Sacred and Profane (8 page)

“Who is it?” he heard her say.

“It’s Peter, Rina.”

She unhooked the chain and opened the door.

“Hello there,” she said, letting him in. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone has been having nightmares.”

Decker’s eyes fixed on Jacob in his Spiderman pajamas. It always amazed him how much more vulnerable kids looked in their sleepwear.

“Hey, Jakey,” he said, sitting next to him. The boy’s blue eyes were open and alert. “What’s on your mind, big fellah?”

Jacob shrugged.

“He wanted to know whether you’ve captured the bad man who dumped the bones in the woods,” Rina said.

Shit
, Decker thought.
To love a kid is to live with guilt
.

“No, not yet,” he said. “Jacob, that man isn’t going to hurt you. He lives far, far away and isn’t going to come here.”

“How do you know?” the child asked.

“Because I know. He’s not interested in hurting you or your eema or anybody here at the yeshiva. Jakey, you’re safe.”

The kid looked skeptical.

“No one is going to come in here,” Decker tried again. “The windows and doors are all locked. They
can’t
come in here.”

“Suppose a burglar breaks a window?”

“What did I tell you I’d do?” Rina said.

The boy gave a hint of a smile.

“You’d spray his eyes with poison,” he answered.

“And then what?”

“While he was rubbing his eyes and going
YOW
, you’d hit him over the head with a frying pan.”

“And then what?” Rina prompted.

“You’d break a lamp over his head,” he giggled.

“And?”

“After he was all knocked out, you’d tie him up with your leather belts and call the police.”

“And who always makes sure you’re safe?”

“
Hashem!
”

“And who always looks after you wherever you are?”

“
Hashem!
”

“And who takes care of you twenty-four hours a day, every single day of the year?”

“
HASHEM!
” Jacob shouted.

“It sounds like you’re in good hands, Jake,” said Decker.

The little boy turned to him.

“Are you gonna catch that bad man?” he asked, still worried.

“Of course, Jake.”

“C’mon, sweetie,” Rina said. “Try and get some sleep.”

“Can you walk me to my room, Peter?”

“Sure.”

Jacob kissed his mother good night and led Decker into the bedroom.

“All’s well,” Decker said, reentering a moment later. “Have you had any problems with Sammy?”

“Fine. Sleeps like a log, eats great, plays and studies.”

“And I thought it was the little one who didn’t take things to heart.”

“Go figure.” She looked up at him. “Do you want something to eat, Peter?”

“A cup of coffee.”

“At this time of night?”

“I’m restless. I’m not planning on sleeping too much tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I think I’ll take advantage of my wide-awake mood and do some—research.”

“I’m not going to ask.”

“Good idea.”

He sat down at the kitchen table and watched her put the tea-kettle on the burner. She wore no makeup, her hair was braided back, and she was barefoot. She could pass for seventeen.

“How’d the lesson with Rav Schulman go?”

“Fine,” he said. “How long has Jake been having nightmares?”

“This is the first time.” She took his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Peter. It wasn’t your fault. Okay?”

“Sure.”

She cupped his chin in her hands and looked into his eyes.

“
Okay?
”

“Yes, okay, whatever you say.” He smiled. “You’re a potentially violent woman, Rina Lazarus. I’m not messing with you.”

“Just don’t break into my house.” She smiled, then turned serious. “I just wanted him to know that I could take care of him. And I can. I want to show you something.”

She left the room, and when she came back, she was carrying a box.

“Take a look inside.”

The shape. The weight. He knew what it was without even opening it.
Damn
, he thought.
She really did it
. He pulled out the gun, hefted it, then flipped open the barrel.

“Where are the bullets?”

She reached inside her skirt pocket and handed him a smaller box.

“The guy who sold it to me said to keep the gun and bullets separate since I have small kids in the house.”

“He’s right.”

“But that doesn’t really make any sense. If someone breaks into your house, do you want to have to think about where the bullets are and how to load them?”

