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<P>Where were they from? That was easier. They were schoolteachers from Eureka, Montana. ("Jesus Christ, where's Eureka, Montana?" And they all had to search a McNally Atlas to prove there was such a place.)
Then the cops gave him a funny look after he described the way the two women hall picked him up and taken him to the whorehouse. In fact, the way they were trading looks gave Alex the impression he was going to see the inside of a psychiatrist's office if he hung around too long.
He broke off the conversation and said, awkwardly, he had to go.
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<P>"Sure, buddy." The detective leaned across the desk to look at him more carefully, as if memorizing his face. He was a clean- cut young kid. The sort they put on police recruiting posters. "We'll check," he said. "We'll let you know what we find."
The look he gave Alex promised that wasn't all he was going to check. "Besides," he added, "there's not much we can do in Mexico anyway."
Alex tucked his tail between his legs and retreated as gracefully as he could.
There was something to be said about unshaven Mexican cops with fat guts, he had to admit. Maybe they didn't get all the job done---but at least they did part of it.
Anyway, Alex knew where he stood, now.
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