The Reformed bn-4

by Tod Goldberg

  “Uh, yes, Mrs. Westen.”

  That made my mother happy. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Now, can I get you some pot roast, Barry?”

  “Sure, that would be great, Mrs. Westen,” Barry said.

  She stood up, reached across the table and mussed up Barry’s hair. “That was a good chat. We should do that again.” She turned to me. “Michael, help this idiot out before he gets his mother killed.”

  And suddenly I had another unpaid client. That made three.

  11

  You can do all the planning you want, but when it comes to fighting a battle, eventually you’re going to need guns.

  Unless, it turns out, you’re defending Father Eduardo Santiago.

  “That’s the first thing,” Father Eduardo said. “And I am firm on this.” He’d come to my loft that same evening so I could explain to him all that we’d learned and all that was at risk, including what Fi had learned about Leticia, which seemed to break Father Eduardo’s spirit more than any other single detail. But before I could even tell him my plan, he made the proclamation about the guns, which was no insignificant thing, since I generally keep two pieces on me at all times, as does Sam. I suspect Fiona tries to form a more rounded-looking number, like six, but all of that is really predicated on her outfit.

  Sam and Fiona, who were both standing in my galley kitchen, sighed audibly and in perfect synchronicity. Barry was also in my loft, because he was too scared to go anywhere else. I’d instructed Barry that under no circumstances was he to let his fear manifest into a situation where he thought he should hit on Fiona-something he does on a fairly regular basis-because I was pretty sure Fiona would react with malice. And to keep that from happening, I’d instructed Sam to fix Barry a drink containing as many varieties of rum as he could find, which in short order had knocked Barry out.

  “Do you understand what you’re saying?” I asked.

  “Do you?” Father Eduardo said. “Seventy-five percent of the people who work for me-nearly everyone! — are convicted felons, parolees, ex-gang members. If someone under my guise comes onto my property with a gun and is anywhere near them, they could all go back to prison. I will not put them in that position.”

  “What about knives?” Fiona asked. “Or swords. Swords would be fun, Michael.”

  “No concealed weapons,” Father Eduardo said.

  “Grenades?” Sam said.

  “I still have some C-4,” Fiona said. “We could blow up Junior’s car in the parking lot. That would solve this all very quickly. Make it look like an accident.”

  “How are you going to make a C-4 explosion look like an accident?” Sam said.

  “I have my ways,” Fiona said.

  “No,” Father Eduardo said. “No. No. No. I cannot have any of this. Do you understand? I am a man of faith. I will not let you blow up his car. I cannot have my campus turned into something on CNN. Don’t you understand?”

  I did. Really. It’s just difficult to imagine fighting a gang without ammo.

  “So, when I inform Junior what the score is going to be,” I said, “and he pulls a gun, what am I supposed to do? Talk to him sweetly until he puts it away?”

  “He won’t pull a gun,” Father Eduardo said. “He has too much to gain from this shakedown to kill anyone. And he’s a coward now, from what you tell me. Hiring a person like your sleeping friend? Thirty years ago, your friend would have been like a chew toy for Junior. No, he’d have someone else kill you. Or have you picked up by the police. At no time do I want you to bring any guns onto my campus. I would rather go down myself than put these kids in jeopardy of losing everything because of my own foolish past.”

  Father Eduardo was probably correct on all points. Convincing Sam and Fiona of this would be more difficult.

  “That’s noble,” Sam said. “When they make the movie of your life, this will be a very moving scene. We’ll be dead then, but I’m sure audiences will love it.”

  “Not helping,” I said to Sam. I rubbed my palms into my eyes. I’d have to figure this one out. “Okay. Okay. We’ll do it your way, Father Eduardo.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “And what is your plan?”

  Just as I’d told Fiona earlier, I told Father Eduardo. “I’m going to give him exactly what he wants. I’m going to let him in.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “If you want to bring him down without violence, which I promise we will not have on your property, we need to allow him to build a criminal conspiracy of his own that would so far outweigh whatever he might think he has on you that it would be fruitless for him to even try.”

  “But there are so many others than him,” Father Eduardo said. “And there are the dead to consider. That has begun to weigh on me.”

  Sam and Fiona both rolled their eyes. And suddenly I had another set of nonpaying clients. This was beginning to become very complex.

  “We’ll deal with the living first,” I said.

  I explained to Father Eduardo that when Junior arrived tomorrow and saw Fiona and me-two people he would clearly remember, and two people he was probably already suspecting in light of all of his missing property-I’d explain to him that he was already entering a criminal enterprise, one run by me, and that if he wanted in, there would be a price to pay.

  “And just so we’re clear,” I told Father Eduardo, “whatever I say, you agree with. And if I hit you, or if Fiona hits you, or breaks a chair over your head, it’s not personal.”

  Father Eduardo had about a hundred pounds on me, maybe two hundred on Fiona, and was made mostly of muscle and menace, even at this point in his life. I had a pretty good sense that he could take a punch.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Is there anything you haven’t told me? Anything I should know before tomorrow happens?”

