The Reformed

2

If you find yourself in a threatening situation, it’s best to take people’s actions at face value. If someone pulls a gun on you, more than likely he intends to shoot you. If someone is strapped with C-4, it’s probable she’s about to blow herself-and you-up. So if someone is facing serious injury-like, say, Eduardo Santiago-and is asked a serious question, it’s unlikely he’d tell a joke to lighten the situation. That only happens on television.

“I told him you were a priest,” my mother said to Eduardo. We were sitting in a small business office just off the main chapel inside the Church of the Gleaming Spire, and Eduardo kept rubbing at his elbow absently as we spoke. “He didn’t believe it.”

“No one does,” Eduardo said. “No one who knew me back in the day, anyway.”

Back in the days I knew him, Eduardo Santiago was a junior-level hard knock: the kind of gangster who played sports, didn’t commit crimes in his own neighborhood and still attended school on a somewhat regular basis. Even then, however, it was clear he was set for bigger and better things in the gang world. At sixteen, he was already well over 250 pounds and none of it was fat. He played linebacker on the high school team, and rumor had it that the University of Miami already had him penciled into their starting lineup. Rumor also had it that a few Hurricane alums had already put him on scholarship; the black Mercedes he drove to school seemed a bit outside of his credit rating.

The truth, though, was that he was on a Latin Emperors scholarship and was already working as an enforcer for the gang. It was a job he was uniquely qualified for and he rather enjoyed. He rose through the ranks until, by the age of just twenty-five, he was already a top dog, the kind of guy who both called shots and occasionally took some just for kicks, and to let the young ones know he was still in the game. Getting sent to prison only improved his stock, which was how I’d heard of him. That I hadn’t connected him to the kid I grew up with shouldn’t be much of a surprise-the name Eduardo Santiago is like Joe Smith in the Cuban community.

“Shouldn’t you still be in prison?” I asked.

“The old me? Yeah. Yeah. And he still is in prison. Or someone like him, you know? But this person? Who I am today? No, man. You’re looking at a man who changed. You don’t read the newspaper?”

“No,” I said. “No one does anymore. That’s why they’re all going out of business.”

“You got the Internet? You should Google me. I’m a success story, if I do say so myself.”

“Really?” I said. “Then why do you look like a guy who just got out of prison?”

Eduardo grinned big. He did everything big. He was still a pretty muscular guy, but he was also a guy who’d clearly spent some time in front of an all-you-can-eat buffet on more than one occasion. But beyond that, he didn’t exactly dress like a success story. He had on a tank top that revealed his dozens of tattoos, tan shorts that looked like they’d been cut off from an old pair of Dickies and, just like the kids, a pair of flip-flops. He wore a huge cross around his neck, but it was absurdly blinged up.

“Michael,” he said, “this is a car wash. You think I’m going to wear a suit to a car wash? And besides, this isn’t even my church.”

“Then what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Father Fremon took ill last week, and I volunteered to help out so he could get some more bed rest before the big Disney World trip. Plus, if I come out here, maybe a few more cars come rolling through because they know I’m involved.”

It sounded plausible enough, probably because it was perfectly plausible. Still, sitting across from Eduardo Santiago didn’t feel comfortable, especially not with my mother sitting there, too.

“Then I apologize for trying to break your arm,” I said.

“When was the last time you two saw each other?” my mother asked.

Eduardo chuckled. “Man, what? Back when you were a freshman? I remember you being one of those kids who wasn’t afraid to look me in the eye. You were a tough kid.”

“And you were a thug,” I said.

“I was a bad person,” he said, “but the Lord, you know, he taught me the way. Live by the gun, die by the gun. All that. You take a look at the Bible, and it’s in there, too, but that isn’t about how I’m living now. You recognize that and change, man, and the world opens up for you. I got a theology degree. Went to seminary. And here I am.”

“How much time did you do?”

“Fifteen,” he said.

“Out of what?”

Eduardo got a bashful look on his face, as if this wasn’t the kind of conversation he normally had in pleasant society. Either that or he’d figured out the subtext of my question: Who did you snitch out to do less time?

“Fifty,” he said.

“Fifteen out of fifty,” I said. “They don’t usually chop thirty-five years off a federal sentence for finding the Lord.”

“How’d you know I was doing federal time?”

“I’ll answer that as soon as you tell me why you’ve been looking for me,” I said.

Eduardo’s gaze shifted from me to my mother and back to me. When I didn’t say anything, he did it again. Life would be much easier if people just said what they wanted to say and didn’t bother with nonverbal communication.

I stood up. “C’mon, Ma,” I said. “Eduardo needs to tend to his flock.”

Eduardo stood, as well, and extended his meaty paw in my direction. He had scars on his knuckles from where he’d had old tattoos lasered off, but I could still make out the faint outline of the Roman numerals XII–V: the sign of the Latin Emperors.

