Tod Goldberg - The Reformed

“Look,” I said, “tonight it’s going to happen. Either we’ll have the Latin Emperors where we need them-and that means Junior, too-or people are going to start dying. Junior’s about three steps behind right now, but he’s gaining speed.”

I didn’t bother to tell him about his demands, which showed he was emboldened now, and which also showed he was beginning to get close to the truth of who we were and what our intentions were. It helped to have a cop on the payroll for these purposes.

“What do I do?”

“Today,” I said, “you go into your church and you do your job. We’ll tell you if and when you need to move.”

“What are you going to do?” he said.

“All due respect, Father, if I told you, it would put you into a bad position,” I said.

“With the law?”

“With the law, with God, probably with yourself. Just know no one’s getting killed on my watch, and all crimes committed are for a greater good.”

Father Eduardo seemed dubious about my claims, but wasn’t in much of a position to argue. “What about my brother?”

“That will be up to him,” I said. “If I can keep him out of the endgame, I will. But no promises. If he’s at the plant tonight when Sam and Barry start running the money with Junior’s men, we can see if we can pull him out. That’s the best I can offer, because I’m not going to look for him.”

“Fine,” Father Eduardo said. “It will have to be.” He looked at his watch. “I need to get to the church. We’re having a bake sale today.”

“Sam’s going to go with you to work today while I do all that greater-good stuff.”

“I’m handy at a bake sale,” Sam said. “And if you have any overflow of people needing holy advice, I’m happy to help in that capacity, too.”

Father Eduardo still looked distressed, but agreed because he had to. He and Sam started to make their way for the door. “Wait,” I said. “Sam, are you armed?”

“No, Mikey. I know the rules.”

“Sam,” I said, “are you armed?”

“I have a. 22 on me. It would hardly do any damage,” he said. He turned to Father Eduardo. “Little more than a pellet gun, really.”

“No guns,” Father Eduardo said.

I walked upstairs and came back down with two paintball markers and handed them both to Sam. “Both are filled with pepper spray,” I said. “Try not to shoot anyone at the bake sale.”

Through the window, I watched Sam and Father Eduardo drive away. In any other circumstance, they’d make for enemies, but here they were, in the same car, going to church. You never know when the occupied will rise up and become the enemy, and when the enemy will become the ally.

“Fi,” I said, “why don’t you make Barry’s life complete and wake him up from his golden slumber?”

“Does this involve me kicking him?”

“He’s got work to do today. Let’s try to keep his internal injuries to a minimum,” I said.

So Fiona tramped up the stairs to the top of the loft, where Barry was still snoring away, and shouted “Alarm!”

One thing about Fiona: She can be subtle when she wants to be. It’s just an issue of how often she wants to be anything but what she is.

While Fiona made Barry alert, I went about assembling what we’d need to either convict, imprison or kill Junior Gonzalez. There’s no joy in this sort of work, the gathering of evidence to ruin a person, but if you’re willing to do the crime, as the adage should say, you have to be willing to be outsmarted by a spy.

When working with someone for the first time, it’s wise to let them feel like they have the freedom to express themselves without fear of rebuke. So when Fiona and I arrived at the meet-up spot with Junior that evening-the parking lot of a Steak-N-Shake a few blocks from the industrial park that housed Harding Pharmaceutical-I decided not to get angry with the man if he reacted poorly to anything.

Like, say, the presence of Fiona.

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing your poodle with you,” Junior said. He sat at one of the outdoor tables with a half-eaten burger and a pile of fries in front of him. He took a sip from his milkshake and then set it down beside his plate of food. The shake probably made his throat feel better.

“I thought it would be good for you two to settle your differences. In the spirit of teamwork, of course.” I motioned to the other seats around his table. “Mind if we join you?”

“Yes,” he said. “I chose to sit outside to avoid the noise inside.”

We sat down, anyway.

Inside the restaurant, a little girl’s birthday was in full swing. There must have been twenty kids running rampant. Even outside, the high-pitched squeals were enough to make me want to swear off sex permanently.

“My friend has something to say to you,” I said.

“I am truly sorry for choking you with my whip,” Fiona said. “Though there are places in this world where the service you received would be the culmination of a lovely night out. It’s all about how you appreciate the finer things.”

Junior grunted. “Save it,” he said.

“So, we can’t be friends?” Fiona said.

“I don’t deal with you,” he said. “Just Mr. Rosencrantz.”

“I told you,” I said. “You have to dig if you want the truth, Junior. I didn’t buy my security at Staples, like you did. And maybe, if we become good friends after tonight, I’ll just show you my passport. And next thing you know, we’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner together. Your family of gangsters. My family at the Shayna Grove Assisted Living Facility. It will be lovely.”

Junior made that grunting noise again. “Why’d you pick this place to meet?” he asked.

“I like the fries,” I said.

“When I was in the joint,” he said, “I used to have dreams about this place.”

“Then you should be happy,” I said.

“Funny thing is,” he said, “all those years, and when I got out, I forgot to come to this place.”

“Too wrapped up in your little plans for revenge?” Fiona said.

Junior actually smiled. I think we might have been having a moment of some kind. “Just happy to cook for myself again. You get a little tired of burgers and fries in prison.”

“You do have a lovely kitchen in your house,” Fiona said.

Junior checked his watch, but didn’t say anything.

“You late for something?” I asked.

“I asked a friend of mine to stop by, too,” he said. “You have a problem with that?”

“No,” I said. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“We’ll see,” he said, and just then a police cruiser, followed by a tow truck, pulled into the lot beside my Charger. “You may not want to tell me who you are, but I’m going to bet that you have fingerprints on file somewhere. I got to watch a lot of CSI in prison, so I asked my friend Officer Prieto to get a few… what do they call them? Latents?”

I had to hold myself back from clapping. It was a great move by Junior. Instead, I said, “Junior, if you attempt to move my car without using the key? It will blow up.”

“You bluff.”

“One way of finding out,” I said. “But from this distance? We’ll all be dead, too. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to go behind the building. I’ll pop inside and see if I can get the birthday party to cower beneath the tables.”

Officer Prieto and the tow-truck driver stood behind my car, presumably waiting for some sign from Junior. He didn’t make any, so I went ahead and decided to rectify the situation on my own. “Just tell our friend that I’m happy to give him my prints.”

The advantage of being a covert operative, and one that has had certain nebulous organizations proctoring his work recently, is that I happen to know my prints aren’t in the system. Or if my prints are in the system, they don’t come up as belonging to Michael Westen.