High Country Nocturne - [37]

He let out a pained squeak as an elaborate spider web of broken glass grew around his head.

He was a little guy, so it was easy.

So was shoving him backwards into the wall, where he collapsed on the floor followed by a cascade of dozens of packs of Camels, Pall Malls, and Newports dislodged from their homes.

It was as if he were at the bottom of a slot machine and had won the jackpot, only doing so might require reconstructive surgery to his cheekbones and jaw.

He fell back moaning, and I produced the Colt Python, traversing the barrel to my left.

“Stay on that stool, fat man.”

He stayed on the stool.

My eyes caught a slight movement right. I brought the barrel to Belma.

“I don’t like it that I can’t see your hands,” I said.

The burrito was sitting beside the tip bowl.

Jerry moaned, “Leave it alone, Ahu. Don’t do nothin’, Belma…”

She slowly placed chubby little hands on the cash register while Jerry pulled himself up. He looked better than I expected, a puffy nose constituting most of the damage.

“Stand up and back away.”

She did.

I stepped behind the counter and retrieved a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun from a space below the register. From the tip of the barrel to the end of the stock, it was about fourteen inches long.

Jerry tried to explain. “We’ve had robberies…”

This was sweet deterrence. Shoot straight through the cheap facing of the counter while some dirtball was demanding money.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Jerry had his hands out, palms facing me. Now he was the peacemaker.

I holstered the Python. Breaking open the sawed-off, I saw two twelve-gauge shells in the chambers. Those would have torn me in half. Why was my breathing so even?

With my other hand, I produced my badge case and held it out low.

Lindsey’s blood was on the star, the identification card, and the leather. The badge case had been in the pocket of my blazer, which I had used as a trauma dressing.

Let them see what they’ve done.

“Your information was wrong, Jerry, and you assaulted a deputy sheriff.”

“I didn’t know. How would I know?” He was talking fast, using his hands to make a calm-down gesture. The clown on the stool had not moved a millimeter and stared at me with flat eyes. I snapped the twelve-gauge back in place, cocked the hammers, and let it rest in the direction of his bulk.

“Honest mistake, Mapstone. Let’s talk. Come in back, to my office. I’ll get you a towel to clean up.”

“Maybe I’ll take you downtown. Couple of years in prison, in general population, would do your asshole good, Asshole.”

“Oh, c’mon, Mapstone. I was only jokin’.”

“You know your rights, correct?”

“Sure, but…”

“Read your damn rights!”

“I have the right to remain silent…please!”

“Keep going.”

He rubbed his bashed face. “Anything I say can and will be used against me.”

I stared at him. The Miranda Warning was one of Phoenix’s gifts to the world. After the Supreme Court let him off because his constitutional rights had been violated, Ernesto Miranda would sell signed Miranda Warning cards for five bucks. Until he wound up on the wrong end of a knife fight in the Deuce.

“I have the right to an attorney and if I can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided for me. I understand each of these rights as I have explained them to me.”

I nodded approval and he looked sad. Belma, likely standing for the longest stretch in years, added a long fart to the proceedings.

For a few minutes, I let him think about being arrested as not a single customer came in. For all the silence, the place had a jumpy oppressiveness, like even the packs of smokes wanted to bolt for the parking lot, and I was not the cause.

Then I let him take me to the back office.

Three-Finger Jerry was a former Phoenix cop and a Jack Mormon; in other words he had backslid out of the church. He earned his nickname when he blew two digits off in a firearms accident. With his own police shotgun.

After he was bounced from the force, he set up El TobacCorner and seemed to fade away unless you had business with him.

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.