“Why don’t you come by my church tomorrow?” Eduardo said as we shook. He told me where it was located-about five blocks from the old Orange Bowl, and just blocks from Little Havana. A good central location to save some souls, I guess. “I’ll show you around the campus,” he continued. “Let you meet some of the kids. And then we can talk about what you know and what I know, and what I need help with.”

“I can’t wait,” I said.

“Good luck with your car wash,” my mother said, and gave me the same look Eduardo had given me moments before, and then continued to do so until I set another twenty bucks on the desk. Sixty dollars for half a car wash. That’s inflation.

“Way I see it,” Sam Axe said, “the only thing Eduardo Santiago could need from you is the name of your investment guy.”

It was just after six in the evening, and Sam and I were eating dinner inside Perricone’s, an Italian restaurant that was housed inside an old barn shipped in from Vermont, which essentially meant it was just like every other tourist in town. Sam said he liked the place because it was inside a barn and it made him yearn for his country childhood, a childhood that-to the best of my knowledge-was lived nowhere near a barn or the country. It was also one of the few places in Miami that served Peroni beer, which, I suspect, was the true reason he’d suggested we meet there on this particular evening. I’d called him after I met with Eduardo and asked him to see what he could find about the good Father Santiago.

“I gave everything to Madoff,” I said, “so he’s out of luck.”

“My sources tell me your old buddy is a big player these days. Maybe he wants to pick your brain on fashionable sunglasses.”

“He’s not my old buddy,” I said. “And who are your sources?”

“You ever hear of NBC?”

“That some CIA front?”

“No, the network. He’s on one of those local chat shows about twice a week, talking about helping the poor and all that. Always wears a smart-looking suit. Good hair. He’s got a smile that people trust, too.”

“Really?”

“Well, you know, one of those local rags said he was the most trustworthy man in Miami. I read all about him at the dentist’s office.”

“He was a shot caller for the Latin Emperors,” I said.

“And you were a spy,” Sam said.

“I’m still a spy,” I said.

“And I’m still a hundred eighty pounds. They’re just buried under the other seventy-five.” Sam took a sip from his Peroni. “I ever tell you about the time I dated a model from Milan?”

“No, I never heard about that.”

“Her father owned a small fraction of Peroni. Whole house was like one big keg. I tell you, Mikey. I’ve made some mistakes in my life, but that relationship was not one of them.”

“Where is she now?”

“Turns out she was KGB,” Sam said. “It only lasted a weekend. One long, glorious weekend. Didn’t find out she was KGB until I Googled her about a year ago. She’s written a memoir and everything. I’m waiting for the English translation to see if I made it in.”

“Your point?”

“People aren’t always who they end up being.”

That was true enough, but if Eduardo was really a different guy, why did he need my help?

“Apart from NBC,” I said, “you pick anything else up?”

“I talked to a buddy of mine in the Department of Corrections, and he couldn’t wait to talk about Eduardo. Says he’s the reason he has faith in his job.”

“No one talks like that,” I said.

“I know. That’s what I’m saying. He’s not just clean. He’s damn near an angel. His church is just one aspect of what he’s doing. He’s got a nonprofit called Honrado Incorporated that puts ex-gangsters to work doing everything from making T-shirts to running a bakery to learning how to invest their money, plus it sponsors a basketball league, operates its own Little League outlet, even has a huge bingo night and ladies’ Bunco tournament. Honrado employs two hundred people, most of them either ex-cons or at-risk kids, and the board of directors is made up of athletes, politicians, financiers, artists-you name it. Mikey, they’ve even got their own newspaper that they write, print and deliver.”

“This is a guy who used to shake down fifth-graders for their lunch money,” I said.

“And there are photos of me where I look like Sonny Crockett,” Sam said. “We all make mistakes.”

“When did he go from gangster to gang star?”

Sam tapped my bottle of Peroni with his. “Nice turn of a phrase there,” he said.

“I thought you’d like that.”

“Anyway,” Sam said, “looks like he got released from Coleman in 2000."

“That’s a lot of progress in ten years,” I said.

“He was already brokering peace deals between rival gangs from the joint,” Sam said. “Wrote a children’s book about the ills of gang life, and someone tried to get him nominated for a Nobel Prize. President Clinton mentioned him in a speech.”

“While he was in prison?”

“I told you, Mikey, the guy is bulletproof now. He’s made a complete change in his life. A standard-bearer for the good that prison can do for a guy.”

“Just so I’m clear,” I said, “they executed the guy who founded the Crips, right?”

“Eduardo wasn’t up on murder charges,” Sam said. “They had him on RICO charges-a lot of them-but he didn’t have a single conviction on violent crimes.”

“He got sentenced to fifty years for RICO?”

