“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.
“And they charge interest, boss.”
I sat back and blew out my breath. That’s why Tripp Gregory was going after Maya and company. He was desperate. “Let’s say they got upset with him,” I said.
Triple-J snorted. “They bury him.”
“Marcone allow that sort of thing?”
“Always more pimps, boss,” he said. “Mr. Marcone likes discretion. Long as St. Louis did it discreet, he wouldn’t care. Just business.”
“So Gregory was safe from them in here?”
Triple-J shrugged. “Mr. Marcone decides who gets attended to in here. Tripp didn’t rat. Marcone says he’s not to be touched. So, St. Louis decides to wait, maybe recoup their losses.” He shook his head. “Dumbass could have stayed in here a couple more years. Maybe the guys he owed are out of business by then. But he was tired of getting no women.” He shook his head. “Some men got no head for business.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “He say how much he owed them?”
“’Bout a million times,” Triple J said. “Hundred grand. Then the vig. He’d figure it out on paper every couple of days and bitch about it. Must be a quarter million by now.” He tilted his head. “He trying to scam the money out of someone, huh? That’s why you’re here.”
“Yeah. Anything else you can tell me about him?”
Triple-J scratched at his ear. “Guy is a weasel. You ever tried to get a weasel off a chicken?”
“No.”
“I have,” he said. He held up a hand and showed me a mess of scars on the inside of his index finger. “They ain’t big. But they don’t give up easy, boss.”
“Me neither,” I said.
Chapter Ten
I got back to the Castle in the early evening and went straight to my office. “Bob.”
A pale blue light zipped across the wall, rushed to the skull and kindled as warm glowing candlelights inside the eye sockets. “Yo.”
“Who are you, Stallone now?” I asked.
“Adrian!” Bob said in a terrible imitation. “I did it!”
I snorted and slouched into my chair. “What did you figure out about Talvi Inverno?” I asked.
“Well, boss,” Bob said. “There’s good news and terrible news.”
“That’s nice,” I sighed. “Let’s have it.”