The Reformed

by Tod Goldberg

  It was actually rather fascinating to watch the skewed reasoning of men, particularly powerful men, and here on display was the old school and the new doing battle over what was, in essence, the future of the gang. They needed this place for the long-term survival of their clan. But bringing in a kid was a level of devotion I wasn’t familiar with and wasn’t comfortable with. I knew we needed to protect Leticia, but hearing Junior threaten the kid’s life in front of his father was a nihilism that told me all I needed to know about Junior: He knew this was his chance to make it. What “it” is to anyone is a good question, but for Junior, a man who’d spent thousands of days behind bars, clearly this was a chance at the life he felt he deserved.

  “He’s with it,” Killa said, though he didn’t sound all that affirmative. “He’s with it. Just get me to the hospital, Junior, because I’m gonna lose my knee, man. I know it.” He’d begun to bargain, which wasn’t a good sign. He was actually going through all of the stages of mourning right in front of us.

  “Adrian,” Father Eduardo began to say, but then Sam started to get up, so he quieted down. He knew his role well. He also knew that his brother was suffering.

  “Everyone settle down,” I said. “Even if you kill the kid, what does that matter to me? What’s the use? You hurt Father Eduardo? You think that matters to me?”

  “Same use as all the dead bodies Eduardo put into the ground thirty years ago,” he said. “It’s good for our family. That’s the only one that matters. I’m going to guess the good father doesn’t want a dead kid on his hands, because I will make it look like his doing. And that you best believe. I lose; he loses. That’s the new rule. I’ve got ways to make this happen. That you best believe, too.”

  “Right,” I said, “you’ve got cops. I know. We all got cops. But, really, that doesn’t matter to me. I’m happy to give you the plant from midnight to six. I get twenty-five percent of what you print.”

  Junior pondered for a moment. “Ten percent.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation,” I said. “I just gave you the terms. And you employ your own guys. I’m not compromising my operation here with your three-fingered technician.”

  I let that sink in, let him know I knew so much more than just the basics, that I was in on the minute details, too.

  “He won’t be working for me anymore,” Junior said. “Or for anyone.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “I get final approval on your plates, too. You running the U.S. Mint through here, I don’t want it to be a half-assed job. We all go back to prison if you’re making that skunk money I saw at the hotel.”

  I let that sink in, too. I’d infiltrated all aspects of his life, and now he knew it. Maybe it was a surprise, maybe it wasn’t, but it couldn’t have been good news for him.

  “Deal,” Junior said.

  “And from now on,” I said, “I control your security operations. We got into and out of your life in two days. We know everything about you, and we’re just businessmen. Right, Finley?”

  “Business is our business, big man,” Sam said.

  “That’s not happening,” Junior said.

  “You work with me,” I said, “you work with me. Or you’re going to be a liability, like Killa here.”

  A moan rose from the floor, where Killa was likely counting toward the five-minute mark, which was when he thought he’d see himself from the inside out. He was also likely considering the fate of his son, maybe himself.

  “How much time has elapsed, Finley?”

  Sam looked at his watch. He had no idea how much time had passed. Neither did I. “Four minutes and seventeen seconds. Eighteen. Nineteen.”

  Even though the acid that was currently biting into Killa’s skin repelled water, the amount of acid was so insignificant inside the paintball that the best antidote was water, or a flush of water.

  “Go ahead,” I said to Sam. He got up, opened up the small fridge in the corner of Father Eduardo’s office and came away with a bottle of Evian, which he dumped on Killa’s wound.

  “There,” Sam said. “Unless you’re the Wicked Witch of the West, you should be fine now.”

  “I’d go see a doctor, anyway,” I said. “Since you don’t have any ligaments in your knee anymore. And you’ll probably get gangrene from the wound, too.” Killa whimpered something that sounded like “Thank you,” but I couldn’t be absolutely sure.

  The truth was that he probably wasn’t in terrible pain from the shot or the acid. The torn ligaments would hurt and make it hard for him to walk, and he’d never play pro football again, but nothing that had happened to him was particularly torturous.

  Killa was experiencing anticipatory pain. It normally happens to people in the middle of combat. A person gets nicked by a piece of shrapnel, sees that his flesh is torn and bleeding, and thinks he should probably be in terrible pain, even if he isn’t. So he acts as if he is. The human brain doesn’t realize that you look like the toughest man alive; it just realizes that you should be in pain by virtue of visual evidence, and the next thing you know, you’re prostrate on the floor, clutching your knees to your chest and sucking your thumb.

  I regarded Junior again. “Those are the terms.”

  “You protect me, then,” he said, “but you leave the rest of the Emperors out. I’m not opening my books to you.”

  “Fine,” I said, because it was precisely what I wanted. “What else?”

  “I thought you made the terms?”

  “I do, but you could do this without us,” I said. “You’re paying a twenty-five-percent tariff on your product just because it’s easier for you. So you tell me what other low-down shit you want to do, and I’ll tell you if it’s possible.”

  “You’re a smart man, Solo.”

  “No,” I said. “I just got here first.”

