“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.”
