“Might?”
“They came at us. One thing led to another, there was a big explosion, they ran into the trailer and, well, that’s where they sit,” Sam said.
“Barry?” I said.
“Whatever Sam says,” Barry said. “The man is a ninja.”
“All right,” I said, “Barry, I’m afraid your friends are only going to get a truck, not a payload.”
“They’re flexible,” Barry said. “And I’ll pay them. Whatever, okay?”
Sometimes, Barry makes more sense than I give him credit. “We need to take care of Prieto,” I said. “I’ve got photos on my phone. We can’t have him messing this up.”
“Aye, aye,” Sam said, and he took out his phone and made a call. “Ross? Ross, it’s Sam Axe. Listen. I just saw someone illegally parked inside a tree in front of Honrado’s headquarters, over by the Orange Bowl. Yeah, looked serious. Can I e-mail you some photos that might be of interest to you? Great, great. I’ll send them right over. And Ross? Get there quick. I think your friend Officer Prieto might be the person involved here. Maybe another hit-and-run.”
When he hung up, Sam had an odd smile on his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You ever do something for someone and you know it’s the right thing even before you do it?”
I thought about pulling Killa out of the car and offering him his brother’s salvation, even when I knew I didn’t have to, and probably shouldn’t. “I guess I do,” I said.
Barry sighed.
“What?” I said.
“I guess I do, too,” he said. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. Sitting in the sleeping compartment of the truck was the money plate.
Epilogue
Nothing inspires the great wealth of giving more than turmoil. So after spending a month on the front page of the Miami Herald, detailing how he’d been duped by his old friend Junior Gonzalez, a man who came to him seeking reformation but who really had hatched an insidious plan to counterfeit money just under his nose, Father Eduardo Santiago was flush with donations for all of his pet projects. And why not? The story that was unfolding was as bizarre as anything on the television that week. There was even a police officer who’d been found on the payroll of the Latin Emperors, discovered by the dogged research of a meter maid, of all things. It even looked like the cop and the gangster were party to the theft of high-grade chemicals. Could they have been domestic terrorists?
It was a Sunday, and I was reading all about the news while I ate lunch in my mother’s kitchen. I was working on the Charger in her garage, pounding out a few dents, replacing a broken light, and bleaching blood from the backseat (again), and had come in to eat a cup of yogurt and a piece of toast. Twenty minutes later, I was still there, reading all about the exploits of the good, the bad and the meter maid.
“Compelling little tale,” my mother said.
“It’s a good one,” I said.
“Can I ask you a question, Michael?”
“Probably not, Ma,” I said.
“Don’t you ever get tired of all of this?”
I set the newspaper down. “No,” I said. The fact was, I had one more job to do with Father Eduardo planned for that evening. “This is what I do. This is what I was put here to do. Either I’m a spy or I’m not a spy. But I’m not sitting around waiting for bad things to happen, not if I can stop something from occurring.”
My mother came over and put a hand on my face. “Please, Michael,” she said, “be more careful. These people? They sound crazy.”
Aren’t they all?
That night, I went to Father Eduardo’s house to pick him up. It was close to midnight, and Father Eduardo was dressed in a sweat suit when I met him at his door. I hadn’t seen him since the day everything had gone down, though we’d spoken several times.
“You ready?” I said.
“I am,” he said.
We drove for a long while in silence, headed out past Homestead and toward the Everglades. I finally asked, “How is your brother?”
“Healing,” he said. “I sent him to Nevada. I have a friend in a church there who is understanding of these things.”
“You’re not worried he’ll go back to the life?”
“I’m worried I’ll go back,” he said. He laughed, but I think he meant it. “I can’t control him. I can only give him a choice. He loves his son. That is worth something.”
“Where is Leticia?”
“Somewhere safe,” he said.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“The more people know, the more people know,” he said. “I trust you, Michael, but she wants no one to know her anymore. A fresh start.”
“Does she need money?”
“Your friend Fiona has been very generous,” he said. “So, no. She’s fine.” Every day, a new surprise. “Turn left here,” he said, and pointed at an unpaved road that led off toward farmland. We drove for another few minutes, until he motioned for me to stop.
“Here?” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
We got out of the car, and Father Eduardo looked up into the sky, took a deep breath and then walked farther on, toward an old barn in the distance. I followed behind him at a distance.
Father Eduardo began to speak, his voice barely audible at first, and then slowly it rose in tenor as he delivered the last rites to a field of dead men, long ago buried by Junior Gonzalez and the Latin Emperors-a final act of contrition. I couldn’t help but wonder who’d delivered the last rites to all the men I’d left behind over the years.
I walked back to the Charger and waited for Father Eduardo to return, so I could drive him back to Miami, so I could return to my loft and wait for my next assignment, be it from the people who’d burned me or someone who only needed my help.
