East is East

Abercorn pulled up to the motel office and shut down the wheezing engine. He figured he would check in, have a quick shower and a cup of coffee, coordinate with the local sheriff and interview Roy Dotson at his home. Then he would get a couple hours’ sleep and start the chase again in the morning. That was the plan. But he was tired, bone tired, and he didn’t smell too great himself.

The man behind the counter was short and dark, with the narrow shoulders and fleshless limbs of a child. He had the gut of an adult though, and a well-fed one, and he wore a caste mark beneath the greasy bill of his feedstore cap. His glittering dark eyes went directly to Abercorn’s face—he’d burned out there in the swamp, he knew it, and the burn made the dead-white discolorations of his condition stand out more than ever. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. “I need a double,” he said.

“Y’all mean a twin?” the little man drawled.

“Double,” Abercorn said. “Two beds. One for me and one for—for him.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the car, where Turco’s head and upthrust beard could just be made out over the dashboard.

The little man broke into a grin that showed off the bright red stubble of his teeth. He ducked down to spit something into a wastebasket under the counter, and then bounced back up again. “A twee-in, like Ah said. For a minute there—y’all ain’t from around Clinch County, am Ah correct in that assumption?”

Abercorn could feel the weariness settling into him like a drug, like the tingle of a good double shot of tequila on an empty stomach. Japanese. He should have stayed in Eagle Rock, busting Mexicans. “Savannah,” he managed. “L.A. originally.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” The little man was nodding his head vigorously. “Ah coulda sworn it. Thought you was a Yankee—and for a minute there maybe a little, you know, funny. Wantin’ a double for two grown men …”

Abercorn was dragging, worn thin, but a tiny knot of inspiration flared in his brain. “Punjabi, right?” he said.

The little man beamed. “Chandigarh.”

“A twin. I need a twin.”

“Good,” the little man said, beaming still, beaming till he could have lit the room all by himself. “We take all kinds here.”

Turco was in a communicative mood the following morning, chattering on about the suspect as if they’d grown up together, as if they’d shared a bed in the orphanage and married sisters. “He’s a cagey one, this Nip—a whole lot cagier than we give him credit for, that’s for sure. He got this bitch to feed him—two bitches, if you count the old lady—and then he has the balls to bust out of jail and make for the last place on earth we’d expect to find him.” He paused reflectively and scratched at his newly washed beard. “Still, they don’t take to nature, the Nips—they’re a city people, subways and pigeons and that kind of thing—and ultimately he’s going to defeat himself, I’m about three-quarters sure of that.”

They were in the Datsun, heading into the swamp. It had rained the night before and the road was slick, but the sun was up already and burning it off in a dreamy drifting haze. Abercorn had gotten about four hours of fitful sleep, while Turco, who’d strung a hammock over the second bed, had snored blissfully through the small hours of the morning and well into the dawn. They’d passed on breakfast, nothing open that early but Hardee’s and a truck stop so full of potbellied crackers Abercorn couldn’t handle it and ordered a coffee to go. It was no loss to Turco, who seemed to have an infinite supply of roots and jerky tucked away in the folds of his rucksack. At the moment, he had a plastic bag of what looked to be dried guppies in his lap. From time to time he’d dip a hand into the bag and crunch them up like popcorn.

“And if you’re thinking disco and designer shirts, it ain’t going to work on this character,” Turco added, as if the ghetto blaster and Guess? jeans had been Abercorn’s idea in the first place. “No: we’re going to have to get a lot more devious than that.” He scratched his beard and a gentle drift of flaked guppy settled in his lap.

Abercorn looked away. Ever since the interview with Roy Dot-son, something had been troubling him. It was the question of Saxby. He liked Saxby, he did. And he didn’t think Saxby would consciously aid and abet a criminal—and an IAADA, at that—but it did look pretty bad. Ruth was capable of anything—he knew that from personal experience—and she could have put him up to it. Easily. “What do you think of Saxby, Lewis—I mean as far as his involvement in this thing?”

Turco turned to give him a look. “Who?”

“Saxby. You know, Ruth’s—I mean, Dershowitz’s—uh—”