by Ian Vasquez
“Are you finished?”
“Maybe,” he said. His .45 lay on the counter. He studied it and had no interest in it. He stuck it back in his waistband anyway.
“Riley, please sit down.”
“Hell, no.”
“Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”
“I could easily kill you, you ever thought about that?”
A long silence from her, and the jazz played on. Then, quietly, “You need to listen. Why do you think you haven’t been arrested yet? Why do you think you’re still here talking to me?”
“You want me to thank you?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Believe you? I don’t even know you.”
He eventually forced his body to move into the kitchen, kicking pieces of a plate out of the way. He pulled a bottle of red wine from the fridge and poured some into a glass. He drank, looking at her wiping her face.
“What a terrible night this has been,” she said. Their eyes met. “Riley … Riley?”
He shook his head, didn’t want to hear this. No time or patience to listen to more bullshit about how she was in love with him and so “racked with confusion” and how she’d been “withholding information from her bosses off and on” throughout the year—no, betrayal was betrayal.
“Last week…” She faltered, swallowed hard. “I don’t expect you to be anything but skeptical but I need you to listen to me. Look at me.”
“I don’t really want to. Don’t know who the hell I’m seeing.”
“Last week? They were on to you.”
“They were on to me?” He pointed at her. “You mean you were on to me. You are they, baby.”
She closed her eyes momentarily. She said, “Last week you could have been arrested.” Enunciating each word. “You made a trip to St. George’s Caye and somewhere else—okay, we won’t talk about that. What you do not know is, if it weren’t for me, you could have been intercepted on your return trip. If I hadn’t put in the call late? If I hadn’t misled them with photos of the wrong boat at the dock? You and I, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
He threw back the wine. “But see,” he said, gesturing with the glass, strolling into the living room, “see, now, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“No, here, in this predicament between me and you.”
“You’re forgetting the reason I’m here, on this street, is you. And the irony is you’re not even the target, it’s the Monsantos, their Mexican associates, not you.”
“I’m one of their associates. Don’t try to tell me you’re on my side.”
She covered her face with her hands and groaned, then she swept her hair back, opened her eyes wide, seeming to arrive at a decision. She sprang up, came toward him.
He watched her, freckled skin, red hair, those taut legs he was wild about. Now, she was in front of him and took the glass from his hand and let it go, the glass bouncing once off the rug. Now, she was in his chest, searching his face. “You think I’m afraid of you?” She lifted her chin. “Huh? Do you?”
She was beautiful, and he wanted to touch her.
“I’m not afraid of you, Riley.”
He stepped back, groin stirring, disappointed in himself because he knew he was still too much in love with this woman. He went to the fridge for more wine. Poured her a glass as well and set it on the counter.
She sipped. “I don’t know why you just didn’t leave the Monsantos a long time ago. There was no reason for you to stay with them. I know you enough to know it wasn’t for the money.”
“You don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
“Don’t owe—” He shook his head and looked away. “Yeah, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You come here, you think you know these people because of what they do, they’re criminals, that’s all you see, so you’ve got them figured out, right? Nah, that’s not how it works, though. The thing you don’t know is they’re the ones, the Monsantos, that fed me many evenings when my mother was so drunk off her ass she could hardly stand up, much less cook a little dinner for her son. Israel Monsanto’s the one took me in after my old man passed and I had no house to go to, Israel took me in till I saved enough to start renting my own little place, Israel paid my rent sometimes when I didn’t have the scratch. And now you’re saying, after all these years I worked with them, all they did for me in my desperate days, I just drop them and move on, no worries? Sorry, but you’re talking like a cop. What they did to help me? Now, that’s about respect.”
She swirled the wine in the glass, lips pinched. “You have to stop. Whatever else you’ve got planned with them—you need to stop. Don’t do it. Walk away. Please.”
“You’re telling me something I should know?”
