Day of Atonement (13 page)

Good ole Disneyland—the ultimate kid picker-upper.

Another sundown, this
one signifying the end of the Jewish New Year. Decker dropped off Shimon Levine, then headed for the Lazarus house, thinking how the first two days of his honeymoon had been spent in emotional upheaval.

Dusk was blanketing the neighborhood. A thick gray fog had settled upon the rooftops, obscuring chimneys and rain gutters as if the houses had been set in badly cropped photographs. Decker turned up his collar. Black-garbed shadows whooshed past him on their way to evening prayer, their shoes making clopping noises against the sidewalk. He took a deep breath, then exhaled, blowing out a stream of warm air. Just how
far
did he intend to take the case?

It was hard to come up with rational decisions because he was tired and hungry. He hadn’t eaten breakfast because he’d overslept. With an empty stomach and puffy eyes, he had rushed off to morning services. Afterward, he’d bolted down a small lunch because he knew a full stomach would make him sleepy. He had wanted to be in top form for the interviews. The most insignificant thing might prove to be important; a kid’s life could depend on how alert he was.

The interviewing had gone well. Good old Yossie Weinstein had provided a crack in the vacuum.

Decker thought about the kids who lived here. The ones he’d spoken with seemed remarkably well adjusted. Even
those who had strayed a bit from “the path” knew the difference between curiosity and trouble. The boys he’d interviewed had thought of Noam as an oddball at best, a bad apple at worst. But all agreed he seemed lonely.

A lonely, naïve boy somewhere in the city. Frightening. He looked at Noam’s picture again. There was something cocky about his expression.

His mind flashed to Jonathan’s first assessment of his nephew.

Kid smiles a lot but never looks happy
.

And what Yossie had said about Hersh.

He has a weird smile—lopsided
.

Mentally, Decker rummaged through his past case files: thousands of problem kids. Some were actually redeemable. But then there had been the others—the real badasses destined to do hard time if they lasted that long. They had many common attributes, but the one that was sticking in Decker’s mind was their
affect
—always out of sync with what was happening to them. No matter how much trouble they were in, they just sat there with these eerie smiles plastered on their faces, grinning as if you’d just told them a dirty secret.

He stifled a yawn, his only wish—to pump something bulky and nontoxic into his stomach and close his eyes.

Rina was waiting for him at the front door of the townhouse. She came out and gave him a bear hug.

“All right!” Decker threw his arms around her. “To what do I owe this burst of affection?”

“I love you. I realized it’s been a long time since I’ve told you that.”

“Love you too, kiddo,” Decker said. “I’m beat.”

Rina said, “We’ve got a full house inside—”

“Christ—”

“No one expects you to make chitchat. Everybody knows how hard you’re working. Just say hello, then go upstairs. I’ll bring you some dinner.”

“Will you eat with me?”

Rina smiled. He looked like a puppy begging for table scraps. She pinched his cheeks. “Of course I’ll eat with you.” She slid her arm around his waist and led him inside, gently pushing him through the throng of women—all of them wishing him their best. They would have asked him more—Decker saw curiosity etched into their faces—but Rina was a skillful guide. She whisked him into their room upstairs, then helped him off with his jacket. She pointed to the folded-down bed and said, “Sit down and I’ll take off your shoes. And I’ll even rub your feet.”

Decker eyed her. “Are you doing this to keep me on this case?”

Rina said, “Are you assigning ulterior motives to my wifely behavior?”

“Your behavior isn’t wifely,” Decker said. “It’s…geisha-esque.”

“That’s not a word, Peter,” she said. “Would you like me to take off your pants?”

“Hell, yeah.”

Rina laughed. “No argument about that one.”

“In fact—”

“The boys will be home any second.”

“I’ll be quick and I’ll be quiet.”

Rina looked upset, regarded her watch.

Decker said, “I was just kidding, darlin’.”

“You don’t mind waiting until tonight?”

“Honey, it’s a necessity unless you’re into necrophilia.”

Rina smiled, then stared at her feet. Decker knew what questions were coming. Might as well preempt them, get it over with.

“The interviews went well,” he said. “If the kids take me up on my offer, we’re going to have to rent a bus.”

“What?”