  “I need an office,” he said. “People see me working for Father Eduardo, they’ll think he turned me. They’ll think the LE are dead. I need that.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I don’t kill the boy,” he said.

  “Kill the boy,” I said, “and I’ll kill Julia Pistell, and then you’ll have two murders on your plate. So I ask again, What’s in it for me?”

  The truth was that I needed to get Junior in the building. If this was all going to work, I’d need him to not just be counterfeiting money here in the middle of the night; I needed him to be in an office, doing the business of the Latin Emperors. It wasn’t legal for the police to bug the church, but I’m not the police.

  With twenty-five percent of the counterfeit money even for one day, I’d be able to put that bogus cash directly into the hands of someone who could make a difference, someone who would bypass the beat cops on Junior’s payroll.

  Someone like the mayor.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I need some bodies,” I said. “Some muscle to do a few jobs for me. I figure you got guys who could help me. Guys who know how to stay quiet if they get nicked. Guys who could do a year standing on their head if some shit went down wrong. I’m not anticipating that, of course, but that’s the kind of soldier I need. Killa here wouldn’t be a good choice, on account of his busted knee and his crying, but I think you get what I’m aiming for.”

  My plan was to not just get Junior in the building, but to get his men out on the streets in a situation I controlled that might just negatively affect the morale of the Latin Emperors. If you want to make a powerful leader vulnerable, make his troops think he’s incompetent and leading them into slaughter. Natural selection tends to take care of the rest.

  There was a sound out in the hall just as Junior was about to give me his answer. It was perfect timing: the sound was Fiona pulling Barry down the hall, the stock-whip wrapped around his neck. Barry’s face was bright red, probably from lack of oxygen, and he had dried blood on his face, neck and white shirt, which I suspect Fiona had picked out this morning simply for the effect it provided.

  “Hello, boys,” Fiona said,
and then flung Barry into the room by snapping the whip handle around in front of herself. Barry spun and then landed on the sofa with a thud. It was a neat trick. Sam tried his best not to show any concern for Barry, but, well, he’s a chivalrous guy, so he gave Barry a shove in the chest for good measure.

  Fiona stood in the doorway, admiring her work. She still had the whip in her hand. It made for a lovely image. “You left your trash out on the curb,” she said to Junior, “so I picked it up for you.”

  Junior looked confused. Again. Which was what I was aiming for.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” I said, “but I took the liberty of trimming a few of your loose ends before they ended up tying your hands.”

  Junior said nothing. He was too busy glaring at Barry.

  “A guy like Barry? Really? This is who you go to? This is why I either control your program or you walk. So do we have an agreement?”

  After a few seconds, when Junior still hadn’t said a word, Fiona cracked her whip a few inches from his face, which caused him to actually cower. Most people, it turns out, don’t know what to do with themselves when a person cracks a whip at their heads. The reason is that there’s really no way to defend yourself. Put a hand up, and you could end up losing a finger. Put up your forearm in defense, and you run the risk of having your skin flayed open wide.

  “Speak up,” Fiona said, “or I’ll come to your house and steal your throw pillows when you’re not looking.”

  Junior shook his head; it was as if he couldn’t figure all of the things he was being shown. “Who are you?” he said again.

  “Not someone you want to be on the bad side of,” I said.

  He looked back over at Barry. “What are you going to do with him?” he said.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Killing him would probably make you happy, but the fact is, he’s got some good qualities. We’ve done some business in the past, but not the kind you hired him for, that’s for sure. But I feel like he might be able to provide us with some insight into a professional counterfeiting business. Would that be right, Barry?”

  Barry nodded once. He knew his role, too, but in this case he was also scared. All that blood on him wasn’t an actual indication of serious injury, though. It looked like Fiona had simply cut him on his scalp with a razor. It would hurt and it would bleed, but it would require only a Band-Aid. In fact, it had already stopped bleeding, so it was likely Barry wouldn’t even have a scar.

  “I want him dead,” Junior said.

  “I can understand that,” I said. “But what you want and what happens now are irrelevant. He works for me until I say he doesn’t work for me.”

  This was a lot for Junior to consider. Probably more than he’d managed to ponder outside of solitary confinement, at least. At his feet was his main muscle. Behind him was the man he thought he was going to juice. And surrounding him were people telling him how his life was going to be for the foreseeable future. If he was smart, he’d agree to all I’d offered him. He’d make his money. He’d take his revenge—albeit more passively than he might want—and he’d secure the future of his organization. If he was stupid, he’d agree, and then an hour later he’d come back with fifty guys holding automatic weapons and kill us all. There was no gain in that now, really, which meant if he was truly bright, he’d kill us a year from now. Maybe two. Long enough away that we wouldn’t be expecting anything, as we’d all be happily in business together. Thirty years he’d waited. He could wait another one or two for the blood he wanted to spill.

  “Fine.” He reached across the desk with his hand extended. “Let’s do this,” he said.

  I took his hand and said, “This is my bond here. I’m good to my word. You be good to yours, and no one gets hurt, except Killa here.”

  “He’ll heal,” Junior said.

  We both laughed. Nothing like two homicidal maniacs agreeing that someone’s suffering was damn funny.

  “One other thing,” I said, still holding on to him.

