Mr. Hooligan (27 page)

“How soon, tonight?”

“Of course tonight. In the small hours.”

Carlo, hunched over his coffee, said, “You don’t want me to hunt for this guy one more day?”

“No, enough of that. We need to move on.”

“You want me to do this one myself?”

Israel shrugged, lifted his glass. “If you think you don’t need help.” He drank half the Metamucil.

Mirta came out with a sponge and started wiping the table, dragging bread crumbs and bits of scrambled egg into a cupped palm. She said, “Excuse me, please,” and Carlo had to raise his mug high off the table and sit back. She moved around fast to Israel’s side, sponging away, saying, sharply, “The glass,” and Israel picked it up and drank off the rest. He looked at her and said, “Please?”

She took the glass without looking at him and put it on the plate between the avocado slices and went back to the kitchen.

Israel said, “What’s wrong with
her
?”

“Who the fuck knows? One day she’s all syrup, next it’s vinegar. Can’t figure her out.” He sipped his coffee, staring at the table.

“So you’ll take care of this thing tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, if you’re really sure.”

“The faster we do this, the faster we can make delivery and get paid.”

Carlo said, “First thing when that money comes in,” and pointed at the ceiling. “Get a fifty-inch flat panel for upstairs, swear to God, get rid of that piece of crap rear-projection junk you can’t see shit out of anymore except you sit right in front of the fucking thing.”

There was some scuffling from the kitchen, then one of Mirta’s boys came running out. He dashed behind Israel’s chair when Mirta stormed out with a chunk of avocado stuck on a fork. “Come here, I said come here this instant.” The little boy held on tight to Israel’s chair, knocking the cane that was hanging off it onto the floor, as Mirta advanced with the fork. “You can’t say you don’t like it if you don’t even try it.”

Israel twisted around in his seat and said, “Boy, Stevie—Carlo, I mean, Joey…” He turned to Carlo. “Which one this?”

Mirta told the boy, “Don’t you move,” and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

Israel said, “Listen to your ma. You don’t want to grow up big and—”

The boy darted under the table, scurried out on the other side and ran around the corner and back down the corridor. Mirta said, “That little fucker,” and stalked after him.

Carlo sipped his coffee and watched her tight jeans disappearing around the corner.

Israel said, “What a circus,” and winced, patting his stomach. “You should be happy you don’t have kids, let me tell you. Anyway, I better go and try my luck, that bathroom’s got to be free by now.”

Carlo picked up Israel’s cane and handed it to him. Israel clumped away, mumbling, something about his stomach. He turned at the corridor doorway and said, “You’ll take care of that thing though, right?”

Carlo put down his cup. Took a deep breath. “Yes, Israel.” Jesus Christ.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the darkness next morning, he said, “I got it under control. I’m here right now and I got things under control. Would you stop stressing and go to bed? I know, I know but you’re stressing
me.…
Okay … okay, Israel … I got it … okay, bye,” and he slapped the cell phone shut and tossed it into the car cup holder. He shook his head and blew hard through his nose.

He punched on the car radio, heard hard rock nonsense, rolled the dial until he came across “Under Pressure,” a classic plain and simple if you asked him, and sat back and stared out the open window. It was drizzling, the air cool. The gasoline smell coming from the backseat was bearable as long as the breeze kept moving.

He saw a light flash down the street, and a minute later Barrel came trudging up with his Maglite. He plopped his fat self in the passenger seat, peeling off the sweatshirt hood. “Car still there,” breathing heavy. “One verandah light on upstairs, everything copacetic.”

Carlo, leaning a shoulder against his car door, said, “Yeah?” nodding and looking sidelong at Barrel. He sniffed and turned his gaze to the windshield. “Sounds like we have time to give it another five minutes, then.”

Barrel rubbed his hands together. “Awright, no problem with me.”

