Mr. Hooligan (38 page)

Riley spat over the side. “I know that. But we don’t need to be seen either.”

It was coming and Riley held his breath. Tall bow, covered cockpit, streaming by … then gone. Riley lifted his eyes, took in the stars. He had been expecting disappointment and now that he’d seen it was an ordinary cargo boat, probably going to some village, what did he feel? To expect disappointment—to expect to have your desires unfulfilled—was a conundrum he’d have to discuss with Sister Pat one day; did it mean he was expecting to fail?

For Candice to fail him?

The skiff bumped into something, and Riley swung away and hopped onto the bow to push it back from branches. He leaned into a thick branch and shoved so that the tree shook and the boat slid back, nearer to the middle of the channel. Bush rustled and something skittered up the soft bank into the undergrowth. The channel narrowing, the other side coming closer. He sat on the bow, legs over the side, to wait for a stout branch to push against.

“Listen, listen,” Barrel said. “Hear that?”

Riley stuck his hands out, ready for the tree.

“Sounds like that boat turning around.”

Riley glanced back, didn’t hear a thing. Barrel was standing at the stern, leaning forward and cupping an ear.

“Think maybe we should wait, hang out here five minutes, star? Be on the safe side?”

Riley said, “No problem,” and pushed off on a branch, grunting, but not pushing hard enough. The skiff barely moved, seemed to be dragging on something. Riley said, “Shit,” hauling up to his feet and jumping back into the cockpit to get the pole lying on the floor against the wall. He lifted it, maneuvering one end out from under the bow, and going back to the front, he noticed his glove box was still open. His gun was gone.

He looked about on the floor, the seat. The boat jerked and Riley stepped up onto the bow, lugging the pole, saying, “Lift the prop out the water, Barrel, lift it up.” He stood at the tip and jammed the pole into the mud bank till it hit something solid, and he pushed, the boat pulling loose from whatever vegetation was trapping it. He stuck the pole into the water, hit bottom, shoved off again, the boat swerving away from the bank and into deeper water. He pulled up the pole and did it again, turning his face to see sidelong into the boat.

Barrel said, “So this is it for you, huh? Last big drop. We’ll miss you, you know that?”

Riley said, “Yeah?” sweating lightly, feeling around with the pole, occasionally touching the semisoft bottom.

“That’s right.” The boat shifted, Barrel moving around. “They say nobody could do it like R.J. It’s been an honor, no lie, an honor to do this with you, star. Me and you, we never really got to like hang out or anything but it’s been an honor to learn the ropes from you. I’ll be the first to admit that.”

Barrel’s weight shifted the boat again and Riley worked the pole around, swishing water. “You lifted that prop high, right, Barrel?”

A beat, then Barrel said, “Oh … yeah … yeah, mahn. I follow directions good, star.” His breathing sounded heavy, and he was moving around way too much.

Riley said, “Wait, hold still a second,” and fast, hand over hand, he lifted out the pole, choked up on it baseball style, pivoted and lashed out, catching Barrel on the side of the head. Barrel staggered to the far side of the cockpit, holding his head, and Riley flew at him. He punched him one-two full in the face, loud smacking noises, and Barrel dropped to one knee and bounced back up and made a big ungainly step to get away before Riley dug a fist into his ribs and jumped on his back, hooking a right arm tight, tight around his neck. Barrel fell forward on his belly, Riley on top, arm locked and squeezing. Barrel’s hand shot straight out, slapping the deck, reaching for something. Then Riley saw it, a pistol, and now Barrel had it, dragging it in, and Riley watching it while squeezing, squeezing, Barrel growling and slobbering, raising up on his elbows and knees, scary strong, now curling one arm up over his head and pointing the pistol backward at Riley. Riley edged away from the pistol, the muzzle wavering, Barrel’s thick neck clamped in the sweaty crook of his arm. Riley gave it more pressure; if he could pull the man’s head off he would. He was straining to no effect, the muzzle flapping, finding him, flapping away. Barrel had lifted himself up. Riley was hooked to his neck like a monkey, couldn’t do anything to stop this man. The muzzle was on him again and he let go and slammed his forearm hard in the back of Barrel’s neck. Barrel careened forward, Riley’s momentum sending him sailing into Barrel, the two of them lurching and hitting the deck. Riley scrambled up, Barrel was still on one knee, swiveled his body around and gave Riley a perplexed look. What are we doing?

