Mr. Hooligan by Ian Vasquez Page B

of those old days. Just look at their clothes,” the minister said, easing up to the photo. Her hands moved up to it. “Do you mind? A little gift for me?”
    Riley met Gert’s eyes, and Riley said, “Sure. Not a problem.” Gert was fuming.
    The minister took the frame off the nails in the wall and held it out, admired it.
    Harvey just about ran up bearing a tray with the drinks, although later he’d say that wasn’t the case, Riley was exaggerating and he didn’t say, “No, masah, yes, masah,” either, but he did admit it was probably the best Bloody Mary he’d ever prepared and the tallest, prettiest glass of soft drink over crushed ice he’d ever poured.

CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    Monday afternoon, Riley awoke to the sun glaring on his bed—no, not his bed, this was Candice’s—a jagged glass splinter in his brain. His mouth tasted like stale beer and cigars. Candice lay twisted in the sheets beside him, snoring.
    He stumbled out of bed, shifted back into last night’s smoky clothes. Just about everyone he considered a close friend had attended the get-together at Lindy’s. Sister Pat came offering kisses and congrats, but left around eleven, way past her bedtime. Miles Young, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks, came with his little girl, Lani, and sipped a couple of beers with Riley in a corner. “I got a feeling this time, marriage will settle you down,” Miles said. “Just the medication you need.” They tapped bottles and drank in full agreement, then Riley excused himself to speak with the other guests. His neighbor, Bill Rivero, showed up, too, and drunkenly informed everyone within spitting distance that he’d known all along Riley and Candice were gonna march up that aisle. Candice rolled her eyes. Given the fact, Bill said, Riley was always ogling her from his front porch when she took her morning runs and she knew it, too, ’cause those shorts got a little shorter as time went by, got a little tighter. Candice walked away when Bill kept going on and on.
    This person was there, that person—friends who brought friends. Candice seemed uncomfortable but relaxed after a second glass of wine in the smoke, loud music, and raucous laughter. Riley remembered one or two shots of chilled Don Julio with lime and snuggling with Candice and people shouting at them to get a room. He remembered Miles waving when he left, carrying his sleeping daughter.
    Harvey had invited a woman, Jawanda, who said she was from Chicago, but Riley had doubts, and whenever Gert’s head was turned, Harvey would rub Jawanda’s shoulder or hold her hand, in full view of everybody, guy had no shame when he drank. When one of the kegs ran dry at the same time the vodka finished, Riley trekked to the back with Turo to fetch more and they heard a clink clink coming from the back porch. Quietly, Riley cracked the door and looked outside.
    Harvey was standing out there in the semidarkness, his back to them, pants around his ankles, bare-assed. Jawanda’s legs wrapped around his back as she sat on a stack of beer crates, the empty bottles inside going clink clink clink. Turo said, “Disgusting,” but didn’t move, edging forward to peek some more. Miles shut the door and said, “At least he’s doing it gradigually .” Together they left to make sure Gert was in the front or wasn’t on the way to the back for some reason, but it made Riley want to take a shower.
    It was a noisy, blurry night, all right, but four in the morning, Riley toppled into bed happy, and now despite the pain racking his cranium he was most assuredly happier, knowing that after tonight, no more runs, no more anxiety over schemes; he was hours away from being a free man.
    He nibbled Candice’s right ear, and she stirred, then swatted at him. She said, blearily, “You’re leaving? What time is it?”
    “About two o’clock.”
    “My God. I have such a headache.”
    “Got to run a few errands, meet somebody for business out at St. George’s Caye.” A kind