Mr. Hooligan

by Ian Vasquez

  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.”

  Candice needed to understand something clearly. “And where does this put us as far as tracking the movements of the Monsantos—and my neighbor?”

  The waiter appeared at the table. “Uh … miss? Excuse me?” He held out a folded slip of paper. “A lady in the lounge,” he gestured to the wide-open doors to another room, “she asked me to give you this.”

  Candice opened the note. It was written in neat cursive: A moment of your time to talk about Riley? Thank you.

  Malone said, “Something wrong?”

  Candice shook her head briskly. The coincidence of the moment was too much; she managed a phony smile. “Can you excuse me a sec? Just a client wants to speak to me.” She rose from her chair, dropping the napkin on the floor. “It’s about a photo shoot. Let me get rid of her, it’ll be quick.”

  Malone checked his watch. “I need to be somewhere in a half hour.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  There were only a few people in the lounge, two men at the bar and a young couple at a table by an open window. From the f
ar corner, Sister Pat raised her hand.

  They exchanged hellos. Sister Pat motioned for Candice to have a seat. There was a plate of Chinese food on the table, a glass of Coke with ice and a straw. Candice sat down across from her. “What’s going on, Patricia?”

  “Thanks for calling me that. You know how long I’ve been asking Riley to call me by my real name? He says he just can’t. ‘Sister Pat,’ it’s like a habit.” She sighed. “Riley is in the hospital, dear.”

  Before Candice could make a sound, Sister Pat said, “Now, now, it’s not that serious.… Well, it could’ve been, but he’s doing fine. As a matter of fact, he could be discharged as early as tomorrow.”

  “What happened?”

  Patricia took a big breath. “He was shot.”

  “Shot? When?”

  “It happened last night. I don’t know the details, and frankly I haven’t asked. But I paid him a quick visit this morning and he looks fine, considering.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Caribbean.”

  Candice, without realizing it, had put a hand to her chest, and now she could feel her heart pounding. “How did—I don’t mean to sound resentful, but why didn’t he call me? Do you know?”

  “He didn’t call me either, his doctor did. A childhood friend of his. Alfred Gonzalez knows I’m about the closest thing he has to family and called me this morning.”

  “This is a shock.” Candice stood up. “I should go.…” She looked again at Patricia sitting there with her uneaten plate of Chinese food and full glass of Coke, sitting for a solitary lunch. In a bar. And Candice remembered Riley telling her once months ago, explaining his close relationship to Patricia, that she was a recovering alcoholic. The other nuns at St. Catherine used to be awakened some mornings by liquor bottles clinking in her market bag as she skulked by on her way to a downstairs garbage bin.

  Candice said, watching her tone, “Patricia, why didn’t you call to tell me this as soon as you found out?”

  Patricia put down her drink. She looked hurt. “Dear, I don’t have your number. It’s unlisted, and when I went to your house this morning, you weren’t there.”

  “I see.”

  “I was hoping not to upset you too much, but I’m beginning to realize that I did. I’m sorry.”

  “When you visited Riley, did he ask you not to tell me because he didn’t want me to worry?”

  Patricia looked at her tenderly. “Yes. He wanted to tell you after he was discharged.”

  Candice didn’t know what to make of that answer. She thanked Patricia and tried to smile. But on the way to the dining room, something struck her as odd, and she turned back.

  Patricia looked up, surprised to see her there again.

  Candice said, “Can I ask you something? How did you know I was going to be here?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t? It just seems a bit strange, that’s all.”

  Patricia folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. “Candice? This is one of a handful of places in this little city that makes a decent lunch. I come here every other Wednesday for the buffet, my dear. See over there, near the wall?”

  Candice saw the silver chafing dishes and pans on the long buffet table for the first time.

  “Sometimes I come on Thursday, though I find the Wednesday selection to be more consistent. Their jerk shrimp salad is divine. I’m assuming you’re here for lunch? The buffet runs until two, so if I had to guess I’d say meeting you here is serendipity. That’s all it is, okay?”

  Candice felt her face getting red. She said, “Then my apologies, and thanks again.” As she was leaving, Patricia called after her, “Oh, Candice?” and Candice turned around. Patricia beckoned to her, and Candice came closer, annoyed.

  “Riley needs to see you at his bedside, no matter what he thinks. Don’t waste another minute being distrustful of me, Candice, go see Riley. It’ll be good for him.”

  Candice kept her mouth shut and headed back to the dining room before she made another mistake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Riley sat by the window screen in the hallway enjoying the sea breeze on his chest, eyes closed, shirt open. So pleasant he didn’t want to move. Some of the bliss was probably the Demerol Dr. Gonz had given him for the pain, but he wasn’t complaining.