  “Yeah?”

  “You come within three feet of Father Eduardo,” I said, and then I gave him a good squeeze, and then another to make him wince, which was surprising, since he wasn’t a small man, “and I will kill you.”

  “And if you touch any of my men again,” he said, and this time he returned the squeeze, “I will kill the girl.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  Fiona cracked the whip around Junior’s neck and yanked him toward her with a quick flourish of her wrist. He was at least a foot taller than she, but at that moment, it didn’t really matter, since he couldn’t breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” Fiona said, “I didn’t hear you.”

  Junior let out a series of gurgles and gasps.

  “Uh, honey,” I said.

  “Yes, darling,” she said.

  “If you’re going to kill him,” I said, “could you do it outside? It wouldn’t be right to do it in the father’s chambers.”

  Junior was scratching at the whip around his throat and gurgling even more. He had a good couple seconds of breath left before he passed out. Interestingly, Killa hadn’t even bothered to move. Morale, it seemed, was low.

  “I guess I won’t, then,” she said, “out of respect for Father Eduardo, and in light of our new business relationship.”

  She flicked her wrist again and, just like Barry, Junior spun out of the whip and then ended up on the floor beside Killa. I got up from the desk and walked around to where they both were and talked very calmly to Junior.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that making threats to me isn’t a good idea,” I said. “I’ll have an office ready for you tomorrow. Can we expect to see you here at nine A.M.?”

  He didn’t say anything. There was a chance Fiona might have done some damage to his windpipe.

  “Noon would be fine, too,” I said, “If maybe you need to see a physician between then and now.”

  Nothing.

  “Make it two. But no later. I know how hard it is to get in to see a doctor on my HMO, so I understand where you’re coming from. I’m going to go ahead with our mutual friend Barry here and see about getting you some decent plates to run from. Does that sound good?”

  Again, nothing. Junior had tears in his eyes, which was nice to see. It’s an involuntary thing when you’re being choked, but it was still a pleasant reminder that he was human.

  “And if you don’t mind,” I said, “it would be nice to get five guys tomorrow, too. I have a job I’d like to get started on.”

  Junior coughed, hacked out a clump of pink saliva and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The tears in his eyes were gone. All that was there was rage. This was not a man used to being beaten; certainly not a man used to being whipped, literally, by a woman. I think maybe his morale was low, too.

  “Girl,” he rasped, but then thought better of his choice to speak when he began coughing and gagging. Better all the way around, really.

  “Well, you two have a nice day, now,” I said. I gave Sam a look, and he got up and yanked both men up by their collars, which didn’t seem to make either of them very happy, not since Killa couldn’t really put any weight on his knee and Junior was having an issue with his throat, and pushed them toward the open door.

  They both stumbled at first and then seemed to gain a bit of purchase after they bounced off each other and found their balance.

  “You don’t ever disrespect me like that,” Junior said, though it was hard to hear him. It’s hard to sound threatening when air keeps whistling out of your throat.

  “I just did,” I said.

  “Never again,” he said.

  “Fine, fine,” I said.

  “And keep her away from me,” he said.

  “Can’t promise that,” I said.

  The issue Junior Gonzalez was having, other than with breathing, was that no one ever talked back to him. He simply wasn’t made to take orders.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  “Tomorrow
,” I said.

  All of us watched Junior and Killa drag themselves down the hallway. They looked like wild horses that had been broken. When they reached the front door, Killa looked back at us and held Father Eduardo’s gaze for a few seconds before he shuffled back out into the daylight.

  “That went well,” Sam said.

  “You think so?” Barry said. “Because I’m covered with blood over here. And, Michael, you didn’t mention anything to me about Fiona wrapping a whip around my throat or cutting me. That was not part of any form of discussion you and I had, Michael, and I’d like you to know that I found both experiences ... to put it mildly ... upsetting.”

  “You loved it,” Fiona said.

  “A part of me enjoyed it,” Barry said.

  Father Eduardo took his rightful seat behind his desk and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Guys,” I said, “can you leave us alone for a minute?”

  “Sure, Mikey,” Sam said. “We’ll get Barry cleaned up in the bathroom. And then maybe, Fi, you can show me that little trick with the whip?”

  “Why don’t you try something proactive,” I said, “like bugging that empty office next door? Get it ready for Junior’s occupancy.”

  When they were gone, I sat down across from Father Eduardo, in the same chair Killa was in prior to my destroying his knee. “I know what I’m doing, Father,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I know. Ernie, he told me you might make it look like I’m in an impossible situation, but that you would be in control. I just ... to see my brother that way. It was hard.”

  “I had to show them that I have no fear,” I said.

  “No, not that. That I understand. To see him subservient to Junior. To see him give up his own son to him. It made me sick. That’s me there, Michael. That’s what I used to do. I may not have killed directly, but I put that fear of suffering into other people. I have to make that right.”

  “You are. Right here.”

  “There’s more. There has to be.”

  “We’ll figure that out,” I said. “In the meantime, it’s business as usual here. We’ll clear the storeroom next to your office and put Junior in there. We’ll give him a computer and a phone and all of the bugging devices money can buy.”