The Reformed (9 page)
Authors: Tod Goldberg
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Crime
“I thought you said K-Dog was your friend?”
“Mikey, I don’t remember my own name right now. I taped the conversation as a precaution. It was a good thing, wouldn’t you say?”
I hit PLAY on the recorder and spent about three minutes listening to Sam and K-Dog talking about how great it would be if they were a team on
The Amazing Race
. “You remember that?” I said.
The Amazing Race
. “You remember that?” I said.
“Mikey, you ever seen that show? We could win a million dollars.”
“Looks like you already have a partner,” I said. “You have an idea at what point you and K-Dog talked about Junior?”
“It was early,” Sam said. “And then it was late. I’m sorry, Mikey. I just didn’t want him to be offended, so I kept drinking with him.”
“When in Attica,” I said.
We went inside, and while Fiona tended to Sam—which is to say, while Fiona made Sam eat Tums and bread and forced him to drink a gallon of Gatorade—I tried making my way through Sam’s tape of himself. It turns out there’s nothing less entertaining than listening to drunks, particularly drunks who think they are being insightful. Eventually, I caught the thread of the conversation about Junior and even managed to make out the address Sam slurred into the recorder.
“How’s he doing?” I asked Fiona.
“I’d say he’s about fifty-fifty,” she said.
“Of what?”
“Alcohol and animal fats. There’s nothing human about him yet. Might not be for another ten hours or so.”
“Is he safe to leave?”
“Only if you don’t mind him choking to death on his own vomit.”
“There’s a field trip I’d like to take tonight,” I said. I handed her the address I scrawled down from Sam’s slurred words. “This is where Junior Gonzalez has paperwork dropped off. I’d like to take a look at what he’s planning.”
“Shall we just drop Sam off back at that strip club? Pay a nice girl named Star twenty dollars to babysit him?”
“A good idea. But, no.” I picked up my cell phone and made a call. “Ma,” I said when my mother answered (on the first half ring), “I need a favor.”
The address K-Dog gave Sam wasn’t in the projects where the Latin Emperors have operated for years with impunity, or even in Miami proper, but in a new development of family-style houses in Homestead, about forty minutes south of downtown Miami and only a few miles north of the southern Everglades, and a few miles west of the air force base. And only a few miles away from the women’s prison my new friend the scarred receptionist spent her idle time in before getting a job with Eduardo.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I asked Fiona. We were parked on the side of a road that headed into a planned community called Cheyenne Lakes. The blacktop we’d been driving on previously had turned into cobblestone pavers, and there was a not-very-discreet up-lit sign that proclaimed THE KIND OF LIFE YOU DESERVE IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER perched on a low berm of green grass that rolled ... right around the corner.
“These are the directions you printed out,” Fi said. “It would help if you had GPS in this car instead of an eight-track deck.”
“GPS didn’t come standard in Chargers until 1975,” I said. “Let me see the directions.” Fiona handed me the paper. Everything was correct. This didn’t smell right. “What is a Latin Emperor doing living out here?”
“Golfing?” Fiona said.
I checked my watch. It was near 10:00 P.M. I rolled down my window and listened for a moment. You could almost hear people snoring already. A golf cart came from around the corner, where my better life presumably lived, and I could make out the form of a security guard, even in the dark, behind the wheel. Security guards tend to sit with a supererect posture, as if they’ve been taught at rent-a-cop school that good posture equals authority.
“Company,” I said.
“Do you want me to shoot him?”
“Let’s talk to him first,” I said.
The cart pulled up next to my driver’s-side window so the guard would be face-to-face with me. This is something they probably also teach at rent-a-cop school: Park your golf cart like cops park their cars when they’re talking in the Denny’s parking lot. “Lost?” the guard said. He didn’t even bother to say hello, which I found rude.
“Sure am,” I said. “I was stationed at the base out here, oh, gosh, ten years ago? Eighty-second Airborne. And I wanted to show my girlfriend the old lover’s lane. We’re down from Atlanta for the week. Guess it’s been paved over?”
The guard nodded gravely. He had a short haircut and the square jaw of a military man, but also possessed the unmistakable body of a civilian: a perfectly round gut, arms that showed the care and confidence of a man who spent his time at the gym doing only curls and a watch too gaudy to be real. He also had a name tag that said his name was Lieutenant Frank, which I took to mean his first name was Frank, because he certainly wasn’t an actual lieutenant in any real service. Being a lieutenant for a rent-a-cop firm is like being a chef at McDonald’s.
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said. “Been a couple years now.” He didn’t betray any emotion, which either meant he thought I was suspicious or he didn’t have any actual emotion. Or maybe he just hated his job, which was a distinct possibility, too. He did have a police scanner on the dash of his golf cart, which seemed odd, too.
“You get much action out here?” I asked.
“That’s a bit personal,” Frank said.
“No,” I said. “I mean criminal action.” I pointed to the scanner. “Seems like an expensive accessory on your cart.”
“It’s important to our residents that we be able to let them know if there’s any activity outside the development that might require their attention, in terms of police actions or military activity.”
Fiona leaned across me and smiled at Frank. She’d been sitting quietly up until that point, but I knew as soon as Frank concluded his speech that she’d have something to say. She can only go so long.
“Pardon me,” she said, a bit of Southern twang to her voice, playing the part, grasping her inner Southern belle ... provided Southern belles these days packed nines. “But what you just said positively gave me the chills. Is there a chance of a terrorist attack nearby?”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” he said. “Men like your boyfriend keep us very safe from that sort of thing.”
I gave Frank a firm nod of my head. It’s the kind of thing men like to think they can get away with in lieu of speaking, but it really only works on people who aren’t terribly adept at conversation as it is.