“Listen to me, will you? Just quit. You can choose to quit. You don’t have to do this, you’re choosing this. Me, I’m so far into this I’m a goner. I—”
“You’re warning me, Candice. Go on and say it. You’re on my side? Just say it.”
“They know you’re planning another run this week.”
“They’re right.”
“Don’t go. Don’t do it.”
“What’re you gonna do? Turn me in? You gonna turn me in, Candice?”
He pulled an airline ticket from his back pocket and slapped it on the counter. A corner of the ticket touched the puddle of tea.
She gave him a pained look. “Do you actually believe we can run off someplace together? Antigua? Do you even know anything about Antigua?”
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said.
“No, no, I can’t listen to this, this is a fantasy. We’ve been living a fantasy.”
“I’m telling you reality. I’m telling you what I’m really going to do. Come tomorrow morning, me and the Monsantos will be through. I’m leaving this place, I’ll be gone by midday tomorrow. I want you to come with me. And I’m not coming back here.” He laid a hand on the ticket. “There it is. It’s your move.”
He headed for the door, Candice saying wait, don’t do this, Riley, think this over. Riley opened the door, where he stopped. He said, “Sister Pat knows me like a mother. But you, more than anybody, maybe ’cause you came along at the right time, you’re the only one who knows all of me, the good and the bad.”
She refused to look at his face.
He said, “Last week I got dressed up and asked you a big question. But what’s clear to me now, you haven’t answered it truthfully. You’re telling me the last run is my choice. Fair enough. What’s your choice? What do you choose?” and he left her considering her glass of wine.
* * *
Toads and insects were calling from the high grass. He heard them all through the restless hours lying in his bed. Dull moonlight seeped into the dark room. He rose, found his meditation bench, folded his legs under and sat.
Let the thoughts fall, let the thoughts fall away.… He tried to breathe evenly, let his body take over completely. Let the body put the mind at rest.
In his head, he began to compose a letter to his son explaining that he had to leave because of business but he’d be back to see him soon, and one day they’d take a trip to Half Moon Caye, just the two of them sleeping in a tent on the beach, or they could do whatever else …
Riley’s mind danced on. Soon, he found himself opening the fridge, then drinking a glass of water and staring up at her house through the kitchen window. He had his plane ticket and he was leaving, that’s what he knew, so why was he gazing at that house? He thought, Nothing up there for you. Close this window and get some sleep.
She had left her front door unlocked. He walked into her room, and she sat up in bed. Pale in the darkness. They looked at each other. Their breathing filled the dark. She moved to one side of the bed and flipped back the covers. He kicked off his sandals, peeled off his shirt, and got in close to her. Quiet
ly, they fluffed the pillows and adjusted their positions until they were perfectly spooned. His hand wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her bare shoulder. They were comfortable, almost breathing in unison, until after a while, they were asleep.
* * *
Some time just before dawn—Candice so used to waking up early for morning runs—she felt his absence and reached behind her. She patted the bed, the sheet just a little cool. She didn’t know when he’d left. She stayed still, lying on her side and staring at the nightstand, the lampshade, the photo frames, the telephone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The bottle of One Barrel rum they brought for the farmer was overkill. He was already skunk-drunk, deep into a quart of something clear that smelled vaguely industrial whenever he breathed in Harvey’s direction.
They were sitting almost knee to knee, the farmer shirtless and short, scars all down his forearms. Machete scars, he said. Lopez and the others stood outside conferring by the riverbank. One of them was smoking a cigarette; Harvey could smell it, and he wished they’d come back inside so the smoke would cover the farmer’s breath. Or maybe it was the whole house that reeked, two rooms on either side of this dingy main room, the back door directly opposite the front and opening into—that’s it, that’s the smell, the backyard, a black pig snuffling by the open door now.
They stomped back into the house, Lopez leading the way. He looked with amusement at the farmer, who was rolling a joint with brown paper, dipping a finger into a can of condensed milk and using that for a seal.
