¶lim¶Notorious Joe

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You know Joe. But do you know the Elvis-busting, opium-seizing, Sinatra-singing, racially-profiled Notorious J.O.E.?.

“Is this safe? Am I going to get shot here?”

Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio has arrived to have his portrait taken at Legend City Studios near Van Buren Street and Fifth Avenue. Historically, this area has been heroin-hawking, hooker hotel heaven, heavily decorated with graffiti and the glitter of broken glass. Presently, it’s transitioning into a hipster-approachable haunt where you can usually walk around in daylight without worrying about somebody shooting you.

Unless you’re Joe Arpaio. A lot of people have taken shots at him, literally and figuratively. He travels short distances in Downtown Phoenix the way wise guys get around in mafia movies: in the back of a black, tinted Chrysler town car, accompanied by three pistol-packing protectors. He looks a little nervous as he emerges from the backseat on the passenger side, where the seat in front of him is slapped with a sticker depicting Marlon Brando in The Godfather. “Look at all this graffiti!” he exclaims. “You sure we’re not gonna get shot?”

Arpaio heads to the bathroom to finish combing his hair and straightening his tie – a clip-on, he explains, because perps can strangle you with a necktie. His tie tack is a gold Glock pistol; he says it’s the only gun he carries anym

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