“To show my appreciation for their cooperation I promised them all trips to Disneyland if they come out to California. And Pete Decker does not break his promises.”

“Did you find out anything substantial?”

“Nothing to make me do a handstand,” Decker said. “But I got a new lead. I’m going to follow it up tonight.”

“What kind of a lead?”

“A liquor store and the name of a kid—a twenty-year-old, rather. His name is Hersh.” Decker described him. “He sound familiar?”

Rina thought awhile, then shook her head.

Decker said, “He didn’t sound familiar to Shimon, either. The kid I interviewed said Hersh might be from Crown Heights. I’ll check out Empire Boulevard. If I don’t get anywhere, I’ll canvass Crown Heights tomorrow.”

“I thought you wanted out,” Rina said. “I had this whole elaborate speech prepared to defend your decision.”

Decker collected his thoughts. “I
do
want out. And if I could find an
Orthodox
investigator, I’d gladly bid the whole clan adieu. But I have a feeling religious PIs are hard to come by and I can’t send average PI Joe into Crown Heights. I may not be ready to be ordained, but at least I have inklings as to what makes these people tick. An ordinary PI ain’t gonna know zilch.”

Rina gave him an uh-huh.

“And,” Decker went on, “I suppose, as a cop, I can communicate to the local police better than a PI could.” He glanced up at Rina. She was grinning. “Rina, I’m not being noble, just practical.”

“Of course,” she said. “And also being practical, I think I should help you canvass Crown Heights.”

Decker gave her a dubious look.

Rina said, “Peter, I can talk to the women better than you can.”

“Forget it.”

“What are you going to tell me, Peter? It’s too dangerous? Some irate Lubavicher Chasid might curse me to death?”

“I don’t work with my wife.”

Rina stared at him. “That is so ridiculous. I’m not going to respond to it.”

Decker smiled. “Your prerogative, darlin’.”

“We both want to find Noam,” Rina said. “It’s also
my
honeymoon that’s being affected. I don’t see you a lot. You work long hours. At least let me ride with you so I can remember what you look like.”

Decker said, “Now she’s trying guilt.”

“I’m in the room, Peter. You don’t have to talk about me in the third person.”

“Okay, okay.” Decker paused a long time. “All right, you can ride with me. Truth be told, I’d love to have your company. But if things start getting hairy, promise me you’ll back off.”

“I’ve been through horrible situations before,” Rina said. “I think I’ve survived quite well.”

“This has nothing to do with your ability to survive, hon,” Decker said. “Let’s just say I’m being selfish. My home—our home—is my refuge, a place where I can leave my work behind. If you’re in the field with me, Rina, I can’t do that. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do,” Rina said. “And I know how you feel about discussing your cases with me. If you don’t want to talk to me about work—if you’re afraid of burdening me or defiling the sanctity of our household, I understand. And that’s fine. Thank God you have Marge for catharsis.

“But this is a special situation. I know the family. I’m personally involved. But more important, there’s something else going on. This whole Frieda Levine situation: It
has
to be affecting you. And except for me there’s
no one
else for you to confide in. I just want to be near you in case you need someone to lean on.”

Decker gave her a weak smile, then averted his eyes. Goddamn, the woman was perceptive. Those walks with Ezra and Shimon, the talks with Jonathan: They had opened a Pandora’s box he’d never realized he’d owned. Whenever he seriously thought about it, he became dizzy, sick. Then he’d chastise himself for feeling that way. He had
parents
, he had a
brother
—what the hell did he care what these strangers
thought of him? Yet the feelings of kinship had pierced his skin as subtly as a pinprick.

He reached out to Rina like a poor man begging for alms. She was his heartbeat, the steady rhythmic pulse that gave him life. In her embrace, he found a place he would forever call home.

Even accounting for getting-lost time, Decker figured Crown Heights to be no more than a twenty-minute car ride from Boro Park. It took him a half hour to realize he’d been assuming “L.A. Driving Time” instead of “New York Driving Time.” The streets were narrow and potholed, crowded by rows of double-parked cars and pedestrians who didn’t believe in red lights. At least Jonathan’s car had ample stretching room because Jonathan—like him—had stilts for legs. Kid had been kind enough to let Decker borrow the car again.

