Mr. Hooligan by Ian Vasquez Page B

related to Otto James?”
    Riley nodded slightly.
    A smile crept across Lopez’s face. “Ahh, thought as much. You must be his son. Yes? Sure, who doesn’t know about Otto James. Your father, boy,” wagging a fat finger, “he was a character, I’m telling you. Salty exploits, run-ins with the law. Somebody ought to write a book.”
    Riley jerked his chin at the folder. “You were saying?”
    “Ah, yes.” Lopez scissored a page out with his fat fingers and shook it, produced small black-framed reading glasses and slipped them on. “Now, Mr. James, you bought this bar three years ago from one Mr. Paul Gillette. Says here … for one eighty grand—that’s a good price, prime seafront property like this, walking distance from the Princess Hotel down the street there.… So what else?” He squinted at the page, slapped it down, found another. “You made renovations to the place, expanded. Business picked up.” He peered over the top of his glasses at Riley. “Your subsequent divorce from Mr. Gillette’s daughter didn’t appear to damage the deal any.” He leaned in. “Or was that part of the deal?”
    Grinning, thinking he was funny.
    Riley said, “Go ahead.”
    “Well, yes, let’s see here.” Lopez frowned, all business again. “You built a back room, it appears. Remodeled the kitchen, what else, added a deck.” He lowered the paper. “This one right here?”
    Riley nodded.
    “Handsome deck. Fine work in the back. Before you came I took a little tour of the place. I knew you wouldn’t mind. The place is much improved. Mean to say, judging from what I used to hear about it, how run-down it was getting and so.” Lopez adjusted his glasses and made a face, inspecting the paper. “The only problem I see here…” Tilting his head back, making big eyes. “No permit. For that work, thousands of dollars’ worth of work I got to assume, and not one permit pulled with the city? Not good. No permits and therefore no inspectors for all that electrical work among other things you had done in the kitchen.” He sucked in air, raised his eyebrows. “Not good,” and slapped the page on the table. “Dangerous, Mr. James.”
    “Mr. Lopez,” Harvey said, scooting forward, “it was minor, minor stuff in that kitchen, we simply—”
    Riley put up a hand and said, “Wait, let’s hear what the man has to say.” Throwing Harvey a look. Be quiet, please.
    Lopez had another paper in hand. “There was a health inspection this morning. The results here, not good at all. Says here, ‘Roaches found in mop room and under utility sink area.’ ‘Garbage bin outside back door left uncovered.’ ‘Cutting utensils improperly cleaned.’ ” He waved the paper, glancing from Riley to Harvey. “Long list. I could go on if you want.”
    “No,” Riley said. “I think I’m understanding your point.” Meaning he had picked up the unmistakable scent of a shakedown.
    “Already, your establishment is facing a hefty fine.”
    Harvey said to Riley, “The paperwork’s in the office. Haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
    Riley shrugged, said to Lopez, “So you finished, now?”
    “In addition,” and Lopez raised a finger, “last but not least, as they say. That back room. A legal question. I have it from good sources that if I was to enter there, say, on a Friday or Saturday night looking for, oh, maybe some poker action, I hear tell I just might find it. I hear that Lindy’s has a VIP room. Don’t know how true but being a gambling man I’d like to find out.” Lopez sat forward, smiling. “In other words, Mr. James, I would like in on the game. If you know what I’m saying.”
    Riley let a moment pass—a car rolled by, Harvey was rubbing his forehead—before Riley forced a smile, becoming serene. “So like I asked your boss. What can we do to make this incident more bearable? Why don’t you go ahead and name your price?”
    Lopez shook his head emphatically. “It’s not just a matter of price. This