Mr. Hooligan by Ian Vasquez Page A

Solomon was Minister Burrows’s dog,” and he stretched out a palm, giving her the floor.
    Minister Burrows released a dramatic sigh. She touched the base of her throat and started to speak but nothing came out. She was a slim biracial woman, midfifties, hazel eyes, proud bearing. Waiting for her emotions to settle, or putting on an act—that’s how it struck Riley.
    “I loved that dog so,” she said, shakily, barely more than a whisper. “Had her for five years. My Miss Solomon. Smart as a whip. She was the prettiest pup in the litter. I went up to Tampa, Florida, to get her. The sweetest little Weimaraner pup, just gorgeous. Did you notice her coloring?” The minister’s face turned briefly to Harvey, who shifted in his chair. “Sable, an unusual color in dogs. I almost named her that—Sable. But from she was a pup she had this way about her, strong maternal instinct.” The minister seemed to choke up then, and paused. “She was pregnant, did you know?”
    Harvey shook his head. “Aw, hell, didn’t know that.” Pursed his lips. “I don’t know what to say.”
    “It’s sad. A litter of six pups. She was due in a few weeks.”
    “I mean what I said, Mrs. Burrows. I’ll buy a dog to replace her. I know in your heart she can’t be replaced but if you allow me to make that gesture, I’d like to do that.”
    “You can call me Minister Burrows. I’m not a Mrs.”
    The woman was stern, eyes cold, gazing over Riley’s shoulder at the park, the clouds, or who the hell knows, but Riley was beginning to have suspicions.
    When she refocused, she said to Harvey, “Miss Solomon was AKC registered, from a long line of registered Weimaraners. She can never be replaced.” Then she clasped her hands in her lap, lowered her gaze and seemed to withdraw into herself.
    Riley piped up, “So what can we do to, you know, make this unfortunate incident more bearable, Minister Burrows?”
    The woman didn’t even look at him. “Tell him, Victor.”
    Victor Lopez sat forward. “We came here today to discuss fair compensation.” He put a palm on top of the manila folder. “What we have here is the means by which we can consider some arrangement.”
    Riley looked at the beefy hand on the folder, the expensive gold watch in the coarse arm hairs, and thought: This guy is a straight-up gangster. Running with the Monsantos for twenty years had well attuned him to the type.
    “First matter to discuss,” Lopez said. “Miss Solomon. You know how much a dog like Miss Solomon costs? She was the offspring of a show dog. The minister paid one thousand dollars U.S. for her. Those six pups, God rest their little souls, were also the offspring of a show dog from Naples, Florida, called Big Un, a champion in his class. The minister had to pay for that mating. And those six pups?” He shook his head. “It was tragic seeing that. You could understand, the necropsy. The vet lifting those small pink bodies out of Miss Solomon.” He mimed it, hands together, picking the puppies up and setting them on the table. “One, two, three … My heart was breaking, man. Couldn’t save any of them.”
    Minister Burrows’s chair scraped the floor and she shot to her feet. “I can’t listen to this, I can’t.” She was near tears. “Where’s your facilities, please?”
    Harvey stood up. “It’s toward the bar and hang a left. I’ll show you.”
    “Sit. I’ll find it.” She said to Lopez, “Let’s hasten matters, okay?” and she hurried away.
    “So sad,” Lopez said, watching her leave. “You know, each one of those pups was worth a thousand. That was gonna be the asking price. Six thousand dollars. Dead. Not a lot of money, but still, you know. It’s money.”
    He turned to the folder. “Let’s see here now,” flicking it open. “Mr. James, you bought this—” He looked up. “That’s a curious name, uh? James, Riley James, like two last names or could be two first names, whatever pleases. You wouldn’t happen to be