by Tod Goldberg
“I got five guys in the printing press with your two friends,” he said. “They don’t hear from me, your friends are going headfirst into the pulper.”
I looked back at Fiona again, but this time more deliberately.
“Don’t worry,” Killa said, speaking for the first time, “we’ll come back for her later.”
I had a couple choices. I could run and get shot in the back. I could reach into the car, attempt to break Junior’s neck and disarm Killa, but there was a high likelihood that Killa would get off a shot in the process, since the angles of attack were difficult because the Honda was at about hip level for me.
Or I could trust that Fiona would do the right thing.
“Fine,” I said, “let’s have that talk.”
I reached for the door handle at the same moment the Charger slammed headfirst into the Honda Accord, the airbags exploding immediately into Junior and Killa’s faces. Fiona, from the passenger’s seat, floored the Charger into the Accord, shoving it across the street like a toy, spinning it around back to front as it careened toward the grassy area in front of Honrado. Fiona kept ramming the Accord, finally spinning it into a tree, where she then pinned it with the front of the Charger.
If you’re going to be a menace to society, it’s wise to think of the car you drive. A lowered Honda Accord, stripped for racing speed, as it appeared this one was, weighs about 2,600 pounds. A 1974 Dodge Charger weighs about 3,800 pounds. It’s a significant difference if you happen to be sitting in a Honda Accord when it’s hit by a Dodge Charger.
I ran up to the Charger.
“You okay?” I said to Fiona.
“Of course,” she said. “I buckled up first. You might have a small transmission problem, since I just threw it into park while it was running. My legs weren’t long enough to reach the brake. And I think I heard one of the lights break.”
“It’s all right,” I said. I reached into the glove box and took out one of the paintball guns, shoved it into my belt, and then walked toward the Honda. Inside, I could see that both Junior and Killa were a bloody mess. Junior was knocked out. Killa was blinking and gasping for air. I walked around to the passenger’s side and pulled him out and put him on the pavement. His nose was broken for sure—it was turned at a terrible angle on his face—and his right arm, which had held the gun, was broken in at least two places, and was roughly the shape of the letter S. I went back to the Honda and found the gun in the backseat. I picked it up and walked back over to Fi and gave it to her.
“Put this somewhere safe,” I said. “And call Sam. Tell him to set off the ...”
Before I could finish my sentence, a fireball erupted from behind Honrado. It billowed up a good fifty feet into the air and set off every car alarm in the neighborhood.
“What the hell was that?” I said.
“I’m going to guess Sam didn’t quite know the right prescription for setting off the chemicals,” Fiona said. “Like maybe he didn’t bother to use the fentanyl at all and just set fire to the portosyt.”
“Why would he think to do that?” I said.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Fiona,” I said, but I couldn’t be too angry. She had just saved my life, after all. Whatever had just happened had likely saved Sam and Barry’s lives. “Get behind the wheel.”
I ran back over to Killa and grabbed him by the face. “Can you talk?” I said.
He nodded weakly. “What happened?”
“You got played,” I said. “Your brother is a nicer man than me, and he has an offer for you. You want to be reformed?”
Killa’s eyes darted back and forth. “Am I dead?”
“Not yet,” I said. “You have to listen to me. Do you want to be reformed?”
“I just want to be with my kid,” he said.
“Good enough,” I said. I hefted Killa up and dragged him to the Charger and shoved him into the backseat.
“What are you doing?” Fiona said.
“I promised Father Eduardo that we’d give his brother a chance,” I said. I walked around the trunk of the Charger and dragged out a small box of items that would be of interest to any law enforcement officer who might come across Junior. Any box that contains a severed finger wrapped in counterfeit bills tends to draw attention. I’d FedEx another box of items the next day, just to be sure.
I reached inside the driver’s-side window of the Accord and placed the box on Junior’s lap. I reached down and grasped his left wrist, which caused Junior to moan. A good sign. He was alive enough to be in pain. I checked his pulse—it was strong and steady, but judging by the amount of broken teeth in his mouth, the cuts on his face and the way his left leg was crumpled over his right leg, I was going to guess he had a broken pelvis, which is no fun. I had a good sense that he wasn’t going to be waking up anytime soon, with any intention of going through any boxes on his lap. The one thing I needed to make sure of, however, was that Officer Prieto wasn’t the first on the scene.
I was about to hop into the passenger’s seat of the Charger when the eighteen-wheeler, this time not being driven very tentatively at all, and now down to just ten wheels, since the payload had been left behind, therefore allowing it to barrel down the street with far more ease, did just that.
“That would be Sam,” Fiona said.
“I would have never guessed,” I said. “Call Father Eduardo and tell him we have his brother, and then take him wherever Father Eduardo says, okay?”
“If he tries anything, I will shoot him,” she said.
“I don’t think he’ll try anything,” I said. I looked over at him in the backseat. “Especially since he’s passed out from the pain again.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“Finishing this,” I said. I pounded on the roof. “Now go. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and then she backed the Charger away from the wreckage of the Honda and drove off. It was nice to see that there wasn’t too much damage to the front end of the car. The benefits of solid, American craftsmanship.
