“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.
He shrugged, but his expression affirmed what I’d asked.
I thought about it. “So he ran girls long enough to make enough money to get a stake as a dealer. How long did he play that?”
Triple-J snorted. “About a week. Then he recruited some DEA bitch to work for him. Dumbass.”
“He lost his inventory,” I said.
He shrugged again, without quite saying ‘obviously.’
I leaned my head back. “But Marcone is backing him. So, he didn’t do wrong by Marcone.”
“Stupid bastard dealt with a supplier in St. Louis,” he said. “Now that’s a rough town.”
I straightened in my chair. “That’s why Gregory was trying to make money on the inside.”
“Hell yeah,” Triple-J said. “Mr. Marcone don’t care if his people run a little side business, long as he gets his cut. And he got his first.”
“But St. Louis didn’t,” I guessed.