“Oh, well, thank God,” she said, and leaned back in her seat and fanned herself with her hands. “I think I almost caught the vapors for a moment.”
“I do have to tell you, Lieutenant, that a few buddies of mine still in the area have said that there is a criminal element in these parts now,” I said. “Damn shame, if you ask me.”
Frank took an exaggerated look over both of his shoulders, which I found particularly odd, as not a single car had even passed by since we parked. And if I couldn’t see them from where I sat, I would have assumed that they actually rolled up and stored the sidewalks at dusk. “I only say this because I respect your service to this country,” Frank said, his voice low, “but I believe immigration is one of the biggest blights on this nation. That I have to now protect people who aren’t even Americans is the reason why I no longer believe in the two-party system.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “This is a nation that should preserve its identity and not let in people who weren’t from here originally. If you can’t trace your roots back to before 1492, then you don’t belong. I mean, what is America if it’s filled with people who are from other countries?”
“The idea of a melting pot makes me positively sick,” Fiona said. “I particularly find the Irish repulsive. Don’t you know? It’s so bracing to be around people who share our values.”
“I may wear this on my chest,” Frank tapped at the rent-a-cop badge on his chest, “but if it were up to me, I’d have the flag right here. Not everyone in this development would agree with me. There are subjects here who, if I understand, have spent time in prison and who are possibly illegal in their entire nature. But, apparently, just about anyone can move in where they like these days.”
Frank was the strangest combination of conservative talk radio, conspiracy theories, faux law enforcement and outright racism I’d encountered in some time. If I gave him an opening, I’m sure he would have been happy to discuss the finer points of the Illuminati with me. He also, apparently, didn’t have a clear sense of American history or the basic laws of the land. That he was providing security for anything was frightening, but at least he was an easy and able cipher of the information I needed. Somewhere in the development, the Latin Emperors had taken hold. Or at least Junior Gonzalez had.
“Well, I could sit here all evening and trade war stories with you, Lieutenant,” I said, “but if you don’t mind, me and the little lady are going to take a drive around my old memories for a bit. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course,” Frank said. “There’s a very nice gazebo on the west side of the lake that you might enjoy sitting in for a bit. It’s where I write my blog when I get off.”
I gave Frank the nod again, and he actually saluted me. I rolled up the window and tried not to peel away from the curb.
“You should have let me shoot him,” Fiona said.
“Guys like him,” I said, “shoot themselves every time they open their mouths.”
We wound through the development as we headed toward Junior’s house, and every few seconds Fiona would gasp or moan about something. It wasn’t as exciting as it sounds, since her noises had mostly to do with terrible choices in lawn decoration, though her loudest protest was about the fake city square that dominated the center of the development, replete with a clock tower, a sunken lawn amphitheater and diagonal parking spaces for the shops and businesses that had yet to move into the empty buildings. A sign declared: CHEYENNE LAKES IS THE PERFECT PLACE TO DO BUSINESS ... AND LIVE.
“What is this?” she said.
“The future,” I said.
“That looks like the past?”
“I think that’s the idea. Or it was in 2006.”
“I suspect your friend Lieutenant Frank would blame this on the immigrants?”
“Surely,” I said. “But particularly those swarthy Irish people.”
“Did you like that?”
“It was a nice touch.”
We continued on, traveling deeper and deeper into the development. Cheyenne Lakes might have been designed as a mixed-use, master-planned community, but the more I drove through its labyrinthine streets, the more I recognized why Junior had made it his base of operations: It would be possible to have lookouts at all the possible angles without drawing any interest from the average citizen. For the cost of rent, Junior had a ready-made fortress. It would be disturbingly easy to run a very safe and secure base of operations for the entire Latin Emperors nation of prison and street gangs.
Once I finally found Junior’s street, I turned the car around and headed back to the fake city center, which was a good half mile away.
“What are you doing?” Fi asked.
“I have a theory I want to test,” I said, and explained to Fiona my thoughts, and told her I thought it might be best to approach Junior’s home on foot so as not to raise any flags of suspicion. I grabbed several of the cell phones and their assorted parts, too. If my assumptions were correct, we’d need them.
“If I’d known we were going for a midnight stroll I would have worn different shoes,” Fiona said.
“It’s not midnight,” I said. “And I’ve seen you fight a Chechen terrorist in higher heels.”
“It’s this place!” Fi let out an exasperated sigh. “It ages you by osmosis.” She slipped out of her shoes and then removed her top, too, revealing a plain white tank top underneath. “What?” she said. Apparently, the look on my face had a question attached to it.
“I was just wondering if you were going to take off your jeans, too.”
“Not tonight,” she said. “Besides, I’d better look the part, right? And what says ‘casual walk in the neighborhood’ more than no shoes and no bra?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, so I took off my shoes, too. I’d have taken off my shirt, but then the butt of my gun might have been a bit too clear an indicator that I wasn’t just out to enjoy the lovely night air ... which, that evening, carried the strong scent of the Everglades blowing up from the south.
We got out of the car and walked, hand in hand, back toward Junior’s house. Had I known the plan for the evening, I would have found a dog to fill out the portrait of domestic bliss.
It wasn’t until we started walking that I realized every street, avenue, road, court and cul-de-sac was named for some aspect of Native American culture, another element that must have escaped Lieutenant Frank’s keen eye. We passed Natchez Court, Cochise Lane, Anasazi Road, even the requisite Seminole Street crossed Pueblo Way. But what Fiona and I were really looking for were things Lieutenant Frank probably wouldn’t take note of.
“That house up on the corner of Seminole there has a lovely window dressing,” Fiona said. “And some very nice rocks, too.”
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