“It’s the lesser of two evils. Better than Jakey thinking it’s a toy and shooting off his brother’s head.”

“Peter,
please
!”

“I just want you to know what you’ve purchased.”

“Well, you keep your gun loaded, don’t you?”

“Rina, I’m a police officer.”

“What did you do when Cindy was growing up?”

“When I wasn’t wearing my gun, I kept it locked up. I never, never left a loaded gun lying in an unlocked drawer or on my nightstand. I have a great deal of respect for what it can do.”

“Do you lock your gun up now?” she asked.

“No, because I live alone,” he said. “But when Cindy visits me for the weekend, it’s locked. When you and the kids come visit, it’s locked.”

She handed him his coffee and noticed the slight bulge under his jacket. He’d worn his gun while he learned Torah. For some reason, that disturbed her, but she didn’t say anything. It would have seemed ludicrous to mention it in view of her recent purchase. She sat down beside him, held her gun in her hand, stared at it, then put it down.

“If you’ve got ambivalence about it,” Decker said softly, “don’t even start. There’s nothing wrong with chucking the whole idea, Rina.”

“No,” she insisted. “I want to know how to use it. Hopefully, I’ll never have to.”

He picked up the Colt and sighted down the barrel.

“Let me take this home,” he said. “I’ll clean it and oil it. Maybe even break it in for you.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you show
me
how to clean, oil, and break in the gun?”

He frowned.

“We do such romantic things together, Rina. We talk religious philosophy and clean guns. What ever happened to midnight walks on the beach while gazing at the moonlight?”

“The beach isn’t safe at night and the water is polluted.”

“You’re incurably sentimental.”

Her lips turned upward and broke into a mysterious smile.

“You’re going to be sorry for that sarcastic tone of voice.” She opened a drawer and brought out a flat, rectangular package. “Something to wear for Shabbos tomorrow.”

She’d bought him a tie, he thought.

“I take it all back,” he said.

She stood over him as he opened the box. Inside was a flatter, black satin box. He looked at her, puzzled. “What did you do?”

“Open it,” she instructed.

He lifted the lid and took out the contents.

“A watch?”

“Do you like it?”

“Rina—this is solid gold.”

“Do you like it?”

He stood up and hugged her.

“Honey, it’s gorgeous. But I can’t accept—”

“Sure you can. You’d better. It’s engraved on the back, and that makes it nonreturnable.”

He flipped it over and smiled at the inscription.

“It’s because I love you, Peter,” she said softly. “I can’t show it physically, but the feeling is still there.”

“I love you, too, Rina.” He gave her a suitably chaste kiss on the lips. Now he knew he’d never get to sleep tonight. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I see you learning in the
beis hamidresh
, Peter. You don’t even know I’m there, but I see you, poring over the
alef beis
, reading, studying. You say it all that way…I knew this boy, once. He was a
ba’al t’shuvah
—a nonreligious Jew who decided to live the Torah life. It lasted maybe six months. He said it was too emasculating for him. He knew too little and couldn’t stand it. It takes
an extremely big person to do what you’re doing—learning as you do from scratch. I don’t think I could. I envy your strength of character.”

She gave him a bear hug.

“I’m a little choked up,” Decker said.

“You’re entitled.”

He began to feel physically amorous. He suspected Rina was feeling the same way, because she broke away abruptly. He said, “Can you keep this for me until tomorrow? I’m not going straight home and I don’t want to take it with me.”

“Where’re you going?” she asked.

“To find out about a possible runaway. To glamorous Hollyweird.”

He parked on
a side street off Sunset, east of the Strip, took off his yarmulke and tie, and unfastened the top three buttons on his white shirt. Slipping on a couple of gold chains, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. He needed a shave and that was good, but he was still not satisfied. Mussing his hair, he pulled a lock over his forehead down to his brow, then took off his brown suit jacket and donned a cheap baggy windbreaker that didn’t show the swell of his .38. He placed a pack of Marlboros and a penlight in a front pocket, opened the door of the Plymouth, and stepped outside.

