Mr. Hooligan by Ian Vasquez

Author:Ian Vasquez
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Drug dealers, Georgia, Mystery & Detective, Messengers, General, Suspense fiction, Georgia - History - 20th century, Fiction
ISBN: 9780312378110
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-12-07T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The waiter set the platters of stewed snappers and the bowl of yellow rice on the table, and another glass of Sprite for Candice.

Malone rattled his glass of ice at the waiter. “I could do with another Johnnie Walker Black. Less ice this time?” He handed off the glass brusquely.

After the waiter left, he said, “Notice he didn’t bother asking me if I wanted a refill.” He leaned over the food, examined it. “What’s this on top of the fish?”

“Those are onions,” Candice said.

“Huh. Why are they red?”

“If you look closely, the entire fish is red. It’s a local seasoning. You ever heard of recado?”

Malone eyed the fish. “Why do they serve it like this, with the head?”

Candice said, patiently, “Because that’s how this dish is prepared. A whole stewed snapper. That’s what it’s called. It’s not a fillet, Henry.”

“I don’t know about this…”

Candice spooned yellow rice onto her plate, Malone watching her. She broke off a section of her snapper with the edge of the spoon and put it on her plate. She ladled some of the broth and onions over the rice.

Cautiously, Malone followed her lead.

She said, “What’s wrong with you today?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I’ve been watching you. Your body’s here, but your mind is out to sea.”

She lowered her eyes and ate some rice. Yes, she was a ball of nerves. She didn’t know where Riley was. She’d called his house and the bar several times. No answer. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Malone tried to shake salt on his food but nothing sprinkled out. He banged the shaker on the table and tried again. “Couldn’t they have put a little rice in here? Haven’t they heard of humidity before?” Banged the shaker again. A woman at a window table turned to look at him.

They were at the Château Caribbean, windows open to the sea air, and before Malone’s little snit-fit everyone had been having a quiet lunch. Candice reached over and calmly pried the shaker away. Malone laid his forearms on the table and exhaled heavily. She unscrewed the cap, turned it over and cleared the holes and the opening of the bottle with a finger, screwed the cap back on and set the shaker down in front of him. “Would you look at that. The magic of patience.”

He sprinkled salt over his fish. “Sorry.” He picked up his knife and fork, looked out the big windows facing the sea. “Just in a pissy mood today.”

After his drink came, they ate in peace. He admitted the fish was much tastier than it appeared, except he might have to pass on the head, those teeth. Like the fish was grinning at him.

Candice said, “But we get the last laugh because we’re eating him and he’s so yummy,” hoping to lighten things up.

Malone wiped his lips with the napkin. “My wife is leaving.”

Candice set her fork down.

“She said she’s had enough. Enough of this heat, the dust. How there’s nothing to do here. She says she misses all the conveniences of the States.

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