Free The Reformed by Tod Goldberg Page B

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