Tod Goldberg - The Reformed

Junior-or his people-had been smart enough to use rag paper, and it looked like they’d had some success pressing the paper, too, as it had almost the right consistency. And by putting the money in the refrigerator and freezer, they’d even managed to add moisture to the bills, which helped seal in the aging chemical they’d apparently used, too. It wasn’t terribly sophisticated, but it was decent enough to fool someone who didn’t know any better or, more than likely, someone who just didn’t care.

“Not bad,” I said. I tossed the bundle to Fiona. “Go get yourself something nice.”

“Like twenty years in prison?” she said.

“In your hands, as a foreign national,” I said, “I’d say you’d be looking at closer to thirty.”

“How much would you say is in here?” Sam said.

I counted thirty stacks in the fridge-there was also a half gallon of milk, the remnants of a Caesar salad, a six-pack of Coke and five Stellas-and at least twice that many stacks in the freezer. “A couple hundred thousand,” I said.

It was enough to pay some bills, but it wasn’t a real operating budget. No reputable dealer of anything the Latin Emperors would want-like drugs or guns or antiaircraft missiles, if they really wanted to diversify their business interests-would be fooled by the fake stuff. This was money to be spread around the bottom rungs of the ladder.

“You two might want to look at this,” Fiona said. She’d walked down the short hallway that led from the living room and now stood in the entryway to the first of the two bedrooms. “And maybe don’t touch anything else.”

Sam and I walked down the hall and peered over Fiona’s shoulder into the room. There was a stripped bed in the center of the room, surrounded by two night-stands, both of which had been knocked over. At the foot of the bed were the sheets and linens. They were stained with blood.

“I don’t suppose that’s just the latest spring style,” Sam said.

I nudged the ball of sheets with my foot, looked to see if there was something other than blood-like a head or an arm-but there was nothing solid.

“Anyone who bled that much,” Sam said, “probably isn’t bleeding anymore.”

“Hard to say,” I said. “It could be from more than one person.”

“That’s a pleasant thought,” Fiona said.

“Wait here,” I said, and stepped into the room so that I could examine the bed. If someone had been murdered on it, the mattress would be soaked, too, but that didn’t appear to be the case. The room also didn’t smell like death, which was a good sign. It doesn’t matter if you die pleasantly or die violently; if you die in a room, you’re going to leave a lasting olfactory sensation.

I opened a door to what I assumed to be the en suite bathroom, and instead discovered the Latin Emperors’ money factory. There were several printers, lap-tops and reams and reams of paper scattered on the floor and into the exceptionally large walk-in closet, which housed an automated paper cutter.

I looked inside the machine and found the reason why there wasn’t anyone about today and why there were a bunch of bloodstained sheets: Two fingers, cut off at the middle knuckle, sat among a stack of freshly cut five-dollar bills.

“Sam,” I said, “did you say that Father Eduardo has Honrado creating its own newspaper?”

“They hand it out to all the community centers,” Sam said. He and Fi were still in the hallway. “And I think once a month it comes stuffed inside the Herald. Why?”

“I’ve got a feeling the Latin Emperors might have some printing needs.”

I made sure the paper cutter was unplugged and then called in Sam and Fi for a look. Fi took a quick glance but didn’t seem overly interested. Sam, however, spent a good, long time staring at the mess.

“You have a theory, Sam?”

“I’m just curious why they didn’t have K-Dog do some of this stuff,” Sam said. “Seems like he’d at least know how to do it without losing important body parts.”

“Maybe he actually is trying to stay straight?” I said.

“Maybe.” It didn’t sound like Sam believed himself. “Poor guy,” Sam said eventually. “I’m gonna guess the Latin Emperors don’t offer workmen’s comp.”

“Unlikely,” I said.

“So I guess we’re looking for a three-fingered man now?” Fiona said.

“No,” I said, “I think the man I need to talk to is Barry.” Things were starting to make a lot of sense. Father Eduardo wasn’t just getting blackmailed; he was also about to be the victim of a hostile corporate take-over. And I had a feeling that this wasn’t a plan originally hatched by Junior Gonzalez, since the scope of it had suddenly begun to take on a grander scale. Something maybe a “consultant” might have had some input on.

“Will you be torturing him for information?” Fi said.

“No,” I said. “Knowing Barry, I think he’s probably torturing himself as it is.”

“Too bad,” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve been given the opportunity to interrogate anyone. One of my rarely utilized skill sets.”

That gave me an idea. “Sam,” I said, “I want you to take Fiona down to Honrado, point out where our scarred friend works and then let Fiona interrogate her.”

“Abduct and interrogate?” Fi said, ever hopeful.

“Use your best judgment,” I said, which was probably a mistake.

Not much really annoyed Fiona. Oh, there were the little things-men who didn’t open doors anymore, bullets jamming in expensive automatic weapons, undercooked fish-but by and large she thought that the best way to live was to be mildly cynical, but not actually to the point that every small injustice became an issue. Dealing with Michael had made her aware that even the stupid things men did-and they did plenty-could be mitigated by occasional acts of nobility.

Chivalry didn’t excuse stupidity, of course, but it went a long way toward reminding Fiona that at base, men were just slightly above chimps in terms of their emotional development, and thus needed to be rewarded when they did something vaguely human.

Even Sam needed positive reinforcement periodically, which is why she told him, as they sat parked next to each other across from the Honrado campus, waiting for the woman with scars on her neck and face to depart for lunch, that though she was unsure of what she was about to do, she was certain she didn’t need him wasting any more of his precious time on her. She’d be fine. He should go off and do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t tracking down leads or shooting guns or drinking beer poolside or, well, whatever.

“Fiona,” Sam said, “Michael told me to make sure that if anything went down, you had backup.”

“What could possibly happen between me and some girl?” Fi said. “You think some girl is going to cause me a problem, Sam?”

“Well, no, no, clearly,” Sam said, “but, uh, I guess what I’m saying is that maybe I should stick around in case, uh…” Sam didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The problem with Sam and Michael was that they believed her when she said she wanted to shoot everyone and blow up everything. Six or seven percent of the time, she didn’t mean it literally. But she’d been placed in so many situations recently that could have been solved with a well-placed explosive charge that it just seemed so silly that now everyone was so into diplomacy.

“I promise not to hurt her,” Fiona said.

“I didn’t say you would,” Sam said.

“And I promise not to put her into any kind of cage or underground fortress.”

Sam hemmed and hawed for a bit and then finally started his engine. “You remember who the target is?”

“The woman is cut like a spiral ham, as I recall,” Fiona said. “I can’t imagine there will be another one quite like her.”