The underbelly of Hollywood was a vampire leeching out the blood of the city, he thought, the sidewalk teeming with action that thrives in the shadows. He found a spot that looked good—a fine vantage point from where he could see the pimps, hookers, addicts, dealers, and everyday desperados and degenerates. But the best part about the location was the number of independent streetwalkers. He needed a sucker not shackled to a pimp.

It didn’t take long. The one he picked out was a skinny black girl in an electric blue tank top, denim cut-offs, and a knee-length black boots. Her hair had been cornrowed, her eyelids painted blue and pink. Two red slashes highlighted her cheekbones. He gave her the eye, then quickly averted his gaze.

He’d always felt that the key to being a good undercover vice cop was thinking like a woman. You had to be coy and flirtatious. Most bona fide johns were pretty damn shy when approaching a hooker. There was usually some resistance, and it was the whore who made the moves. Any guy who came on too strong smelled of weirdo or cop.

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and flashed a quick glance at Hot Pants. She cocked her head and gave him an open smile. He smiled back and returned to his smoke. He didn’t turn around, but he could hear her approaching.

“Got a light?” she asked. Her voice was sultry.

Decker slipped out his matches and lit her cigarette.

“Thank you, Honey,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“What are you doing out here all alone, Sugar?”

He paused, then said, “Enjoying the air.”

“Nature lover, huh?”

He let his eyes drift slowly over her body. Her tight nylon top offered little support for her sagging breasts. Her crotch was bisected by sprayed-on shorts—cunt-cutters.

“I love what nature has given us,” he answered trying to look hungry.

“How much do you love nature, Sugar?”

“How much does it cost to love nature?”

“I think fifty dollars will give you an awful lot of raw beauty.”

“What are we talking about here?” he said exhaling a plume of smoke.

“What do you want, Honey?”

“What are my choices?”

“You tell me what you want,” she said.

He wasn’t about to entrap her, so he changed course abruptly.

“Listen, bitch, if you’re gonna fuck with my mind, forget the whole thing. I don’t need this shit.”

He started to walk away, but she caught his arm.

“Sugar, Sugar, don’t get so hot. Save it for when it counts.” She studied his face and decided to go for it. “Suck or fuck, take your pick.”

“If I want both?”

“Cost you twenty-five more.”

“Let me see if I’ve got the bread.” He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out his badge, and grabbed her arm.

“Aw Jesus,” she groaned.

“C’mon, Hot Pants, just behave yourself.” He turned her around, leaned her against a building, and frisked her.

“What you fuckers won’t do for a free feel,” she said.

“Save it,” he said, cuffing her.

“Asshole,” she said evenly. “Now, Sugar, just
what
do you think this is gonna do? You know I’ll be back here tomorrow night. Why do you waste everyone’s time?”

He propelled her into a dark, secluded alley.

“What are you doing, Sugar?” she said, suddenly concerned.

He pinned her against a wall, boring his eyes into her face. Her lids widened with fear and her mouth dropped open.

“What do you want?” she asked nervously.

“Help.”

“Say what?”

“You’ve got a choice. You give me a little help and your ass is back on the streets in a few minutes. You jive me, you spend the night in the slammer.”

“What do you want?” she repeated.

“I’m trying to locate a runaway.” He pulled out Lindsey’s picture and showed it to her.

She stared at it, then shook her head.

“What makes you think she’s here?” she asked.

“She’s not here. She’s six feet under now. But she may have stopped off here before she ended up in the morgue.”

“You ain’t from Vice?”

“Uh uh. Homicide.”

The whore looked at the picture again.

“Don’t know her.”

He uncuffed her, but blocked her escape.

“Where do the kids hang out?”

“Same place we do.”

“C’mon.”

“It’s true. They’re still hookers, Honey, even if the pussy’s a little newer.”

