Free Mr. Hooligan by Ian Vasquez Page A

good money for your son and your retirement?” Carlo still holding Riley’s hand. “How’s that boy, Riley?”
    “Getting tall. And sorry, but this is the last job for me.”
    Carlo narrowed his eyes, nodded, sizing up the truth of that. Riley knew him long enough to know that’s exactly what he was doing. Of the two brothers, Carlo was the more shifty one, more volatile, would just as soon hug and offer you a drink as threaten you, which was one reason why some people in the street called him the Serpent. Another reason was that he resembled one, oiled hair, stoop-shouldered and smooth-cheeked, an overbite. Look at this, unbelievable, still gripping Riley’s hand and thinking he was being intimidating.
    “You sure, Riley?”
    Years ago, that might’ve worked, but not anymore. Riley was too experienced to be mistaken for a pushover. Now, Carlo’s act was merely tedious, the clip of his pocket knife showing as always. Abruptly, he released Riley, his face not as congenial as before. “So what then? To what fabulous surprise do we owe this visit?” Lolling his head, adopting sarcasm.
    “Just popped in to see Israel. He available?”
    Carlo went down the counter, picked up the phone on the pillar. He spoke into it, saying if your uncle’s up there, tell him Riley’s down here to see him. He listened, said all right, hung up with a loud clack and turned around. “Go ahead on up.”
    Riley headed through the store, past a mound of garden hoses and a row of wheelbarrows, toward the door in the shadows at the back. He stopped, turned around. “Hey, Carlo?”
    Carlo lifted his chin.
    “Think you could hook me up with a little something when I get back down? Half ounce, say?”
    Carlo strolled away, pausing to rearrange bolts of cloth on low shelves, drop a pair of scissors into a drawer. “Don’t know, Riley, that depends.”
    Riley shifted from one foot to the other, working on patience. “On what?”
    “On a C-note.”
    “For a half ounce?”
    “Half ounce of White Widow. That’s what’s in stock. Furthermore, another half ounce? Just two days ago at the bar I dropped off—” He nodded. “Okay, okay, I see it now, Mr. Riley is diversifying. Got his hands in a little side dealing . I see how it is.”
    “It’s not like that. Seriously.”
    Carlo tilted his head back, appraising Riley. “So you say, so you say. Awright, half ounce. But let’s get this straight, you reselling my stuff you need to step up to a bigger cache, quit playing small change and wasting my time. I might could offer you better pricing even.”
    Riley thought, Yeah, whatever, and headed out the back door and into the cool concrete backyard, in the full shade of the building, and up the steep stairway. Whenever he climbed these stairs, he wondered how old Israel negotiated them and why he just didn’t get another house, it’s not like he couldn’t afford it.
    Before Riley could knock, the door opened and a little boy with a pageboy haircut greeted him. “My uncle says to tell you, could you please have a seat out in the parlor ’cause he’s on the toilet.”
    “Boy!” Israel hollered from another room. “What’s the matter with you?”
    The boy scampered away, feet resounding on the wood floor, down a corridor. Riley took his place on the settee—that’s what the Monsantos called it, not couch —covered in heavy, transparent plastic. It was next to the speakers of an old hi-fi—not stereo . Nothing about this room seemed to have changed in twenty years. Same bouquet of artificial flowers with stems stuck in green Styrofoam in the same wooden bowl on the same dark mahogany coffee table atop the same ultracolorful—though more faded—Mexican rug. Same statue of the Virgin laced with rosaries in a corner, and the same old photos on the wall, a memorial to the Monsanto ancestors from Yucatán.
    The Monsantos all looked alike, even the wives—straight black hair, bushy eyebrows, concave mouth, and rounded facial