The Reformed (14 page)

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Authors: Tod Goldberg

Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Crime

BOOK: The Reformed
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“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.”
Sam eventually drove off, and Fiona was finally able to relax. If it was up to her, she’d be sitting poolside and negotiating a gun deal for some Peruvian revolutionaries—something she’d had to cancel from her itinerary for the week when this new job came up, and which, upon reflection, seemed like a fairly good idea. She’d never liked doing business with Peruvians. They always had such inferiority complexes. Now,
that
was annoying. Besides, what could be more exciting than viewing the world through a pair of high-powered binoculars while waiting for some girl to come walking out of a building?
It took another twenty minutes, but eventually Fiona spotted her mark. She focused the binoculars on her to make sure, but Fiona could tell just by how the girl carried herself that she was the one. If you live inside a pressure cooker, you’re bound to have some outward signs. In the girl’s case, it was the way she immediately exhaled when she walked out of the building. Not just a release of breath, because that would be impossible to see, but one of those full-body experiences favored by sixteen-year-old girls in front of their parents. She then looked both ways, like she was crossing the street, though she was just standing in the middle of a grassy expanse, and then trudged with her head down toward Fourteenth Street.
Fiona wondered what Junior had on the girl, because she didn’t seem like the perfect corporate spy. Too much angst, for one thing, though Fiona supposed that angst was most likely the default emotion for many of the tough kids who end up in Father Eduardo’s care—you can only pretend to be bad for so long.
It didn’t matter to Fiona what the girl had done in the past, only what she was doing now. That was another way to keep from getting annoyed: focus on the present. Fi got out of her car and walked a safe distance away from the girl. Fi was maybe fifty yards behind her, which was fine, since both were walking at a normal pace down a straight road. The girl had reason to believe she was being followed—clearly, her nerves told her this much—but didn’t have any reason to believe she was being followed by an Irish woman wearing a Betsey Johnson dress and still smelling of suntan lotion.
At the corner, the girl ducked into a beauty shop. Perfect. Fiona liked beauty shops for all of the promises they offered—blemishes hidden, sexier lips, new hair colors—none of which seemed to materialize in quite the manner you’d expect once you got the products home.
Fi lingered in front of the store for a moment and pretended to talk on her cell phone. Inside, she could see that the girl was regarding a long wall of lotions and creams. She’d set her purse down at her feet, a sure sign that she was in for a long haul and, more importantly, comfortable in her surroundings.
The store wasn’t one of those well-lit chains staffed by matching women in matching black outfits and matching attitudes. Fiona hated those places. The women who worked in those places truly were annoying. You can’t have airs and work retail. It simply wasn’t allowed. No, Fiona could tell even from the street that this was a small business, the kind built out of someone’s savings, low rents in a neighborhood that wasn’t exactly considered prime property and stock aimed at the very people who lived and worked in walking distance. There were also two hair stations in the back that, Fiona assumed, were staffed by women who regularly dyed people’s hair a color they’d regret sometime later in life.
She pushed open the doors and was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of hairspray, enough that she began to cough almost immediately, which made the girl look up with a frown.
A good opening. Fiona continued to cough until the girl had to say something.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Fiona said. “Just swallowed wrong.”
“Oh, I hate that. Makes me feel stupid.”
“Me, too,” Fiona said. “Like, what, I can’t even swallow right?” The girl laughed. Pleasant. Just two girls talking about saliva.
Fiona realized she had an avenue and had to keep it up. It was so silly sometimes, the lengths we have to go to get information from people, Fiona thought. Bugs, breaking and entering, torture ... sometimes just talking to a person can yield so much more than any covert operation. Now, granted, it wasn’t as if Fiona intended to portray herself as precisely who she was, but it was her intention on this day to be as normal as possible, because Fiona believed most people responded to normal.
“What are you looking for?” Fiona asked.
“I don’t really know,” the girl said. “My skin, you know, it gets so scaly sometimes. Around these scars on my neck especially.”
Fiona pulled a bottle of Neutrogena off the shelf. “I use this,” she said, and handed it to her. “It keeps me feeling silky smooth.”
“Oh, that’s too expensive for me,” the girl said. “And I can’t have anything with too much scent in it. I’m allergic.”
It was odd how much the girl was willing to divulge of herself to a complete stranger in a beauty supply store, but, invariably, that was what people holding on to other big secrets ended up being like. Every alcoholic or drug addict Fiona had known was, during the course of his life, always quick to admit some other damning piece of information at a moment’s notice. And then the ones who were clean always wanted to tell you about how they got clean, or how much they’d used, or how many people they’d slept with to get to this new enlightened version of themselves. It wore Fiona out most of the time, but in this case, with this poor girl, Fiona couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her. She’d clearly been through a lot, and now she was going through something else, too. She was probably lit to pop with guilt.
“Have you ever just put vitamin E oil on your scars?” Fiona asked.
“That doesn’t really work,” the girl said. “I’ve tried everything. But I’m going to get surgery one day. So, yeah, it’s all good.”
It’s all good.
If there was ever a sentence young women uttered that meant the direct opposite, it was that one. No one said it when things actually were all good, only to deflect what was clearly a bad situation.
Fiona thought that if she abducted this girl, tied her up and began questioning her, within minutes she’d get every secret she’d ever been told or ever uttered.
“Are you saving up for it?” Fiona said.
“No. I work at Honrado. Down the street. And they’ve got doctors who volunteer to remove tattoos and fix things. So I’m just waiting on that to come through. It’s a good job, right?”
“Right,” Fiona said. She kept trying to get a feel for the girl, get some insight into why she’d be in business with Junior when she had such a good deal with a person like Father Eduardo. Fi decided the best way to bridge that gap would be to set that bridge on fire. “How’d you get a job there? When I got out, I would have killed to get to work with someone like Father Eduardo.”
The girl looked shocked. “You did time?”
“Five years,” she said.
“For what?”
Fiona decided to keep it as real as possible. “I robbed a bank,” she said.
“And you only did five?”
Fi leaned in to the girl, close enough that she could smell the girl’s cheap perfume and an underpinning of sweat. The girl leaned, too, sensing that they were about to tell some secrets. “I gave up my ex. He was the one who got me into it. No sense letting him off easy if I was doing real years.”
“You didn’t feel any guilt about that?”
“No,” Fiona said.
The girl bit down on her bottom lip and seemed to be thinking about something. “You wanna get some coffee or something?”
 