Decker grimaced. “Think about this—you’re a new runaway without a pimp yet. Where do you go?”

“Put it that way, only one place to go.”

“Where?”

“Hotel Hell.”

The five-story structure was set back from Hollywood Boulevard, burnt out and condemned, peeling paint on pocked concrete, stucco shedding in clumps. The building still retained some broken windows, but most of the sashes were nothing but open holes punched into the rotting plaster. The property was surrounded by a chain-link rent-a-fence with a missing section where a gate should have been. Some of the links had been clipped, leaving the metal spurs sharp and threatening.

He entered the grounds—a jungle of tall, tangled weeds—and went inside the doorless building. The lobby flooring was cracked linoleum and dirt, and as he walked, the soles of his feet stuck to the grimy surface. It was dark and dank, reeking of urine, feces, and vomit. He waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust. The moon
light shone through the empty sashes, checkerboarding the floor. Looking down the long corridor, Decker began to make out figures and shadows scurrying and darting—live pawns on a chessboard. The hallway flickered with trash-can bonfires.

A rat danced at his feet. Decker sidestepped and immediately tripped over a soft lump on the floor. He took out his penlight and shone it on a girl balled in a fetal position. A mutt was curled at her feet, whimpering. He gave her ribs a gentle prod, but she didn’t move. Bending down, he turned her over and she sprawled out, arms flopping randomly. Her skin was ashen and cold to the touch. She had no pulse.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

There was nothing he could do for her now. He’d take care of the body later. Standing up, he walked down the hall.

Empty eyes, vacant stares, shreds of cloth that shrouded living cadavers, muted rodent sounds. Most of the zombies were trying to get warm, rubbing together hands encased in fingerless mittens: some were crouched in corners, rocking back and forth, humming dirges. Others were sleeping fitfully. As he passed the kids, the background noises hushed. A stranger. He had to be up to something—some kind of hustle.

On the second floor he found a group huddled around a pile of burning newspaper and came toward them slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal. When he was next to them, he shone his penlight on the picture of Lindsey Bates.

They took turns looking at the snapshot, but the results were the same: dull stares and wordless shakes of the head. He moved on to the next group and came away empty again.

Slowly he combed the building, sometimes gagging on the rot around him. They looked, they cooperated passively, a few even smiled, but the story was the same. Lindsey was a nonentity in Hotel Hell.

The building turned icy, the stench stronger as the night winds died, leaving only stagnant chilled air. But noises returned as word passed that the stranger was only showing a picture. A few even came up to him, volunteered to look.
Never saw her, man
. The sounds grew boisterous—cackles, cries, retching, pissing. After canvassing all five stories, he felt fatigue begin to hood his eyes.

He’d try again next week. There’d be new kids and some old-timers returning to the fold. He put the picture away, heading for the door but stopped suddenly. It was involuntary—a psychic paralysis that froze the muscles of his calves.

He gasped as he stared at her. A moonbeam hit her smack in the face, illuminating her in deathly grays.

The girl’s mouth was agape, framed by lips of orange: eyes dull and lolling. She had it all—the angle of the cheekbone, the point of the chin. But it was the hair—flaming red tresses setting off a pale, freckled face—that made his heart take off.

Cindy!

She was wearing a green sequined halter and an orange mini-skirt. She caught his eye and lowered her lashes. When he didn’t move, she made a funny face, swung out her hip and undid her halter, giving him a full view of voluptuous breasts. Cupping one in each hand, pinching pink nipples, she sashayed over slowly, seductively.

“Twenty-five dollars,” she whispered.

He wanted to kill her.

Blinded with fury which he knew was irrational, he tried to stalk away, but she caught his arm. He turned,
threw her against the wall, and slapped her hard, feeling the sting radiate through his hand. He grabbed her wrists.

“I’m a cop, you stupid fuck!”

