which he handed to Sam. It had an address on it.
“What’s this?” Sam asked.
“Where Junior’s been kicking it,” he said. “One of my delivery guys made a drop there about a week ago.”
“Why would you think I’d want that?”
“You’re wearing a wire,” K-Dog said. He pointed at Sam’s chest, and Sam realized he’d unbuttoned his shirt at some point. It was those damn peppers.
“Sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t want to forget anything.”
“It’s all right,” K-Dog said, “I’m not gonna remember that you were wired up, either. That’s the joy of pruno, right?”
“Right,” Sam said. He read the address aloud so that it would get on his wire, since he was pretty sure he’d lose the paper before all things were said and done with K-Dog.
5
The aim of terrorism, in all its forms, is maddeningly simple. If you blow up a plane or yourself or a car parked in front of a busy hotel, or even if you just walk up and shoot a political figure, the reasoning can usually be broken into one of three things:
A desire for revenge.
A desire for acknowledgment.
A desire for publicity.
On the occasion that terrorism is used for strictly religious purposes, it’s very rarely what any god has told someone to do, but rather the skewed interpretation that a god seeks revenge for being put behind the eight ball of some other religious idol.
The difference between a terrorist organization and a prison or street gang is negligible. The Latin Emperors didn’t rise in prominence because of their political bent in the late nineties; they rose because they controlled a vast network of drug dealers and gave back to their own community-which is to say, they hired people in their own neighborhoods to do menial tasks, handed out money on holidays and gave the people of the projects a sense of identity and even a little bit of hope. When you’re hopeless, even a gang seems like a good idea. The difference between Hamas and the Latin Emperors isn’t that large: for both, it’s about defending a piece of land and defending a particular identity, and the conflicts between power and preeminence.
How you defeat terrorism is more complex. But it begins with counterinsurgency. The level of violence-or the threat of violence-determines the response. Blow up the World Trade Center, for instance, and expect to have your country, or countries, invaded. Threaten the president via e-mail, and expect to have a Secret Service agent outside your door in about five minutes, just to make sure you’re not producing anthrax in your mother’s basement. Begin organizing an anarchist organization that believes violence is the only way to achieve the aims of the revolution- what this revolution will entail is anyone’s guess-and expect to have a new member within a few weeks who, eventually, will be writing your FBI file.
As it related to Junior Gonzalez, I suspected we’d need a little of all of the above to stop his campaign against Father Eduardo.
“Why don’t we just shoot him?” Fiona asked. I was at her place fixing her sink and explaining the situation I’d decided to enter all of us into, and, as per usual, Fiona had a very simple solution. That she had it while I was under her sink wasn’t my choice. I called her that night and told her we needed to talk about a new client, and she told me that she’d love to discuss our latest venture over dinner, except that she was having a household problem and only I, with my superior skills, could fix the issue.
I thought she was speaking euphemistically.
She wasn’t. So with wrench in hand, I told her all we knew.
“He hasn’t actually done anything yet,” I said. “He plans to extort Father Eduardo. He plans to blackmail him. He’s maybe planning on killing him, but there’s nothing criminal in what he’s done yet, apart from maybe having some cops on his payroll, and that sort of makes it difficult to kill him, too.”
“But let’s be honest, Michael. Eventually he will put himself in a position where it would be easier if we just shoot him or put a bomb in his house. Why not just jump ahead? Darwin would approve of this plan. And so would Sam.”
Fortunately, Sam was off getting information on Junior and wasn’t there to nod his head or tip his beer in assent. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a position to really start arguing with Fiona, seeing as I was on my back and attempting to unscrew the elbow joint of her sink. Since she’s prone to sudden violence, I thought it would be wise to keep things, you know, calm.
“I see your point,” I said. “But no.” I finally popped the joint, and a slow drip of water came out. I reached into the pipe and pulled out what looked to be clogging her drain: an eight-inch knife that could gut Big-foot. “Have you been looking for this?”
“I knew I left it somewhere,” she said.
“Were you expecting ninjas to come after your stamp collection?”
“Michael, you can never have enough sharp objects in your home. You know that.” She took the knife from my hand and admired it a bit. “I bought this in Switzerland. It can cut meat, vegetables or human flesh with equal acuity.”
“That’s wonderful.” I rescrewed the joints together and then stood up.
“Anyway,” she said. “My point here, Michael, is it would be nice not to play these games. You’re always saying you want your job back. Yet you never exactly used due process when you were a spy.”
“Which is precisely why I can’t go put a bullet in Junior’s head,” I said.
“But it was so much sexier when you could,” she said.
“I guess we all lose, then,” I said. I went into Fi’s fridge and pulled out two beers and a blueberry yogurt I’d left a few days previous. It’s always smart to store rations in a safe place. I opened Fi’s sliding door and stepped out onto her patio and sat down at her picnic table. It was just after seven in the evening, and there were a few people out on the water in small boats, oblivious to the plots and scenarios of the bad people. That wouldn’t be such a horrible thing, I suppose.
A few minutes later, Fiona came out with a plate of fruit and some cheese.
“I thought you were making dinner,” I said. “I thought that was why I had to fix your sink.”
“No, you had to fix my sink because I asked you and you’re unable to say no to me.” She pushed the plate toward me. “Eat some solid food. It will be a shock to your system.”
I took a piece of cheese and gnawed on one corner.
“Something the matter, Michael?”
“I’m a little concerned about the fact Junior has cops on the take. That’s not good for Eduardo, but it really isn’t good for us, either. Last thing we need is some crooked cop deciding to make a name for himself by arresting someone like you.”
“They’d never take me alive,” she said.
“Fi, that’s noble, but let’s not get crazy here,” I said.
“I didn’t mean that I’d die,” she said. “I meant that they’d never be able to take me and live.”
“Great.”
“Does Sam know anyone on the police force?”
“Not really,” I said. “At least not since that trouble we ran into.” A rather adept Miami officer, Detective Paxon, thought she might find something of interest in my life a few months earlier-turns out that if you blow up half the city and leave a few bodies on the streets of Miami, eventually people tend to notice-and since then, Sam was a bit worried about his contacts there. But it’s not as if a bad cop sits around the locker room, telling everyone about the great gig he has working for a prison gang. “If Junior has cops working for him,” I continued, “I’m going to guess that it’s not as easy as paying someone off to deliver messages or look the other way when crimes are being committed.”
