Tod Goldberg - The Reformed

“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.”