“Latin Emperors are a worldwide organization, Mikey,” Sam said. “And he was near the top of the chain. By the time he got into prison, he was the top guy in Miami. So he might have been calling shots, but no one ever was able to trace them back to him.”

I shook my head. “That can’t be,” I said. “Remember that thing we did in El Salvador in 1994?”

“With the tanks?”

“No,” I said, “the other thing.”

“Oh… with the Russians?”

“No,” I said. “I forgot about that. No, the other thing.”

“The urban renewal?”

“Yes. He was involved with that. He was the top of the pyramid. Even from prison, he was the guy making the calls.”

“Mikey, that was a covert operation. Even if he was involved, what we did in El Salvador didn’t actually happen.”

“So your guy says he’s a hundred percent legit?”

“It’s not just my guy,” Sam said. “Eduardo Santiago is known around the world for the work he does, Mike. This is a guy who is making a difference, which is a lot more than I can say for you and me.”

It seemed hard to believe that a guy like Eduardo Santiago could be completely rehabilitated, but everything Sam said seemed to indicate it was true. Which I guess is why people go to prison.

“I’m still having a hard time with the fact that he got thirty-five years clipped off of his sentence,” I said.

“He’s got influential friends,” Sam said. “Or he snitched out the right guy.”

“Or a combination of both,” I said.

“And what’s so wrong with snitching?” Sam asked. “He found the Lord and stopped covering for the cowards he ran with. That’s good behavior right there.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “You want to come with me tomorrow?”

“No can do, Mikey,” Sam said. “I’ve got a big date.”

“Really?”

“No,” Sam said. “I just thought I’d see what you’d say when I told you I couldn’t come. You want Chuck Finley for this?”

“I think Sam Axe will do just fine,” I said.

Our waiter came by then and dropped off our dinners-veal Milanese for Sam, fettuccini Alfredo with the sauce on the side for me, so, essentially, just a plate of noodles-and regarded the growing scale of Sam’s empty bottle collection. “Anything else to drink, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Whatever else you have,” Sam said.

When building a fortress, it’s important to understand the message you want to send. The White House, for instance, was built with the understanding that people visiting it for the first time would be awed by the size and scale and thus would feel awed by the size and scale of the American government. Your fortress tells unwelcome visitors who you are, what you’re made of and, likely, what you’re willing to risk to protect yourself.

It used to be that you could walk right up to the front door of the White House and ask to pet Calvin Coolidge’s dog. Now, in many Miami neighborhoods, you’re stopped at a gate by an out-of-work cop who demands a DNA sample before you’re allowed inside. And yet Eduardo Santiago’s fortress projected no such audacity. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a college campus. A very small college, and one filled with tatted-up ex-gangsters sitting under trees, but a college no less.

“I didn’t know they still had trees in this part of town,” Sam said. We were a few blocks from the Orange Bowl, just off of Northwest Fourth Street, in an area mostly surrounded by stucco warehouses, three-story apartment complexes and small houses behind chain-link fences. In comparison, Eduardo’s church and the buildings for Honrado were bunched around a bucolic expanse of green grass, towering shade trees and discreet water features. There were picnic tables and Adirondack chairs placed seemingly at random in different areas, though it had a designer’s touch for what randomness should be, hallmarked by the fact that the chairs and tables were bolted onto concrete slabs. It was still Miami, after all.

There were seven buildings in all and each was a modern steel-and-glass structure, even the church. There wasn’t a spot of graffiti anywhere, nor was there any visible security. The adults and kids who sat on the grass and walked between the buildings looked tough from afar, which is to say that they looked like they thought they looked tough, but really just looked like they’d been terribly misguided at some point. Who walks with a limp when they don’t need to?

For the most part, however, everyone wore clothes that fit and most of the men, women, girls and boys wore identical gray polo shirts with the logo for Honrado Incorporated on the left breast pocket. If you want to build an army, the first thing you need to do is get them into uniform. This is true if you’re in the marines or if you’re in the Bloods. People like to feel like they belong to something larger than themselves, and even here, at a business run by a church, those rules still applied.

“What was this place before it was this?” I asked.

Sam looked around. “Nothing. That would be my guess.”

“Five acres of nothing?”

“Sure wasn’t a great, big park with Adirondack chairs.”

“No,” I said, “I would have remembered that.”

“Seems to me I remember parking here before football games. It was one of those vacant blacktop lots that some industrious soul decided to sit in front of with a sign offering parking for five bucks less than at the stadium.”

“This couldn’t have been cheap to renovate,” I said.