Then Riley reared back and kicked him hard in the chin. Barrel wobbled in place and dropped back on his butt heavily. He sat slumped, head lolling. Riley stepped on the gun hand, reached down. Barrel struggled but with no conviction, like he was half asleep, and Riley wrenched it away.

“Don’t move,” he said, panting. He backed up, winded, pointing the gun. “I said don’t
move.
” He got behind the wheel and hit the switch to lower the engine. Then he started up, reversed, throttled forward, reversed, forward again, one stiff arm pointing the pistol, the other steering them out of the cove and back into the main flow. Barrel sat dazed.

In the open, Riley juiced it for a short stretch, eased the speed and brought the hull down slowly and dropped into idle. Barrel was stirring, looking at Riley.

“Where’s my gun, Barrel?” Riley felt a tug of pain and touched his stomach, reached under his shirt and patted around the bandage. His abdomen was dry but was hurting like a fury.

Barrel mumbled something, gesturing at the river.

Riley said, “You threw it in?”

Barrel coughed, grimacing, put a hand on his throat. “This—this wasn’t my idea … okay?”

“Then who?”

Barrel, head lowered, was massaging his neck, turning his head side to side. Riley quickly drew the pistol close to his chest—it was a small Glock—pulled back the slide with his left hand, pushed the tip of his shooting finger into the chamber and felt the round there. He said, “Carlo or Israel, which one?”

Barrel kept a hand over his throat and shrugged. “It matter to you? Like two of them, star.”

“Why?”

“Aw, man, fuck, this some messed-up shit. I didn’t even want to
do
this, man.”

“Tell me why, Barrel.”

“All I know, they’re talking, Carlo the one mostly, that you fucked up things for them with the Mexicans, you and your friend. Now, they got to make things right.”

“They already made things right. That’s what we just did.”

“No, it’s you who didn’t want to be part of the business. Carlo saying they can’t trust you now, the way they see it, they don’t feel obliged to shelter you. Look, star, I ain’t the one saying this, this is them, they the ones put me up to this.”

“Yeah, and you simply had no choice, sure.”

“Man, I’m serious, they said I been fucking up so I got to prove my worth, what you want me do, star? Or I get offed, too.”

Riley said, “Well, you tried and it didn’t work out for you, so guess what’s going to happen.”

“No, hold up, hold up,” Barrel raising a palm. “Slow … slow down and listen to me.”

“Get up, Barrel.”

“What?”

“Stand up.”

“Give me time for us to talk this out—”

Riley stepped up and pushed the gun inches from Barrel’s nose.

“Whoa shit, awright, awright,” Barrel pushing up, slow and timid. He stood up shakily, raised his palms by his chest.

“Go get my .45,” Riley said.

“Huh…?”

“Go on and get it.”

Barrel shook his head fast. “Yo, look, I can’t swim.”

Riley motioned with the gun. “You need some motivation? Get in, Barrel.”

“Please don’t do me like this.”

When Riley said nothing, Barrel saw begging would take him nowhere and he sat on the gunwale. After a moment, he threw a leg over. He sat sideways, one foot in the water. He said, shaking his head, “I can’t swim, I’m not lying.” He leaned over, dipped a hand in. “It’s cold.” He looked insulted. “It’s
cold,
man.”

“My heart too. Get in, Barrel.”

“I can’t swim, I can’t swim,” and Barrel lifted the other leg up and over and lowered himself in. He splashed around with one hand, the other hand gripping the gunwale. Riley walked up and stepped on his fingers and Barrel let go.

“Help me, it’s cold, shit … it’s cold…” Splashing in place, dog-paddling clumsily.

Riley said, “Hear this now, you got about fifty yards to go that way, east. About—hmm, seventy this way. Or, here’s an idea, you could go this way, downriver, let the current carry you over there, by that bend? That’s only like forty, fifty yards. But you know what, on second thought, scratch that, that’s some thick bush in there, real swampy, and you might have to contend with snakes and jaguars and such.”