A full hour later, after battling several traffic jam-ups, taking three trips around Prospect Park, and overshooting himself to Eastern Parkway, Decker managed to find the elusive Empire Boulevard. It didn’t appear to be a thoroughfare by L.A. standards, but it stretched about two miles. It was also a line of transition. The street gave occupancy to several Jewish storefronts but many more secular establishments—a doughnut luncheonette, a pizza parlor, a small mart called the L.A. Special which didn’t typify L.A. or seem special. But it did sell candy and cold beer and soda and felt these items were noteworthy enough to advertise. Empire Boulevard also had several video sales and repair centers—places not meant for the Crown Heights Jews because they—like the Boro Parkers—didn’t own TV sets. And as in Boro Park, many of these discount setups were run by ultra-Orthodox Jews.

At nine
P.M
., with most of the commercial stores closed, the sidewalks didn’t harbor a large population. The pedestrians he did see were black. After cruising the street twice, he wrote down the names and addresses of the liquor stores—
three—and the places that served alcohol—eighteen, counting all the restaurants and bars. Though Decker was sure that Yossie Weinstein hadn’t met Hersh in a bar, it was possible that Hersh had frequented saloons alone or with others.

Decker consulted his list.

The first candidate was the Empire Liquor House, a small storefront no more than six hundred feet square. There was a Doberman guarding the door, the dog’s head as big as a toaster oven. It appeared to be sleeping, but Decker noticed its ears perk up when he crossed the threshold.

The store was a little larger than a cubicle, the area on his immediate right crammed with gondolas full of cheap wine and whiskey. On the left was a counter manned by a black in his mid-forties. He was as thin as a drinking straw, had a face sprinkled with salt-and-pepper stubble, and had a circle of shiny mocha skin on the crown of his head. Behind the counter were the expensive potables. If someone wanted to steal some class he’d have to jump the barrier to get to it. Tucked into a corner was the cash register.

The thin man said, “What do you want?”

His voice was high. The question had not been posed as a true inquiry. Rather, it asked:
Why the hell are you hassling me?

“I’m not with the NYPD,” Decker said.

Thin Man didn’t answer.

Decker said, “Did you ever sell some hooch to a boy named Hersh—”

“Don’t know no Hersh.”

“Let me describe him—”

“Don’t know no Hersh.”

Decker smoothed his mustache, then pulled out his wallet. He flipped a ten onto the counter. The thin man eyed the money, then Decker, but didn’t say a word. Decker described Hersh. This time Thin listened. He shook his head.

“I get a million baby Rambos walkin’ in and out of this place—Eyetalians thinkin’ they’re tough meat. I told you before, I don’t know no Hersh.”

“Hersh is Jewish, not Italian,” Decker said.

“Jews, Eyetalians—all the white boys look alike to me.”

Decker pulled out another ten, then the photograph of Noam Levine. “Ever seen
him
?”

Thin said, “If you’re looking for
that
kind of Hymie, you’re on the
wrong
side of Empire.”

“You never get Jews crossing over to your side?”

Thin became mute again. Decker pulled out a third ten. Thin broke into a wicked smile. He had wide spaces between his teeth. He said, “I get a few that come in here.”

“Why?”

Thin shrugged, feigned innocence.

Decker said, “Look, buddy, the kid in this photograph is missing and I’ve just spent two days beating my meat for nothing. I’m tired, I’ve laid out a few bucks for you, so do something for me before I get pissed off and take it out on you.”

Thin said, “You ain’t with NYPD, but you’re some kinda fuzz. You talk like fuzz and you’re packing.”

“You’re very astute. Wanna answer my question?”

“Yeah, a few hymies come in here.”

“Why?”

“They ain’t gettin’ enough at home, they think I can help them out.” Thin broke into a smile. “Course they’re wrong.”

“Of course.” Decker threw a fin on the counter. “What do you tell them?”

“All I do is give them directions,” Thin said.

“To where?”

“Willyburg Bridge,” Thin said. “It’s all out in the open. The sisters service their needs before they go home to the old ladies. You oughtta see them, those little curls bouncin’ while the ladies are outta sight doin’ a righteous hoover on their pipes.”

Decker groaned inwardly, but kept his expression flat. Men were men in any culture, but the thought of rabbis getting blow jobs from hookers…it was like imagining your parents having sex.