The truck screeched to a stop, and Barry opened up the passenger’s door and let me in. We eased down the street as if there wasn’t a smoldering fire somewhere behind us. “What the hell just happened back there?” I said once we were safely away.
“Fi texted and said you were in trouble and that I should set fire to those chemicals,” Sam said. “I was just following orders.”
“Where are Junior’s guys?”
Sam looked at Barry. Barry looked at Sam. “They might be locked in the payload trailer.”
“Might?”
“They came at us. One thing led to another, there was a big explosion, they ran into the trailer and, well, that’s where they sit,” Sam said.
“Barry?” I said.
“Whatever Sam says,” Barry said. “The man is a ninja.”
“All right,” I said, “Barry, I’m afraid your friends are only going to get a truck, not a payload.”
“They’re flexible,” Barry said. “And I’ll pay them. Whatever, okay?”
Sometimes, Barry makes more sense than I give him credit. “We need to take care of Prieto,” I said. “I’ve got photos on my phone. We can’t have him messing this up.”
“Aye, aye,” Sam said, and he took out his phone and made a call. “Ross? Ross, it’s Sam Axe. Listen. I just saw someone illegally parked inside a tree in front of Honrado’s headquarters, over by the Orange Bowl. Yeah, looked serious. Can I e-mail you some photos that might be of interest to you? Great, great. I’ll send them right over. And Ross? Get there quick. I think your friend Officer Prieto might be the person involved here. Maybe another hit-and-run.”
When he hung up, Sam had an odd smile on his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You ever do something for someone and you know it’s the right thing even before you do it?”
I thought about pulling Killa out of the car and offering him his brother’s salvation, even whe
n I knew I didn’t have to, and probably shouldn’t. “I guess I do,” I said.
Barry sighed.
“What?” I said.
“I guess I do, too,” he said. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. Sitting in the sleeping compartment of the truck was the money plate.
Epilogue
Nothing inspires the great wealth of giving more than turmoil. So after spending a month on the front page of the Miami Herald, detailing how he’d been duped by his old friend Junior Gonzalez, a man who came to him seeking reformation but who really had hatched an insidious plan to counterfeit money just under his nose, Father Eduardo Santiago was flush with donations for all of his pet projects. And why not? The story that was unfolding was as bizarre as anything on the television that week. There was even a police officer who’d been found on the payroll of the Latin Emperors, discovered by the dogged research of a meter maid, of all things. It even looked like the cop and the gangster were party to the theft of high-grade chemicals. Could they have been domestic terrorists?
It was a Sunday, and I was reading all about the news while I ate lunch in my mother’s kitchen. I was working on the Charger in her garage, pounding out a few dents, replacing a broken light, and bleaching blood from the backseat (again), and had come in to eat a cup of yogurt and a piece of toast. Twenty minutes later, I was still there, reading all about the exploits of the good, the bad and the meter maid.
“Compelling little tale,” my mother said.
“It’s a good one,” I said.
“Can I ask you a question, Michael?”
“Probably not, Ma,” I said.
“Don’t you ever get tired of all of this?”
I set the newspaper down. “No,” I said. The fact was, I had one more job to do with Father Eduardo planned for that evening. “This is what I do. This is what I was put here to do. Either I’m a spy or I’m not a spy. But I’m not sitting around waiting for bad things to happen, not if I can stop something from occurring.”
My mother came over and put a hand on my face. “Please, Michael,” she said, “be more careful. These people? They sound crazy.”
Aren’t they all?
That night, I went to Father Eduardo’s house to pick him up. It was close to midnight, and Father Eduardo was dressed in a sweat suit when I met him at his door. I hadn’t seen him since the day everything had gone down, though we’d spoken several times.
“You ready?” I said.
“I am,” he said.
We drove for a long while in silence, headed out past Homestead and toward the Everglades. I finally asked, “How is your brother?”
“Healing,” he said. “I sent him to Nevada. I have a friend in a church there who is understanding of these things.”
“You’re not worried he’ll go back to the life?”
“I’m worried I’ll go back,” he said. He laughed, but I think he meant it. “I can’t control him. I can only give him a choice. He loves his son. That is worth something.”
“Where is Leticia?”
“Somewhere safe,” he said.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“The more people know, the more people know,” he said. “I trust you, Michael, but she wants no one to know her anymore. A fresh start.”
“Does she need money?”
“Your friend Fiona has been very generous,” he said. “So, no. She’s fine.” Every day, a new surprise. “Turn left here,” he said, and pointed at an unpaved road that led off toward farmland. We drove for another few minutes, until he motioned for me to stop.
“Here?” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
We got out of the car, and Father Eduardo looked up into the sky, took a deep breath and then walked farther on, toward an old barn in the distance. I followed behind him at a distance.
Father Eduardo began to speak, his voice barely audible at first, and then slowly it rose in tenor as he delivered the last rites to a field of dead men, long ago buried by Junior Gonzalez and the Latin Emperors—a final act of contrition. I couldn’t help but wonder who’d delivered the last rites to all the men I’d left behind over the years.
I walked back to the Charger and waited for Father Eduardo to return, so I could drive him back to Miami, so I could return to my loft and wait for my next assignment, be it from the people who’d burned me or someone who only needed my help.