The honest truth was that Fiona really did not like hanging out with other women. They were usually so ... girlish. Always concerned about who was talking about them, what they were wearing, who had the bigger whatever. Now, certainly, Fi liked wearing nice things, and she didn’t like people talking about her and could appreciate big things; she just didn’t require the requisite estrogen-fueled drama that went along with those desires when women got together to discuss them.
But sitting with this girl—whose name was Leticia, she’d learned—wasn’t so bad. Leticia was twenty-three and had a seven-year-old boy that she still called a baby. And, unfortunately, the father of the baby was a Latin Emperor whose nickname was Killa.
“Killa?” Fiona said.
“He got it on the street,” Leticia said, “and it just stuck. Now whenever someone gets killed anywhere near him, they bring his ass in. It’s stupid.”
“You call yourself Killa,” Fiona said, “it’s bound to cause suspicion.”
Leticia took a sip of coffee. They were sitting outside at Café Flordita, a Cuban coffee shop just a few blocks from the Orange Bowl. They’d been there twenty minutes, and in that time Fiona had learned everything she really needed to know to understand why Leticia was snooping for the LE: Either she did their bidding, or Killa told her he’d take their son and she’d never see him again. This wasn’t a custody battle, just the basics of street life, which Leticia understood even if Fiona couldn’t wrap her mind around it entirely. Different rules for different streets, she supposed.
“I wanna get away from him, from this whole life, you know? I did time. I got this shit all over my face and you know, for what? It’s stupid. I just want to take my baby and get out of Miami.”
“Then you should do that,” Fiona said.
“Father Eduardo? He’s got me training to be a dental assistant starting in the fall. Paying for it and everything. So I need to be here for that. I couldn’t pay for that out of my own pocket.” Leticia sighed, and Fiona saw that her eyes had welled up. “I just, you know, I got this thing to deal with first, and then I can do whatever I want. It’s not even illegal, and, you know, Father Eduardo is LE from back in the day, so I think that, you know, it’s all good.”
If anything was patently not
all good
, it was certainly this situation. Fiona wanted to tell Leticia that she was going to help her out of this situation, that there was a way out of it all that wouldn’t involve her working with the Latin Emperors. But Fiona also knew that the poor girl was unsteady on her feet right now, giving up all of this information to a perfect stranger, which meant she’d give up even more to people who really had hooks into her.
Women. Fiona just didn’t get most of them. She was, she had to admit,
annoyed
by many women. Leticia wasn’t weak—she had those scars, after all, and was out in public doing her thing, even if her thing was filled with regret, and that took a spine and a will and Fi respected that, God knows—but she compromised emotionally. She probably loved Killa, too, even if she said she didn’t. Or loved him enough not to run to the police and tell them she was being blackmailed by him. Though for a girl who’d done time, just being around ... Killa ... probably constituted a violation of some kind. The poor girl had made a series of bad choices in her life, or made a series of no choices whatsoever, and now here she was, about to be in the thick of a criminal conspiracy, too.
“If I were you, you know what I’d do?” Fiona said.
“Rob a bank?” Leticia actually smiled when she said that, which made Fiona happy. Somewhere was a person inside there.
“No, I’m not doing that anymore,” Fiona said. “I’d pick up your son from school tomorrow and I’d just keep driving. Don’t stop until you get to Atlanta or Charlotte or New York or Canada. And then when you get to wherever you are, you call Father Eduardo and tell him that Killa was making you do things you didn’t want to do and that he threatened to take your son and that you’re not coming back until he’s gone.”
Leticia nodded and then welled up again. “That’s my dream. But that takes money, and I don’t have enough to even get gas in my car to make it to Sarasota.”
“If I could get you money,” Fiona said, “would you go?”
“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”
“I was you,” Fiona said. That wasn’t strictly true, but it was for the role she was playing, and it was also what life could have been like if she’d been the type of woman who let other people rule her.

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