Free Mr. Hooligan by Ian Vasquez

that it was “dirty” dollars, and that they were no more righteous than he.
    Riley got his keys from the office, checked e-mail, traipsed into the kitchen and pulled two roaster chickens from the freezer for tonight. Since Lindy’s had started a menu of panades, salbutes, and chicken enchiladas, he was the only one who consistently remembered to prep food, encourage the cook to maintain the quality. Forget that it brought in good money on weekends—or no, Gert wouldn’t forget that, money being her primary concern. The work? Someone else could do that.
    He was in no smiling mood, so better to split. But Harvey stopped him on the way out. “Yo, just remembered. Last night, how’d it go?” The friendly bantering Harvey now. “She say yes? Tell me.”
    Riley put his hands in his pockets, shook the keys. “She said she loves me.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “No, no, it’s just that she wants to get married but didn’t plan on it being so soon. She says she wants to be sure about her answer.”
    “Think she’s scared?”
    “Maybe. We’re having dinner tonight at her place. Says she’ll give me an answer tonight.”
    Harvey said nothing.
    Riley appreciated that Harvey did not make of this an opportunity for humor. When it came to emotions, they weren’t often open with each other, probably like most men who are friends. But when a man speaks plainly and directly about an affair of his heart, listening silently and nodding like Harvey was doing was the most considerate response.
    “Good luck, buddy. I’m crossing my fingers.”
    Riley’s irritation dissolved. He left, thankful for Harvey’s grace.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    The Monsantos lived in a broad three-story wood-frame on Albert Street, with a red zinc roof and a steep stairway with a second-floor landing. Old man Israel and his wife occupied the second floor; a divorced Monsanto sister, her two boys, and Carlo lived on top. The ground floor was half a storeroom in the rear and half Monsanto’s Dry Goods. It was an untidy shop with an arched doorway, a perpetually dusty store window, and bare concrete floor.
    Riley picked his way past the tables of cheap men’s shoes and Chinese-made flip-flops and around a messy rack of grandmotherly dresses. There were a couple of customers in there, a woman at one counter being tended by Carlo, and an old lady and a little boy admiring soccer balls and rubber basketballs on shelves behind a glass counter that displayed pocket knives. Riley could’ve sworn he saw some of those very knives when he was about this boy’s size.
    Riley caught Carlo’s eyes and Carlo nodded. Riley stepped off to the side, scrolling through missed calls on his cell phone, thinking of calling Sister Pat to say he’d drop by.
    Carlo had taken down a bolt of brown cloth and put it on the counter. He unfurled it some, and the woman rubbed the cloth between thumb and forefinger. “Color is right, but, I don’t know, it’s too stiff.”
    Carlo, with his slicked-back hair and loose, flowery shirt, smiled. “You mean you don’t like it stiff?”
    The woman pulled her hand away and stepped back, chin tucked in. Carlo rolled up the cloth. “We have something else you might like, same brown, in polyester.”
    The woman said, “No, that’s fine,” tugging her purse higher on her shoulder. “Thank you very much,” and she made her escape.
    “What’s troubling Mr. James this fine morning?” Carlo said, climbing the stepladder with the bolt of cloth, sliding it up on a shelf.
    “Man, I must be getting wrinkled like you if you’re thinking I look worried.”
    Carlo came down from the ladder and shook Riley’s hand across the counter. “Must be worried ’cause I can’t tell you the last time you set foot in here.” Gripping Riley’s hand, he said low, “Ready for Monday night?”
    “As always.”
    “No change of heart?”
    “Not even palpitations.”
    “So what I’m hearing you say, you’re gonna keep on working with us? Continue making