, while Riley looked up at his friend Harvey’s house.

  Harvey, man, what did you do? What did you get yourself into?

  Riley felt like he’d been punched in the heart.

  Chino secured the lines and Riley cut the engines. Then all he could hear was the rain pattering his slicker and the lonely barking of the dog. The boat dipped when Temio stepped off and stood on the dock beside Chino.

  Riley couldn’t be certain if they knew that Harvey was his business partner, his friend. He figured the Monsantos must have filled them in but he couldn’t be certain about anything tonight except this: Whatever he thought was of no consequence to the Monsantos and these two killers marching down the dock. Riley looked up at the window light, looked at the Mexicans, near the end of the dock now. He and his buddy Harvey were two zeros, one friend hired to lead two stone killers to the other friend’s house so they could slaughter him.

  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 to
ok 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.