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The Attorney General, who had been leaning back in his big chair, suddenly leaned forward putting his elbows on his desk, staring hard at Tate. "We better not dammed have. Not as secret as we have kept this whole thing. There are very few people who know about it." Well, I told you that I didn't trust that fucking judge. I don't know who it is, but the DA is suddenly coming after me. And it is a serious thrust at my deputy, and you can bet he's going to the media with it. Hell, he sent one of his assistants who's a crackhead if I've ever seen one, to interview Deputy Cramer this morning..." Cramer? That's the woman who was shot a couple of days ago, isn't she?" Yeah, she's the one." Well, what the fuck is he doing? I thought that was open and shut. You have a tape of the whole thing, right? That's what they said on the news." Yep, and thank God I had called in a favor and had the FBI come out and take possession of the original. The DA has doctored the tape I gave him until it sounds. Before the cloud of their arrival had settled, they had booked a room in the town's inn, one of those nameless, authentic places in a town too small for tourists, where only travellers ever reach. Kerouac and Casaday had stayed in this town, in the pages of _On the Road_, or at least a town like this. Tangier in the '40's had places like this... **** Kiki, the small c***d of the family who owned the hotel, brought them a bottle of Mezcal, cooled by an inadequate refrigerator in the cantina downstairs. Already, the room had grown close with the smell of their bodies, and the two looked at him with eyes of a color never seen in this village. The color of Canadian lakes, high in the mountains that drink the sky in their cold, cold depths. As he held out the drink this is what he saw: Two anglos, alike enough to be brothers. Both have already stripped off theirovershirts, and are wearing ribbed white t-shirts, the kind with the straps.
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