Barrel was dog-paddling, chin dipping in and out.

“But at least you have options,” Riley said, and went to the helm.

Barrel stroked awkwardly for the east bank, then went back to dog-paddling.

Riley said, “But look at you, who says you can’t swim? I’m impressed.”

Barrel spluttered, “Can’t swim. Can’t swim too good … help…”

Riley punched the throttle and roared off, looking back once to see Barrel swimming furiously away from the wake, and the waves washed over him, his head disappearing then bobbing up as he stroked erratically, before another wave rolled over.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

On the dark highway, hip-hop blaring, the mood in the van was jovial. Lopez was in the front passenger seat and had rolled his window down, smiling into the breeze. In the back, Tic Tac kept asking to take one more sniff of the fresh bread, and Lopez would turn around, grinning, holding open the burlap sack in between the bucket seats so Tic Tac could inhale deep over the U.S. currency stuffed inside. Tic Tac threw his head back and said, “Ahhh,” and brayed with laughter.

Lopez folded the sack shut and said, “Enough, enough,” doing his best to act professional.

Going through Biscayne Village then Sand Hill, they passed three, maybe four pairs of headlights, that’s all, going the other way. Nobody else on the road, they were almost home free. When Busha leaned between the front seats and tried to sniff the money like Tic Tac, Harvey said, firmly, “Do not pull on my seat like that, man, you’ll make me lose control,” and when Lopez followed immediately with, “Settle down, Busha,” Harvey smiled to himself.

Yeah, settle your chubby ass down, Harvey thought, leave me the hell alone, we’ll get back in one piece and I’ll have some time to think and finish packing my toothbrush and whatnot and meet Gert at that hotel before we catch that flight out. That was the hazy part, though, which had been bugging him: Why did Riley insist that he and Gert check into the hotel? Okay, it was close to the airport—that was the only reason he could surmise. Fact was, he felt comfortable and safe in Miles Young’s house. Harvey just wanted things straight and simple so he wouldn’t have to worry like this.

“You talk to yourself all the time?”

Harvey said, “What?”

Lopez was staring at him. “Right now. You were talking to yourself, your finger banging the wheel, just did it.”

Harvey said, “Nervous habit.”

“Nervous? No need to be nervous when the job is done,” and he patted the side of the sack. “Tell your friend Riley James he’s good in my books. Probably what should happen, tell him, me and him could do business again. Think about it, tell him. Seeing as how his buddy, the Monsanto guy, will be out of commission.”

Harvey swallowed. His mouth felt dry. Then he asked the question he’d been scared to ask since they left the farmer’s house. “What happened back there?”

Lopez shook his head. “Nothing surprising. That Monsanto guy? The one with the—the shellacked hair—what’s his name anyway?”

“That’s the one they call the Serpent,” Busha said.

“Serpent, huh? Oh-kay. Well,” Lopez speaking to Harvey but looking out the window, “the Serpent wanted to strike. Tried to show some defiance—get this—
after
we seized the money. What was he going to do?
Really
.”

“Tic Tac took care of business, though,” Busha said.

“That he did.”

“Man, I saw his knee go out. Like blood and flesh and pulp just spit out the other side, damn, that was nasty, Tic Tac.”

Tic Tac said, “Easier we don’t talk about it, then. All I know, you do what you got to do when you’re a soldier.”

Harvey thought, Listen to these guys.

Lopez said to him, “So after that, we shot up the place, the walls and lights, like that. You know, drive home the point. He was the one seemed to want a show of force, he got it.”

Harvey didn’t like this talk. He supposed it might be bragging but had the feeling it was mostly fact. They were coming up on a speed bump, a streetlight on the side of the road reflecting off a sign that said Ladyville.

Busha said, “
Daaamn
, what the hell is that smell?” and Lopez joined in with, “Jesus!” fanning the air in front of his face. Tic Tac hollered, “Ho, gimme a window quick,” laughing as he leaned in between the bucket seats.