Mr. Hooligan (37 page)

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.

At 4:00 he figured something must be wrong and got out of the van. He walked down to the riverbank and peered east into the darkness along the line of the river’s edge. Way he understood it, the Monsanto place was—that direction? But then maybe—talking to himself, pointing—it could be
this
way. More northeast? Didn’t matter, something wasn’t right. He said, “This is not cool,” and then a burst of gunfire crackled from deep in the trees.

And he ran, didn’t know where to go, just ran. He stopped, looked around, sprinted to the van and stumbled inside. Fumbled with the key and heard gunfire again, coming from the east. Far away—far away, Harvey, relax. He let go of the keys and raised his hands high to stop himself from driving off.

Another burst of shots and he saw flashes in the distance. No way. He started the van and rolled out, slow, his stomach churning. He kept going, no headlights, didn’t know what he was thinking. He braked and said, “Jesus Christ, man,” and thought for sure he was going to lose control of his bowels if they didn’t show up soon, and that’s when he heard them running up, thank god. When this was over he was gonna chant some Psalms every day, swear to Christ. They were talking excitedly, laughing. He threw the van into park, reached over and opened the passenger door, needlessly because they flung open the back and piled in, rifles clattering, boots thumping the walls.

“Drive, drive!” Lopez said.

Busha hooted and howled.

Harvey stepped on the gas, tires spinning and kicking up gravel before they caught, and off the van flew, bumping and rocking down the farmer’s land and onto the dirt road, Harvey smiling widely for some damn reason, maybe feeling their energy.

In the back, Lopez was holding his stomach and rolling around with laughter.

*   *   *

Riley was making good time on the river, enjoying the breeze on his face. He felt wide awake, a sharp thrill.

Barrel was talking a lot, nervous, talking about anything—flat-panel TVs, like which of the smaller ones were better, LCD or plasma? Car stereo hookups, he wasn’t sure if he wanted that or maybe he was gonna go satellite, forget all that wiring hassle.

After a mile or so, Riley was no longer listening. Maybe in the past, when he knew he needed to develop rapport with a man he was doing runs with, he might’ve been polite, but the central focus of his thoughts, as the skiff sliced down that green-black river, tilting as it weaved through the forest, his focus was Candice.

It was her play and he was completely uncertain what she would do. To his core, he feared she would disappoint him.

So when he heard the big engine of another boat coming down the river he wasn’t surprised. He jacked the throttle back and aimed the bow at a turnoff. Barrel stood up, hearing it too. His head jerked around, huge eyes asking Riley what was up.

The bow dropped and the engine fell to a rumble, the boat slipping past a stand of trees and into a narrow channel. “No big deal,” Riley said, “let’s wait this out.” Ahead he could see where the channel ended, at a cove in the bank. Trees darkened the passage on both sides and Riley killed the engine and let the boat float on.

Barrel had shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans shorts, adopting a much cooler pose, looking toward the river and the vessel they couldn’t see yet.

It was coming, a heavy engine, a big boat. A big boat on the river this time of morning? Riley moved away from the wheel and stood next to Barrel, both of them watching through a lace of low-lying branches and leaves for the boat to pass.

Barrel said, “Star, we don’t have nothing incriminating on board, correct?” He stood tiptoe, scanning. “So we don’t need to be doing this, hiding in here, right?”