Tod Goldberg - The Reformed

“Really?” Sam said, thinking, Okay, now what?

“Yeah,” Ross said. “It was just hype. Something to sell records.”

“I guess sometimes that’s the case,” Sam said. “Things aren’t what they appear.”

Ross drummed his fingers again and then stopped and looked around the bar one more time. “The thing is,” Ross said, “people in Miami, you know, everyone has a past. So I had a friend of mine in the juvenile division just run a search on Pedro Prieto, you know, see if anything popped, because I’m thinking if you wanted his information for something, it must be some bad news. And, you know, you helped with that problem and I can’t repay you enough. You know, that was some Donnie Brasco stuff you did.”

Every meter maid wanted to be a cop, Sam knew, and every cop kind of wanted to be either a hitman or a mafia don, so when Sam paid off the shark, he went back and told Ross he went all the way to the top of Miami’s biggest crime family and informed him that Ross was a protected guy and to lay off. It was the kind of stupid story someone would believe only when they didn’t want to possibly imagine the path of least resistance-in this case, paying off the debt-but it also served their relationship well. Big Bad Sam knew mob bosses! In this case, though, that reputation meant Ross ended up sticking his own neck out. It was more admirable than Sam could have imagined.

“He’s been involved in some shady things,” Sam said. “Let’s just say he’s part of the problem in the United States today.” Ross’ eyes got wide for a moment, and Sam could almost hear Ross screaming Conspiracy! in his mind. “Let’s just say, he’s no friend to the hardworking, lunch-pail Americans I think we both look up to.”

Ross nodded in agreement, though Sam suspected Ross ate most of his lunches at Chick-fil-A.

“Well,” Ross said, “listen to this. When he was thirteen, he got picked up for running drugs for the Latin Emperors. Just minor stuff. A little weed. Misdemeanor stuff. He went to college, passed all his exams, and Miami PD, you know, they want guys who know the law of the land. But knowing how serious this might be, in light of your involvement, I poked back on some fix-it tickets and a few parking jobs in the last couple months and found a lot of crooked guys there, Sam.”

That was a good piece of information… but also so juicy Sam had to make sure Ross understood it wasn’t something he could pass onto anyone else, no matter how many times they made him listen to “Magic Carpet Ride” as torture.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Sam said. “Most of these guys, Ross, they just want to feel respected and tough. It’s not enough that they are the law of the land, my friend, they want people to need them, too. It’s a sign of narcissism. But you know what? It’s human. I’m sure it’s all a big misunderstanding.” He paused and let that sink into Ross’ mind. He pondered, adding, “These are not the droids you’re looking for” into the conversation, just to give it a little context, but felt like Ross might not grasp the allusion. “Anyway,” Sam continued, “this helps with what I’m looking into. Just a hit-and-run case. One of those things that sticks in my craw, you understand, makes me distrust my fellow man.”

Ross looked relieved. “That’s good,” he said. “Because, you know, we have a code of silence and, well, I feel weird breaking it. But a hit-and-run, that’s low down.”

“Meter maids have a code of silence?” Sam said.

“Law enforcement in general,” he said. “You got a badge. You keep your mouth closed.”

“That’s good to know,” Sam said, but didn’t bother to inform him that not only had he talked, but so had his guy in juvie, too. Maybe it was a code of occasional silence. He pocketed the piece of paper and stood up to leave. It was getting late in the afternoon, and that meant more cops, more women with teased hair and more Steppenwolf on the hi-fi, as it were.

“You don’t wanna stick around? See if maybe we can get a few of these ladies to dance?”

“Next time,” Sam said.

“And, Sam, just hypothetically,” Ross said. “If I happened to run into trouble with someone in the gambling trade again, would you be amenable to my calling you for some advice?”

“Here’s my advice,” Sam said. “Stop betting on sports.”

“It was strictly hypothetical,” Ross said.

“Good luck on the academy,” Sam said, and then walked outside, certain he’d be hearing from him as soon as football season started again. He made a mental note to put aside a few hundred dollars just in case, of course, he needed to help his friend.

Though, the more Sam thought about it, the more he thought that maybe the best way to help Ross would be to give him an in on some actual police work. If things worked out, maybe he’d be able to do just that.

Normally, Sam preferred to do his own legwork so that he could get a definitive answer to his questions. Depending on people like Ross always ended with more ancillary work than he really wanted to handle because of the nature of the source. He trusted Ross. Was sure Ross had given him nothing but the straight dope, but even still, old Sam liked to depend on his eyes for things.

So after he left the bar, Sam drove down to one of his favorite spots in Little Havana-a restaurant called Ozzie’s that sold the absolute best plantains north of Cuba-and enjoyed a leisurely meal outside, to see what the police presence was like. There were a few squad cars that came through periodically, which wasn’t unusual for the area, but none of them were Prieto’s. Ozzie’s was considered a neutral spot, on account of the food and the fact that Ozzie himself was still behind the counter, eighty years old and known to be one of the sweetest men alive. Well, sweet provided you didn’t make him pull his sawed-off shotgun from beneath the counter. His restaurant was given the ultimate respect: There wasn’t a single tag on the outside walls, nothing even on the sidewalk.

If something jumped off at Ozzie’s, it was usually some tourist making a complaint about his pork chop or some such thing. Ozzie didn’t care much for people complaining about his food, and that included the grave offense of asking for salt. But gangs? No. They liked his food, too, and Sam could even remember an occasion when he’d dined at the counter between a Crip and a Blood who had both decided to make the drive in for some lunch, and found themselves separated only by an ex-Navy SEAL. Sweet, really.

If Peter Prieto was what he appeared to be, he’d be the first responder to any Latin Emperor situation here on hallowed ground. So, after his meal, Sam walked back to his car and made a call to 911. “There’s about fifteen Latin Emperors getting ready to storm Ozzie’s in Little Havana. Yeah. I’m sure. I just saw them out front with guns and everything. Heard one of them say it was time Ozzie got his for giving his mama congestive heart failure. My name? Aldrich Rosenberg.”

Sam closed his phone, pulled out the SIM card and replaced it with another, and then sat back, swallowed a Tums-thanks to Ozzie’s spice predilection-and waited for the sirens to begin wailing.

Four minutes later, a cruiser came screeching down the block but with no siren. Sam sat up and took notice. The car came to a halt in front of Ozzie’s, and Sam made note of the car number and plate, and then when Peter Prieto hopped out, he wasn’t all that surprised. Tall and lean, Prieto moved like a cat when he stepped from the car, all coiled energy and spring-he was looking for something, anything, but also seemed nervous. He didn’t pull out his gun and he didn’t even bother to go inside Ozzie’s. He just swept the area quickly, checked the ground a couple of times and, presumably, upon seeing nothing amiss, immediately got back into his car and pulled away from the curb.