We made our way across the lawn to the church’s administrative offices. Double doors opened into a rounded portico where a young woman with a headset on sat behind a small desk. Unlike the young women who had the same job at the hotels along South Beach or the busy offices in Coconut Grove, this woman had a ragged scar that stretched from the corner of her right eye, crossed over her nose and continued all the way over her left cheek and down across her jawline. It was rippled and red and maybe half an inch wide. It was unmistakable: Someone had slashed her face with a razor blade.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“We’re here to see Eduardo,” I stopped myself, considered the surroundings, and then corrected, “Father Eduardo.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I said, “but he’s expecting me. Tell him his friend from the car wash is here.”

The girl touched her ear and spoke into the headset. “Father Santiago? Your friend from the car wash is here. Would you like me to take them to the conference room? Yes, no problem, Father.” The girl tapped her ear again and smiled up at us. “Father Santiago is running a few minutes behind schedule. He says he’ll be right out to see you in a moment. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

“What do you have in a bottle?” Sam asked.

“Evian or Dasani,” she said.

“He’ll have Evian,” I said before Sam could answer.

“No problem,” she said. She slid a clipboard toward me and asked me to sign in, which I did. Except that I said my name was Napoleon Solo, because I thought it prudent not to have my name on the official visitor’s list of any organization. I handed the clipboard to Sam. He signed it Illya Kuryakin and handed it back to the girl, who then proceeded to not even bother to look at it, which Sam clearly viewed as a shame. The girl then got up and walked down the narrow hall to her left, and I saw that her scar actually stretched around her neck, too.

Sam and I sat down in the lobby, and a few moments later, the girl returned with our waters.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

Immediately, the girl’s hand flared up toward the scar on her face. “Sure,” she said, though I could tell she felt uneasy. “I get asked questions all the time.”

“Do you like working here?” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Do you like your job here? Has it been good for you to work here?”

“Working for Father Santiago is the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she said.

I looked at Sam to see if he was gloating, but he was too busy trying to figure out the twist top of his water.

“How long have you been here?”

“A year. Maybe a little more. Soon as I got out, Father Santiago told me I could work for him.”

Got out. So comfortable telling a stranger she’d done time. “Where were you?”

“Homestead,” she said. “You ever been there?”

“No,” I said.

“It’s south of here. It wasn’t so bad. You know. It was actually safer for me. Crazy, right?”

“Crazy,” I said. “How old are you?”

“You don’t ask a lady that,” Sam said, which made the girl smile. “You ask how young they are, right?”

“Twenty-three,” she said. “But I feel older.”

“You look like a million bucks,” Sam said.

The girl touched her scar. She was pretty, you could see that, even with the gouge across her face and neck. “Father Santiago says that I could get plastic surgery for this. What do you think?”

“You could,” I said. I pointed at the scar under my left eye. “I was going to get this fixed, but I decided it gave me character. Something to talk about on dates. Sam, you have any scars?”

“Let me tell you about scars,” Sam said, and then proceeded to regale the girl with stories about the myriad holes and punctures and cuts that littered his body, each one another battlefield somewhere. I got the sense that the girl didn’t believe a word he was saying-when he brought up that shrapnel wound from the Falklands, I actually heard her sigh with something near to resignation-but the sad fact is that I don’t think he made anything up. “All of which is to say,” Sam continued, “it’s all about quality of life. If you think you’ll have a better life without that scar, then I say do yourself a favor, sister, and get it taken care of.”

“I will, then,” she said. “Father Santiago says he’s going to get a friend to help pay for it.”

“He have a lot of friends?” I asked.

“Don’t you read the newspaper?” she asked.

Before I could answer again, that no, I didn’t read the newspaper, Eduardo Santiago emerged from a conference room with his arm over a man’s shoulder. The man wore a beautifully tailored charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt and a silver tie. On his feet were wing-tips shined to a glow, on his wrist was an understated gold watch with a black face and on his head was a perfectly combed field of salt-and-pepper hair.

He looked like somebody. He looked like a Somebody. But then so did Eduardo in his navy blue suit and tan shirt opened at the collar, enough so that you could still make out the tattoos crawling up from his chest.

“Who is that with Eduardo?” I asked Sam.

“The mayor,” Sam said.

“Of where?”

“Miami,” Sam said.

Eduardo and the mayor shook hands, laughed about something, shook hands again and then the mayor said, as he walked toward us, “And remember to let me know when I can get you stuck in that sand trap again, Father!”

Sam stood up when the mayor was just a few feet away. “Mr. Mayor,” he said, and gave the politician a dignified nod of his head.

The mayor had a flicker of recognition when he saw Sam. And it wasn’t a flicker that screamed with joy. “Mr. Axe,” he said, and nodded right back at Sam, but also quickened his step out the door.

I looked at Sam. “You know the mayor of Miami?”

“I knew his wife,” he said.

“A buddy of yours?”

“Of a kind, yes.”

When you’re a spy, there’s no such thing as too much information. When you’re someone’s friend, the same rules do not apply.

“Gentlemen,” Eduardo Santiago said, “please, come into my office. We have much to talk about.”