Lopez said, “Molina, me and my friends going for a walk. Check out the other side of the property. Entertain my driver here till I get back?”
“But sure.” The farmer seemed affronted by the very question. “This man is my guest.”
Busha said to Harvey, “Hear that, you the guest of honor.”
Lopez turned to Harvey. “What time your watch say?”
“Three forty-two.”
“This won’t take long. At around three fifty-five, don’t matter if you hear us coming or not, you get in the van, wait behind the wheel.”
“I got it, I got it.”
Busha said, “You better get it.”
As they walked out, Tic Tac clapped his shoulders. “You doing good, man. Fifteen minutes more and we done with business.”
They left, Harvey hearing their boots crunching gravel down the path. He got up and stood in the doorway. He saw them, three dark figures opening the back door of the van parked under some trees. He saw them take out the Kevlar, heard murmuring as they strapped the vests on. Saw them take out the rifles, sling them over shoulders, Lopez carrying the shotgun. They slammed the door shut and went on their way, fading into the darkness.
Harvey turned back to the crazy-ass farmer and sat down. He felt his stomach twist, for the first time that night—he’d been expecting it.
The farmer said, “What can I get for you? You want a drink. Want me to fix you one of these here I’m drinking? Horchata and rum. You know horchata? You make it from rice. Want one of those, splash rum in it? It’s good.”
Harvey said no thanks.
“Or how about this, coconut water and rum? I put some coconut meat in the glass for you, with some ice … I think I might have ice, I don’t know, I’ll check. But you don’t want to drink, look,” pushing out a lopsided brown-paper joint, “I’ll share this tubumbu with you.”
“Mr. Molina? I’m not feeling too good at the moment so do me a favor? Don’t talk to me about drinks right now?”
“How about some ceviche. Conch ceviche. I could interest you, a bowl of ceviche? I made it fresh myself … garlic, limes, onions, fresh conch, peppers, you like peppers? Vinegar—”
“Mr. Molina, food too. Don’t talk to me about food.”
Molina nodded, blinking slowly. “All right, then.” His eyelids drooped, chin going down to his chest. He came out of his microsleep and said, “Music? I can put on some music. Juan Gabriel, El Unico: Sus Más Grandes Exitos.”
Harvey said, “Jesus Christ,” and wiped cold sweat off his forehead, tensing as his stomach churned.
“You got a headache?”
Harvey shook his head.
“A backache? Oh, is your belly, huh?” Molina snapped his fingers. “I have Alka-Seltzer … somewhere.” He tried to get up and fell back on the bench, widened his eyes in mock horror. He cackled at his drunkenness.
The pig, round and mud caked, stumbled into the room. It snorted and poked around in the corners, waddled over to a small rusty fridge and nosed it open.
Molina was trying to light his joint, hands trembling. He got it flaming on the fourth match and chortled amid a plume of smoke, pointing at the pig eating something from the fridge. “House trick, see, house trick.”
Harvey put his head down, he needed a toilet but he didn’t dare venture a request, not wanting to even imagine this man’s bathroom.
“Want some rum?”
Harvey just flat-out lost his patience. “Hell, man.” Then he saw that Molina, straddling the bench, was addressing the pig.
Harvey leaned his back against the wall, closed his eyes tight. Yeah, this night was a bad dream, that’s what this was. He was definitely dreaming this shit.
* * *
Riley stood at the helm of the skiff cruising down the New River. Barrel was perched on the gunwale to the left behind him. The stern sat low in the water from the weight they were carrying: eighteen buckets under a heavy blue tarp.
Hazy moon, a jumble of stars, and the wind shifting to the east and warming already. Dawn was only a couple of hours away; Riley could tell, even if he closed his eyes. He had been out on the river enough to know from the hoots and caws and crackling twigs in the jungly riverbanks, the sounds of animals awaking.
