The Law (The Dresden Files #17.4)(13)

“Yes, I did,” I said.

He nodded his head to me. “Well played.”

I blinked.

It hadn’t occurred to me that by doing so, I’d earn respect from Marcone, too.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“I cannot give you one of my people,” Marcone continued. “What I can give you is a word of advice with regards to Mister Gregory. One I feel I should not need to offer to a person of your alleged profession.”

I frowned at him. “What advice?”

He gave me a shark’s smile. “Follow the money.”

“Huh,” I said.

He picked up his pen and clipboard again.

“Gregory’s cellmate,” I said. “I’d like to talk to him. Like any old regular PI without wizard powers.”

Marcone narrowed his eyes, studying his checklist. He lifted his eyes and gave me the same unreadable look I’d have gotten from a mildly interested tiger.

“Very well. He will be made available.”

I got up, nodded to him, and left. Gard was waiting for me, and I told her, “I need a land line.”

The Valkyrie took me to another trailer without a word and nodded at a phone. I got on it and called Will.

“Get in touch with Bob and Paranoid Gary,” I told him over the staticky line. “I need some more information.” I told him what. “I’ll call back for it in a couple hours. Cancel this afternoon’s appointments, too,” I said. “I’m going to Pontiac.”





Chapter Nine





Prison visiting rooms aren’t all like the ones you see on TV, with the walls of cubicles and the phones to talk through.

Pontiac didn’t have the phones, just some holes in the plexiglass.

Juan Julio Jefferson was a big, merry-looking guy, mid-fifties, with dark-bronzed skin, black hair to his shoulders and a silver beard. He had enough teardrops tattooed on his cheeks to make it look like he’d been sobbing, and he spun his chair around and swung a leg over it to sit backwards in it when I finally got in to see him.

“So,” he said. “You’re the wizard guy.”

“I’m the wizard guy.”

“Should I make a Harry Potter joke?” he asked.

“Please do,” I said. “I get them a lot.”

“Your scars are all wrong,” he said, grinning. “Where’s your glasses. Guess you really like holding your wand.”

“I’ve had worse, Juan Julio.”

“Triple J,” he said. “We’re inside.”

I answered his grin without letting it get to my eyes. “Carton of cigarettes if you can answer a few questions, Triple J.”

He spread his big, scarred hands genially. “I ain’t a rat, boss.”

“Two cartons.”

“Ain’t about cartons, cabron,” he said, his eyes hardening. “Word is I have to meet you. Okay. Fine. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

I nodded. “The questions are about Tripp Gregory.”

Triple-J leaned back speculatively. “Oh. That asshole.”

I started liking him a little better.

Paranoid Gary had told me that Triple-J had been an enforcer for Marcone for a good long while, and he was now a fairly comfortable lifer after dodging the death penalty. Word had it that when someone needed to buy it inside Pontiac, Triple-J was the Chicago outfit’s man. He might have been in prison, but he had status there—and probably knew enough to be a problem for the outfit if he didn’t get treated with respect.

“I don’t need anything about the Chicago outfit,” I said. “Looking for personal background.”

He eyed me and then nodded slowly. “Show me the commissary credit. For three cartons. I’ll listen. Tell you what I think I can.”

I eyed him, then got up and arranged it with the guard, and paid it in cash. My credit cards, when I have them, last about ten minutes before that magnetic strip gets fried. Don’t even ask about those microchip things. I came back to the cubicle and showed him the receipt.

“Sure,” he said. “Ask.”

I shrugged. “Tell me about Tripp.”

“You met him?” Triple-J asked.

“Couple times.”

“Then you know who he is already,” Triple-J said. “Exactly what he fuckin’ looks like. Slimy little pimp, self-important ass, but he ain’t soft. Bitched a lot about not having women. Did a lot of wheeling and dealing in here, smart enough to play it straight, too dumb to make much.”

“He was trying to make money in here?”

“Sure,” Triple-J said. “Can do all right if you know how. Come out with something.”

“But he didn’t?”

The big man snorted. “Hell, no. He’s that kind that is always about to make a big score, yeah? He’d risk it on bets until he lost. Way to do it is a little at a time, careful, build a business.”

“That’s how he got busted in the first place,” I guessed.

He shot me with his forefinger. “Right, boss. His only business sense is running whores.” He waggled his hand. “Okay at that. Why he’d had the money to set himself up when he got busted.”

“On drug charges,” I said.