Like he had a choice. Like Carlo needed him to approve. It was too dark for Carlo to see the bruising around Barrel’s temple and left cheekbone that Israel’s broken cane had left, but when he saw it earlier it had surprised him; he didn’t think he’d belted the man that hard. Thinking about it now, he felt bad, same as when you whip a dog for chewing the bedpost or shitting on the carpet. You didn’t want to strike fear so much as instill obedience and loyalty, but what you gonna do? The deed was done and Barrel was here and they had a job to perform. So maybe, if he was going to wait here with the man, it was better to pass the time by being sociable. Show a little humanity. He said, drumming the steering wheel to the beat, “Barrel, Julius told me one time—God rest his soul—he said you had a wide-screen flat panel and home theater system and all this?”

“Yeah, mahn. It sweet, it sweet.”

“True high-def and everything?”

“Yeah, 1080p, fifty-inch sharp contrast, all the bells and whistles. My cousin in NYC hooked me up last Christmas.”

“Oh, a
gift
. I was gonna say, Barrel’s hauling in big cash on the side with something I don’t know about, like deal me in.” He rattled off a drumbeat on the wheel. “I like this part right here, Bowie, dude knew what he was doing.”

“Bowie? No, this that guy, what’s the guy’s name, Queen?”

“You got shit mixed up. But you know? Every time I hear this beat I can’t help but think about that other song. Completely messed it up for me. Fucking Vanilla Ice. Listen to that idiot on VH1 the other day, ‘No, I didn’t sample. Their groove line goes, Ding-ding-ding-da-dah-ding-ding. My one goes, Ding-ding-ding-
da-duh
-ding-ding.’ Asshole, what the fuck is that?”

Barrel chuckled into the side of his fist.

Carlo said, staring at the radio clock. “You know what?”

“Now?”

“Exactly.”

Carlo started the car and they drove up a distance until they were directly across the street from the house. Barrel got out, went around and climbed into the backseat. Carlo peered up at the dark house, hearing Barrel say, “Not like I can’t afford a flat-panel, you know. I save, every week,” Barrel checking out the box on the floor. Carlo pulled out a little baggie of coke from his shirt pocket and helped himself to a pinkie-nail hit. He tipped his head back, sniffing, said, “Ahhh,
shit.
” Cracked his knuckles, smoothed his slicked-back hair with both hands and said, “Let’s roll, big Barrel. Yee-haw.” He tugged on a black skullcap, feeling nicely nervous.

Barrel was bent over the box, tightening the strings that affixed the tampons to the necks of the bottles. They had soaked the tampons in gasoline and filled each bottle with half gas, half motor oil, the oil being the ingredient that would stick to everything and accelerate this blaze.

They crossed the dirt street carrying two bottles each down by their legs. A moist breeze was blowing off the bay, cooling Carlo’s chest, and he thought about pneumonia and night chills and other old wives’ tales but he knew this was just nervousness rippling through like a current.

The gate was wide open, the way Barrel had left it earlier. No dogs barking, no sounds except crickets singing in the streetside bush. They came to the Honda in the carport under the house. It was locked, windows up. Carlo said low, “Do this last.” He motioned that he was going up, the verandah at the side of the house, Barrel should stay down by that window facing the canal. “Yeah, that one there.”

On his way upstairs, Carlo heard a faint meow. He stepped onto the narrow verandah and stood by a metal patio table and chairs to listen, heard nothing now. His nasal passages were clear from the coke and he felt so good in the quiet darkness, like he did just before a good bowel movement. Maybe Israel should try some blow, a tiny bump, couldn’t hurt.

He grinned at his reflection in the sliding glass door, checked his distance from it, took two steps back, knocking into the table. Shit. He set the bottles on the ground and moved the table and a chair out of the way to clear a running path. He took a Bic from his pocket, picked up a bottle, and put the flame to the tampon. He faced the glass door again, reared his arm back—brought the bottle down. His scalp prickly, a breeze caressing the back of his neck. He wanted this feeling to last, like long sex.