He glanced at Barrel, who wasn’t looking too comfortable, only his second or third time accompanying Riley on a trip. He wondered about Barrel; the man hadn’t shown much emotion or acted any different since Julius had been killed, and he and Julius were tight, far as Riley knew, but then you can never be too sure about people, especially in this trade. Tight today, enemies tomorrow.
Riley eased back on the throttle for the boat to slide around a slow bend. Up ahead the river was like ink, drifting thickly under the overhang of branches and heavy leaves, plants sticking out of the surface. On a high tree limb, a skinny-legged jabiru, black face and white wings, regally observed them.
The radio on the glove box squawked. Riley, checking out the upcoming bend, turned the volume down.
Carlo’s voice said, “Hooligan, come in, Hooligan.”
“This is Hooligan, Santa, go ahead.”
There was a click click. “How far from the destination, Hooligan? Over.”
Riley said, “Ah…” A bat fluttered near his face by a wall of trees and he brushed another dark shape away. “Five minutes approximately, over.”
Riley continued at the slower speed, ranging the riverbank, ears perked. He had taken off the running lights and didn’t expect the other boat to have any either so he needed to be careful. He said, “Hear that?” glancing back at Barrel.
Barrel grunted. “Huh?”
“Listen,” and Riley pulled the boat down to idle. They were on an expansive stretch of the river, a wide bend off to the left and you could hear another engine, just beyond the trees.
Barrel joined him at the helm, and they listened.
The boat appeared from around the bend like a shadow, too fast, bow aimed in their direction, a low-riding Panga. Barrel raised a flashlight and blinked it once, then again. The Panga slowed, a light blinked from its bow. It was still about fifty yards off and slowed even more.
Riley steered to the right. Barrel flashed his light; the other boat blinked and steered away.
It could be anybody. Riley reached slowly into the glove box and curled his hand around the .45 lying on its side. Flicked off the safety, turning the wheel farther right with his other hand.
They were coming
up alongside the Panga now, engines burbling. Caw caw caw—a bird flapped over the river and away. The boats glided past each other, two men in the Panga, faces sliding by. Everyone assessing each other. As the boats drifted apart all heads turned to look back.
Riley bumped the throttle and the skiff picked up speed but he noticed the Panga still drifting, and when he glanced over, Barrel gave him a nod of confidence. He circled back, the other boat rotating to the left, idling.
The exchange was fast, few words beyond “Hey, there,” and “¿Qué pasa?” No more than five minutes. Riley stood at the wheel with one hand in the glove box on that .45 and watched Barrel and one of the men lug the buckets into the Panga and arrange them under the tarp, and he watched the driver watching him. He’d never seen these two guys before, young, clean-shaven Mayans who could be farmers or fishermen and perfectly law abiding, which was probably why they’d been chosen. But nobody was harmless, Riley had to remind himself every time out; it’s when you got comfortable that you made mistakes, missed a move.…
Like this driver fumbling with something on the seat behind him; Riley got ready. Finished, Barrel hopped back in, rocking the boat. Riley said, low, “You’re in my way, move out the way,” craning his neck, see what the driver was doing, and he’d drawn the .45 halfway out of the glove box before he exhaled with relief.
The man had lifted a radio and was speaking Spanish into it. After some words, he nodded at Riley, and Riley picked up his own radio.
“Come in Santa, come in, this is Hooligan, over.”
The boats bumped against each other. “Go ahead, Hooligan.”
Riley waved good-bye to the clean-cut gentlemen. They waved back, and their boat roared off, in the other direction, Riley waiting until the noise had faded. Then he clicked in and said, “The fish are biting, Santa, over and out.”
CHAPTER FORTY
At 3:55, while the farmer chatted with the pig, blowing weed smoke into its face, Harvey stepped out of the house and breathed in fresh air. He walked directly across to the muddy darkness under the trees and climbed into the van. Key in ignition? Check. Headlights working? Check. He rolled down the window, sat back. Cracked his knuckles. He turned the key, a test if the engine would start; it did. He turned it off, cracked his knuckles.