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The one exception came a couple of years ago, when his estranged wife called 911 to say he was having sex with a rubber pool raft in the common area of his apartment complex. She filmed the act on her cell phone and it went viral on the Internet, battlefield of angry spouses and spies.
Jerry got probation for indecent exposure and for a while was another dubious celebrity in the Arizona freak show.
He was also the only person I could easily find on a Sunday night who was a bona fide member of the supply chain involving stolen goods.
In other words, Three Finger Jerry was a fence.
Chapter Sixteen
I followed him into the hall, twenty feet past cigarette cartons stacked against the walls. Jerry was a short guy with a blond crew cut, wearing a gray T-shirt that was too big for his spindly arms. He did a “Walk Like An Egyptian” dance and laughed. I didn’t.
The hall opened into a larger storage area with pallets of more cigarette cartons and Tide detergent. At the back were two metal doors. One, which he opened, had a black plastic OFFICE sign. The other was unmarked and secured by a heavy padlock.
The music switched over to “Rockin’ Robin,” the Bobby Day version. I hadn’t heard it or thought about it in years. I was thankful that it was shut out when he closed us inside the little room, bid me have a seat, and settled behind a cheap, small desk.
The walls were unpainted Masonite and covered with old Hustler centerfolds in all their gynecological meticulousness.
“Thanks for smashing in my face,” he said
“You brought it on.”
He looked at me earnestly. “I mean it. Had to spit on you, see? Nothing personal but I had to put on a show. You didn’t disappoint.”
A drawer opened and his hand reached in. I started bringing up the sawed-off but he came out with only a dry face cloth. I used it to wipe off the ruined necktie.
I asked him why we needed to put on a show. His eyes avoided me and he pulled on the T-shirt, his loopy arm muscles standing out. Sweat stains were darkening the garment.
“How’s your buddy, Sheriff Peralta? I hear he became a private eye.”
The question surprised me considering Peralta’s newfound notoriety, but I made my face express boredom.
“He’s doing well. How’s the fence business?”
He studied me with sad gray eyes. I was one of the few people who knew he had been one of Peralta’s CIs or confidential informants.
He lightly rubbed his mashed face. When he took his hands away, his drawn appearance was evident. Since the last time I had seen him, he had probably lost twenty pounds he couldn’t afford.
“Business is shitty. That’s how it is.”
“Is that what made you pick up the muscle out front?”
He stared into his lap. “He picked me up. He’s MS 13, so you’d better watch your ass. Goddamned Salvadorans. I’m into ’em deep. Look, I’ve got to close pretty soon, so what’s on your mind?”
He pulled out a Marlboro and lit it with trembling hands, offering me the pack, but I waved it away and said nothing.
He smoked with his bad hand. The shooting accident had shorn off most of the index and middle fingers. So he smoked by holding the cigarette between his thumb and fourth finger. The effect was half Sinatra and half circus geek.
After a few moments, he shrugged. “This business used to be simple. Junkies and burglars bring in electronics, I pay ’em shit, send the stuff to Mexico where it’s repackaged and resold.”
He smoked and stood. His small body seemed incapable of idleness, but what had that gotten him? When I kept staring, he sat back down and continued.
“Here’s what made it work. Stuff goes to a pawnshop and it’s liable to attract the cops. A legit pawnbroker has to log it in the computer system. Here, I got a smoke shop in Maryvale. Who’s gonna think? Simple business model. I connect buyers and sellers. How am I different from an investment banker or a hedge-fund guy? We’re a coarse, shitty land run by criminals. I go with the flow.”
While he philosophized, I gently uncocked the little shotgun’s hammers, broke it open, tossed the shells on the floor, and set the empty firearm beside his desk.
“So what changed?” I asked.
“The fucking Internet, for one thing. E-sellers, they call them—craigslist, eBay. Scoop up a lot of the really good stuff, so I’m dependent on the dude who’s too stupid or too poor or too jonesing and impatient to go online.”