He said, “Fuck this,” and totter-stepped forward and flung the burning bottle, the crashing shower of glass frightening him momentarily, and he pulled back as a ball of flame—
fhoop—
lit up the living room, fire whipping across the carpet, eerie. He remembered, snatched up the other bottle, lit that and dashed it, clumsily because he was already turning sideways, getting ready to run away from the heat.

He raced down the steps, almost tumbling, hollering at Barrel, “Yes yes yes,” and saw Barrel send a flaming bottle crashing through the downstairs louvers. Carlo was at the gate saying, “Let’s go,” when Barrel lit the last bottle and flung it at the car’s driver’s side window, glass breaking and flames blowing up with a violence.

They drove away from the house, the upstairs windows glowing red and the car engulfed in fire. Carlo was giggling and when he noticed Barrel looking scared he held his belly with one hand and laughed hard. After they turned the corner, Barrel started laughing, too, the relief getting to him just now.

Carlo’s hand slipped down and, uh-oh, what’s this here? The strongest erection he’d had in months. He adjusted, left his hand there all the drive home, now and again picturing Mirta in her peach bra and panties, her pale soft skin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

After Riley returned the Monsantos’ last four buckets, he had a rough week. He was drifty and forgetful, sometimes wandering in and out of rooms; not knowing why he was standing in front of his open fridge; sipping bourbon from his favorite shot glass only to look at it three drinks later and realize it was a small water glass he was holding.

Saturday morning, slightly hungover, he forced himself to rise early, prepare for Turo’s trip with the tourists. The only reason he’d remembered was Turo had called him “to discuss the itinerary.” Yes, Turo, Altun Ha then Progresso, Orange Walk Town if they want, that’s right. Bye, Turo.

He made a pot of coffee and took a mug into the yard. He checked the tire pressure, packed the raincoats in the back, restocked the first-aid kit with bandages and a fresh tube of antibiotic ointment. Wiped down the seats with Armor All and swept the floors with a small brush and dustpan. Aware all the while of Candice’s bedroom windows looming over him like two huge eyes.

Last night she’d said, “We need to talk, okay?” But when she shifted the conversation by asking him if he’d seen his son lately, saying that she was looking forward to the photo shoot, Riley realized, with relief, that she didn’t want to talk just yet. He said, “I haven’t called him,” and pointed at his stomach. “Didn’t want to scare him.” Then Candice pushed him back on the bed, conversation over, and changed his dressing tenderly, whispering as she unrolled the gauze, “Let’s see how we’re doing here, big man.”

Later, at the door, she said, “So are we okay?”

“Yes, Candice. Gimme a week and I’ll be a stallion again.” Purposely misunderstanding.

“No, I mean we,” her hand going back and forth between them, “are
we
okay.”

“Yes.” He reached for her hand. “Why not?”

Why not indeed. Gazing up at her house he had a sense there was something she wanted to tell him. He’d felt comfortable with her from the start because she didn’t talk about herself much and it didn’t appear to bother her that he’d followed suit. One major trait of their relationship, living so close together: They respected each other’s private selves. He wondered if with marriage up the road, that map would be redrawn.

Back in the house, he found himself wanting a beer or a little taste of bourbon, just to get his mind right. He had a slow shave instead, lathering up thick, using his straight razor—a gift from Candice—to force himself to slow down; pay attention or he’d feel some pain. Not quite halfway through, staring at the mirror, he saw a rifle muzzle flash and Miss Rose falling … a dark shape falling …

He set the razor down. Sat his ass on the toilet cover and took a minute to compose himself.

More foolish than brave he finished with the straight razor, satisfied that he came away with only two nicks. He rinsed off, heard a banging, thought it was the pipes. But when he turned off the faucet, he realized it wasn’t and went to get the door.

Turo rushed in, eyes bulging. “Mistah Riley, I know I’m kinda early, but you didn’t hear?” He gestured vaguely outside. “Mistah Harvey’s house burned down last night. To the
ground
, total destruction. They’re saying no survivors.”

*   *   *

Storming into the shop, Riley bumped a woman coming out. She touched her shoulder and s
aid
, “Hey.”