  This might be his last restful moment for a long time, and he didn’t think he was being pessimistic, but realistic: He had fallen into a snake pit last night and now had to do some scrambling to get out.

  Gonz had dressed the wound this morning, wrapping the bandage around Riley’s midsection and propping bed pillows high for Riley’s comfort. “Sure you don’t want a private room?” he had asked Riley. Riley declined, said he didn’t intend to stay very long.

  “Riley, what did you get yourself into this time?” Then Gonz shook his head. “On second thought, none of my business.”

  Riley had given his friend a smile, a family man whom he hardly saw anymore, a man who, unlike Riley, had always known what he wanted to be and had excelled in high school, breezed through college in the States then med school in Jamaica. Time and lifestyles had separated them, but Riley understood that the friendships you made in childhood were the ones that lasted.

  Like his friendship with Harvey? It was too soon to know if Harvey would be the exception. What Harvey had done hurt as much as the gunshot.

  How about Miles? Yeah, Miles was a man he could count on.

  Riley said, “Gonz, how do you make outgoing calls?”

  “Press nine. Listen, I told Sister Pat. Don’t be mad at me. I thought she’d like to know.”

  “I’m not mad at you. Hey, could you bring that phone this way?”

  Gonz had rolled the table with the phone over to the bed, said he’d return in a few hours to check on him then take it from there, but honestly?—he’d like to keep Riley in for at least two days for observation, make sure the wound was cleaned properly. “Now, let me give you some privacy.” He nodded at the two men sleeping in the other beds in the room. “Privacy, as it were.”

  After Gonz left, Riley had telephoned Miles.

  Miles answered, “Big boss, how’s it hanging?”

  Riley said, “Thanks for last night. Got a minute? I think I’m going to need your help again.”

  They had talked briefly, but long enough for Riley to feel confident that he was taking the correct measures to protect himself.

  Now, woozy, he lifted himself off the chair by the screen and walked gingerly back to his room. He climbed into bed slowly. The bullet had ripped through the outermost muscle in his lower abdomen, and the pain radiated from his wound to his groin. Recuperation time? According to Gonz, at least three weeks.

  Well, then consider doctor’s orders defied, because Riley wouldn’t have three weeks, and he couldn’t half step. He was in the Monsantos’ sights—he wasn’t going to fool himself about that one. When he had called at noon, Israel listened to his story, asking in a tone of great concern if Riley was sure he was okay and was there anything he needed. Magazines maybe, or a good hot meal that didn’t taste like hospital food? Then Israel suggested a transfer to Karl Heusner Memorial, he had friends there. Riley knew that the Monsantos’ connections ran deep and they’d be able to keep tabs on him better if he were there, could exert their control if they reckoned it necessary, so he’d brushed off the suggestion.

  Israel had accepted his story for the time being, but more questions would come, and Riley was preparing.

  He lay in bed listening to the waves outside and thinking about last night, remembering only some spots with clarity. He did recall early this morning, talking to Sister Pat through the haze of Demerol, a strong dose he was grateful for. Though he had wanted to talk, he kept the impulse in check and simply held Sister Pat’s hand, telling her he’d be okay, he’d be just fine, don’t worry.

  He remembered, as she got up to leave, he motioned to her and she brought an ear to his lips and he whispered, “I did it again �
�� I did it again, Sister Pat,” and the tears came. He covered his eyes. He told her, “Two men again. Just like the last time.”

  Sister Pat placed a warm hand on his cheek, then over his mouth. “Now isn’t the time, dear. We’ll talk later.” She kissed him on his head and was gone.

  Then he slept a long time and woke up to find a lunch tray on the bedside table and Candice walking into the room. A scene similar to Sister Pat’s visit replayed. He tried to be honest without being honest all the way, saying, “Candice, there are some things you better know about me. I’m in a little situation here.”

  “Are the cops looking for you?”

  “No—not as far as I know.”

  “Is anyone else looking for you?”

  He said, “No.”

  “Then shhh,” and she put a finger over his lips. “I want you to recover. Don’t waste your energy worrying, just rest.”

  He lay back on the pillow and looked at her, her eyes glistening. “It’s going to be all right. The doctor is a friend of mine, I trust him.”

  “Have I met him?”

  “Not through my introductions.”

  “I’ll have to meet him sometime.”

  He looked up at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to stare at her face and feel so alienated from her. Like a part of him had changed. “I was thinking how much I respect you, you know? You not being from here but how you mixed in well with people. How you probably heard all these stories about me but you never brought those things up. I respect that.” He studied her face, then turned his eyes back to the ceiling and said, “But I was thinking, even though I love you, and I do love you, I can’t deny it, I might not be the best person for you. It could be I’m trouble, like a lotta people think. Bad news.”

  “Stop, Riley.”

  He shifted around to get comfortable and grimaced from a tug of pain.