The animal in her took over. She opened her jaws, hissed, and bit his right forearm through the jacket sleeve. He yelped and released her wrists, but she’d become wild, clawing and scratching, ripping his jacket. He managed to shield his face with his bare arm, but she continued attacking, raking the skin of his forearm. In desperation, he backhanded her, and she went flying across the hallway and into a wall.

Oh shit
, he thought.

He started to approach her, but she scrambled to her feet and fled.

His arm was wet, crimson, and shaking. Reaching for a handkerchief and finding nothing, he took off his jacket and tried to staunch the flow.

You stupid shithead
, he thought to himself.
To let a dumb hooker get you like that. Your daughter is a good kid. Why the fuck do you go looking for trouble when there is none?

He peeled back his soaked jacket. His arm was still bleeding although the scarlet stream had reduced to slow seepage. The flesh had already begun to swell and throb. He had to get out of there.

He saw her out of the corner of his eye and felt he should say something, but nothing came out. It was she who approached him, offering him a roll of bandages. He took it with a nod and began to wrap his wounds.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry I hit you like I did,” he said. “I was just trying to get you off of me.”

“I’m sorry I bit you like I did,” she said. “I was trying to get you off of me. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Where’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy?” he asked.

“Don’t know.” She pulled out a cigarette. “You gonna arrest me?”

“No.”

“Are you really a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Whacha doing here?”

Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out Lindsey’s picture. The redhead cautiously approached him to take a look.

“Don’t know her,” she said. “How long has she been missing?”

“She’s not missing. She’s dead.”

The girl shuddered. He looked at her and saw a deep red palm print spread across her face.

“I slapped you pretty hard,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Are you kidding?” She shrugged. “Man, that’s just a warm-up for half the kinkies I get.”

He shook his head in disgust, at the perverts, at himself.

“Why’d you
stare
at me like that?”

“You remind me of my daughter.”

She let go with a machine-gun laughter.

“I’ve heard that before.”

He pulled out his wallet and flipped to Cindy’s picture. The girl’s eyes increased several diameters.

“God, I really do.” She grinned. “No wonder you went cuckoo. Who’s the black-haired girl? Your other daughter?”

He frowned.

“My girlfriend.”

She giggled.

“Sorry.”

“I’ve got to go.” He straightened up and began retreating.

“Hey, Cop or whatever your name is?”

“What?”

“Give me the picture of the dead girl. I’m more likely to dig up dirt than you are.”

He handed her the snapshot of Lindsey and his card.

“Decker,” she said out loud. “It says here you work Juvey.”

“I’m on loan to Homicide.”

“Okay, Decker,” she announced. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Kiki. But you don’t contact me. I contact you.”

“Fine,” Decker said. “Bye, Kiki.”

“Hey, don’t informants get paid?”

“Only if they produce.”

“Where are you going?”

“To take care of my arm.” He walked away, but she followed him. A fucking gosling, he thought. She’d imprinted.

“Maybe I do know where a pharmacy is.”

He said nothing.

“Hey, ya know, you gotta get an antibiotic for the bite.”

He spun around. “Are you infected with something?”

“Don’t worry. I don’t have AIDS or anything. Least not that I know of.”

Swell
.

“It’s just that bites are dangerous,” she went on, “even if the person isn’t sick. I know that because a whole bunch of my johns bite me all the time, and if it wasn’t for antibiotics, I’d be dead probably.”

He resumed his pace.

“Hey, Decker, c’mon.”

He kept walking.

“I’ll look for this girl…What’s her name?”

“Lindsey Bates.”

“Yeah, Lindsey Bates. I got sources, you know.”

He was outside of the building. Jesus, even Hollywood air felt good.

“Hey, Decker, you got a spare dime or something?”

He turned the corner and started sprinting up the quiet street, embarrassed by the hooker on his tail. Then he stopped abruptly and pulled out his wallet.

“Come here,” he said, crushing a five in his fist. She held out her hand and he dropped the ball of money in her open palm. “Now don’t ask me for another thing or your tail’s in Juvey Hall.”