  This was just a routine question. The sort of question I occasionally forget to ask clients because I figure that they’ve told me all they possibly could, that all the avenues of intersection had been covered-and we had so many avenues already, I practically needed MapQuest just to navigate it all in my mind-and all that was left was for me to perform, which I was confident I could do… until I saw that Father Eduardo had broken into a sweat.

  “You’re sweating,” I said.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  This got Sam and Fiona interested again.

  “Don’t tell me you actually did kill these people Junior has on you,” I said.

  “No, no,” Father Eduardo said. “It is not that.”

  “You’re not already running an illegal business with the mayor, are you?”

  “No. It’s my brother, Adrian,” Father Eduardo said.

  Oh, no.

  Brothers are difficult. My own brother, Nate, was, fortunately, in Las Vegas, which meant that in about eight days I’d get a call from him letting me know he had a problem only I could solve for him.

  This, as usual, was not good. “Tell me,” I said.

  “He’s still in the Latin Emperors,” Father Eduardo said. “He’s just coming up. I couldn’t save him from it. Our whole family, we’ve been LE to the fullest forever. I am the one who got out, but only after doing my time. Now he’s in and in deep. I don’t want him to get hurt. I can save him.”

  I knew where this was headed.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “He’s Leticia’s boyfriend.”

  Father Eduardo nodded.

  “Tell me something,” Fiona said, now fully invested. “Why would you let your brother have a street name as obvious as Killa? Couldn’t you have advised him that Powder Puff or Nice Boy could have saved him a significant amount of trouble?”

  “We don’t talk,” Father Eduardo said. “I gave Leticia her job to help her son. My nephew. I thought she’d get out of the life. I suppose I didn’t account for the level my brother would go to.”

  “It’s probably not him,” I said, though I had no idea. I had hope, and that�
�s a good thing to have if you can spare it. “Assume it’s Junior’s pull.”

  “He has to have a chance to get out of this with a chance,” Father Eduardo said.

  “He’s not a good person,” Fiona said.

  “Neither was I,” Father Eduardo said. “And I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I have a suspicion that you weren’t exactly the best version of yourself at twenty-three, either. I know Leticia better than you do. I have known her since she was sixteen. I knew her before she was cut.”

  “What happened?” Sam asked.

  “She sold crack for a living,” Father Eduardo said matter-of-factly. “And one day, someone tried to rob her and she fought back. They left her for dead. My brother, Adrian, he took care of that… situation for her. So they have that bond, and she has the knowledge of what he’s capable of, too. It’s a different world from what you three know.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

  “You’re a good man, Michael,” Father Eduardo said.

  “Not according to the United States government,” I said.

  “It sounds like we’ve had some of the same enemies.” Father Eduardo wiped at his forehead and his eyes, and I realized he wasn’t just sweating now; he was also on the verge of tears. “I have worked so hard,” he said, “to do the right thing. I must have this turn out, Michael.”

  “It will,” I said. “You’ve told no one we are coming?”

  “No one,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. “Keep it that way. If my plan is to work, we need every move to be a surprise, even to you.”

  “I trust you,” he said.

  “You have to,” I said. “No matter what happens tomorrow, understand that you should react in the only way you can, which is to say, don’t fight me, and don’t fight Junior. Let me do the work.”

  “Have you ever read The Art of War?”

  Fiona let out a little snort. “Boys,” she said, but Father Eduardo ignored her.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “‘He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious,’” Father Eduardo said. “I have lived by that for a long time now. I have won all my battles, including my freedom, with that in mind.”

  “Good,” I said.

  Father Eduardo thanked us and said he’d see us in the morning, and began to make his way out of the loft. He paused after he opened the front door and then stepped back inside. “Your father,” he said to me, and then pointed, but concentrated on some point in his mind and didn’t finish his sentence.

  “What about him?” I said.

  “That car you drive. It was his?”

  “Yeah, for a while,” I said.

  “Junior and I tried to steal it once from in front of the high school.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Your father was sitting in the front seat,” Father Eduardo said, “and when we told him to get out, he just laughed at us and told us to keep on moving down the road. Those were his exact words. ‘Keep on moving down the road,’ just as cool as can be. It… unnerved me. That’s the word. He wasn’t afraid.”

  “He was probably drunk,” I said.

  “No,” Father Eduardo said, “no, I don’t think that’s true. And neither do you.”

  “No,” I said, “I guess I don’t.”

  Eduardo Santiago, who used to rob little kids, who ran the Latin Emperors, who did federal time, snitched out his gang, found God and came out a changed man, came out a priest, smiled at me in a way I found unnerving, too. “Maybe he was a spy, too?”

  “Not a chance,” I said. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we go to war.”

  Eduardo still had that unnerving smile going. “I didn’t think this was going to happen to me again. I thought this period of my life was done.”

  “It will be,” I said. One way or the other, that was true.

  Father Eduardo left for good then, so I opened up the fridge and pulled out three beers and one blueberry yogurt.

  “You gonna get a beer for yourself?” Sam said.

  “I thought you weren’t drinking anymore,” I said.

  “That was this morning,” he said, and cracked open one of the bottles. “It’s a new day in Australia, mate.”

  I slid one of the bottles to Fiona, but she pushed it away. “What?” I said.

