For months, Rodriguez had been unable to get anyone west of Asheville to flip. The farther you went into the mountains the more tight-lipped people became. The Asheville kid giving up Cherokee might not have sounded like much to Holland, but at least it was a step in the right direction. There was something about it that made sense.
If the dope was coming from Atlanta, the Qualla Boundary would make a fine hub. Jump on 441 and it was a straight shot across the state line from Clayton. If they were running 74, they might be using tribal lands in Murphy as well. Between the casino traffic and the jurisdiction technicalities of policing a sovereign nation, the fact was, Cherokee offered a lot of shelter. There was a pile of dope coming into western North Carolina from somewhere and the lines didn’t seem to run east to west. The only way to make any headway was to get inside.
Dipshit criminals always asked undercovers if they were cops, believing wholeheartedly that the answer to the question constituted entrapment. Every white agent that ever worked the streets had been asked, but Rodriguez had worked three years without hearing the question once.
Between the build-the-wall bullshit and the fact that the orange-haired man leading those chants had told the world men who looked like Rodriguez were drug dealers and rapists, no one batted an eye. There was no way he could be a cop. Fact was, in this line of work, being of Latino descent made things easier. Rodriguez didn’t even have to make up a cover story. He had brown skin, so all he had to do was roll his r’s.
The first move into new country was always the same: get picked up on a dope charge, go through the rigmarole of booking, make friends in the cell, and wait for the office to post bond. There was no telling who you could trust in a local department, so it was best to play the game from the inside out, never let them know you were anyone other than who you said you were.
Rodriguez stuck an empty needle in his arm and pretended to be passed out in a gas station bathroom in Whittier. He left the door unlocked and cracked so the clerk would find him. Problem was the gas station was connected to a hunting-and-fishing supply store called the Outpost, and when she saw him she ran next door to grab some big goon who whipped out an ankle-holstered Glock and held Rodriguez at gunpoint till deputies arrived. Whole thing was sketchy as hell, but in the end it worked.
He was in a holding cell with some horse-faced white man with spiky hair who was in his mid-to-late thirties but trying to look much younger. The man’s eyes were too close together and his mouth hung open like he was either stoned or dumb as a fence post. He strutted over and inspected Rodriguez from top to bottom soon as the deputies closed the door.
“You Cherokee?”
“No, I’m not Cherokee.”
“Must be Mexican then.”
“My parents are Venezuelan.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Mexico and Venezuela are two different countries.”
“You like tacos?”
“Yeah, I like tacos.”
“Well, all right then.”
Rodriguez laughed.
“My name’s Chevis, but nobody calls me that.”
“What do they call you?”
“Everybody calls me Rudolph.”
“That your last name?”
“No.”
“So why do they call you that?”
“On account of I’m from Murphy.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Like Eric Rudolph.”
Rodriguez shook his head.
“You don’t know who Eric Rudolph is? Blew up a bunch of abortion clinics or something. I don’t know. Anyhow, he hid out in the woods for years and then one day he got caught digging around in a trash can back behind the Save A Lot.”
“Okay.”
“It was in Murphy. The Save A Lot was. Sure as shit you heard of Eric Rudolph.”
“No.”
“What’s your name?
“Rodriguez.”
“I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“That you’re a Mexican, not an Indian.”
“I’m not Mexican.”
“Then what are you?”
“American. I was born in America.”
“Yeah, and I’m Eric Rudolph.”
The man walked over and took a seat on a concrete bench that lined one wall. He rested his elbows on his knees, dirty jeans with seams cut at the ankles so the denim hung over his sneakers. He’d lost his hair up front, his forehead tall and shiny as polished marble. The man dropped his head and his hair jabbed out all over like a porcupine.
“What did they pick you up for?” Rodriguez tried to keep him talking.
“Shoplifting.”
“What’d you steal?”
“A coyote tail.”
Rodriguez laughed, but the man kept that dumbass look about his face like he was serious as a heart attack.
“I swear. Hand to God. I was at Uncle Bill’s Flea Market and this woman was selling all kinds of skulls and shit, possums, deer. She even had the hide off a raccoon. Looked about like she’d scraped it off the side of the highway with a shovel. But she had this little coffee can and it was filled up with coyote tails.”
“So why in the fuck did you steal that?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted one, I guess.”
“A coyote tail.”
“Yeah,” Rudolph said. “What about you?”
“I passed out in a gas station.”
“That ain’t a crime.”
“I was fucked up.”
“Drunk?”
“No. I had a bag on me.”
“So they got you for possession?”
“Yeah, possession.”
“How much?”
“Just a stamp. Or what was left of it. Not shit really.”
“You from here?”
“No,” Rodriguez said.
“Where you from?”
“I’ve been staying in Asheville.”
“How the hell did you wind up here?”
“Got a line on a construction job.”
“That’s all y’all do.”
“Who?”
“Mexicans,” Rudolph said. “Seems like every last one of you works construction.”
“Maybe.”
“I ain’t ever been one for horse. I like uppers. Chrystie. One time I dated this girl and we got off on a bag of crystal and we fucked each other for a week straight. We ain’t even eat. Thought she was going to wear my cod off. I was raw for a month. I don’t know what the fuck people want to lay around for. Me, I’d rather be up there on the moon someplace than passed out in some gas station.”
“I don’t guess I ever cared one way or another.”
“Well, buddy, I’ve got just the place for you.”
“Where’s that?”
“Place over in Cherokee. You can find anything you want. Place is like a goddamned outlet mall. That’s what they call it. Buddy of mine sells horse over there.”
“You find some dope and I’ll get you some crystal. How about that?”
“You buying?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I think that sounds like a deal, amigo.” Rudolph interlaced his fingers and turned his hands out, stretching his arms before him. He yawned and leaned his head back against the cinder-block wall. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Rodriguez.”
“Hot Rod,” Rudolph said. “When you think you’ll get out of here?”
“I don’t know, but I’d guess they’ll hold me longer than you.”
“You know where the paper mill is?”
“No.”
“Well, you get out just look off above the trees. You’ll see the smoke. I live up on the hill there above it. There’s a couple trailers mixed in with some houses on top of a kudzu patch.”
“How do I know which one is yours?”
“I’m the one with the basketball goal out front. You come by there and we’ll take a ride over to that buddy of mine’s.”
“And he’s got dope?”
“Amigo, he’s got anything you’re looking for.”
Rodriguez walked over to a steel toilet affixed to the far wall. He unzipped his pants to take a leak. There was a warped mirror in front of him that bent his face as he stared into it like he was in a funhouse. The man behind him was humming the tune to “A Country Boy Can Survive.” Rodriguez smiled.
Adrenaline coursed through him and left him light-headed and trembling. There were the unanswered questions and the possibilities. There was the thrill of living a lie. Those types of things were hard to explain to anyone who hadn’t felt them. As crazy as it sounded, this was the part of the job he lived for.