  “This Leticia business,” she said. “I’m all wrapped up in it.”

  “We’re all wrapped up in it,” I said. “Even your boyfriend, Barry.”

  “No,” she said. “That Killa is Father Eduardo’s brother makes this all the more complicated for her. How does she know who to trust? I mean, really, Michael-how will she ever know who to trust?”

  “She won’t,” I said, “just like the rest of us.”

  “And that poor child has a great genetic makeup. Both of his parents are criminals, for God’s sake.”

  I couldn’t remember a time when I’d seen Fiona this worked up over one of our clients. “We’ll get her out of this,” I said.

  “Sam, can you get her into Witness Protection or something?”

  Sam took a sip of his beer and then made a smacking sound with his lips. “Ah, to be in love… No luck, sister,” Sam said, “not when Father Eduardo won’t even admit there’s something criminal going on. I could talk to my guys in the FBI, but Father Eduardo would have to cop to this blackmail, and he won’t do that. Hell, he won’t even let us have squirt guns.”

  Barry made a snorting noise in his sleep that echoed down from upstairs, which got Fiona’s attention. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question to me.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Let’s see if Barry makes it out of this alive before we have him getting your best girlfriend Leticia smuggled out of the country.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “In the meantime,” I said, “we need to get some guns that aren’t guns. I don’t suppose you know anyone, Fi, with a gross of paintball guns for sale?”

  “I could get us 50 Vektor CR-21 assault rifles, if you’d like,” she said, and suddenly was full of perk again. Nothing like a little gun talk to get Fiona out of a funk. “But no, nothing with paint. My clients rarely want to make an Impressionist work of art. A body is far more preferable.”

  “Sam?”

  “I got a guy I went to basic with about a million years ago who now runs one of those paramilitary camps where accountants spend an entire weekend shooting each other for kicks. I could ask him.”

  “He know how to keep a secret?”

  “He’s ex-military,” Sam said.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Right,” Sam said. “Well, I’ll tell him I’m helping a bunch of at-risk kids. Which wouldn’t be a lie, right?”

  “If he’s running a camp for rich people,” I said, “he’s probably been tinkering with the guns already. Tell him you want the ones he keeps for the whales in the group.”

  Paintball guns aren’t really guns. They’re markers. Get hit with a paintball and really what you’re getting hit with is a paint-filled gelatin capsule traveling at three hundred feet per second, which is fast enough to bruise you or put out your eye or break your nose, all of which are good reasons to wear a helmet and goggles when people are shooting at you. If you really want to hurt someone with a paintball gun, you need to amp up the velocity to six hundred feet per second, which will generate enough force to break a bone. But breaking bones isn’t usually enough if you’re fighting people with guns. People with guns can still shoot you with a broken foot or clavicle. So instead of a gelatin cap filled with paint, you want to get a gelatin cap filled with pepper spray. Get hit at six hundred feet per second by a paintball filled with pepper spray and you’ll have a broken bone and you’ll think you’re about to die. And if pepper spray isn’t available, mix together bleach and ammonia and you’ll find that they make a rather debilitating and disabling combination, too.

  Sam drained the rest of his beer and then stepped outside to call
his guy, which left Fiona and me alone with Barry’s snoring. She was still upset but had on her bravest face, which only meant she was thinking of ways to do this all her way.

  “Fi,” I said, “tomorrow, when we face Junior again, I need you to follow my lead.”

  “Don’t I always, Michael?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Don’t I usually?”

  “It’s about seventy-thirty,” I said. “My plan is to attack all the angles, but systematically. I’m going to start with Leticia. I want you to know that. She’s going to be at the door, and I’m going to put her into enough fear that she might run out right then.”

  “I don’t know why this is getting to me so much,” she said. “Maybe because Leticia is so young. Maybe because she has a child. I don’t know, Michael.”

  I took her into my arms for a moment and she held on. It wasn’t one of those desperate moments we’ve had before, where it feels like the world is about to explode. Instead, it just felt like a time when Fiona might need to be treated like someone who needed a hug.

  A sound from upstairs halted the moment. Or, really, the end of a sound, as Barry’s snoring came to an abrupt halt. I heard him rummaging around for a moment, and then he appeared on top of the stairs, shirtless, pantsless (except for his boxer shorts) and disheveled. I could see he was trying to focus his eyes, but wasn’t having much luck.

  “Where am I?” he said.

  “You’re asleep,” I said.

  Barry tried to consider that for a moment, but it didn’t compute. “Did you drug me?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Sam did.”

  “He put something in my drink?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Alcohol.”

  Barry scratched at a place on his stomach and then sniffed at the air. “Do I smell fried chicken?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Could we work on that?”

  My default answer wouldn’t work here, particularly since I needed to explain to Barry that tomorrow he’d have to face his fears. That tomorrow, I had a plan for him that might involve a fantasy or two-I had a vision of Fiona smacking him, which I’m sure was a vision Barry had on occasion, too-and that if he wanted my help getting out from under the problems he encountered with the Latin Emperors, he’d need to do exactly as I told him. And I needed to tell him that tomorrow, if things went poorly, this could be his last substantial meal.