by Milk;Honey
“I’ll do what I can. But it may take a while. You need a good lawyer who can buy you time.”
“I don’t have a hell of a lot of loot.” Abel shrugged. “Matter of fact, I’m busted.”
Decker frowned.
“Don’t worry about it, Pete. I’ll figure out something. And I intend to pay you back the bail money. Just as soon as I get my disability check.”
“Forget it,” Decker said. He glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get home. But first I have to say grace after meals, so be quiet for about five minutes.”
Decker prayed, then rose and slipped Abel a twenty. “This should get you back home by taxi. I’ll call as soon as I have something to tell you.”
Abel looked at him, a hound-dog expression on his face. “I’m really sorry about this, Pete. Seems I only call you when I’m fucked.”
Decker said, “What else are friends for?”
5
Marge picked up the printout and frowned. Sally’s description and footprints hadn’t matched anything stored in the mainframe’s data banks. Though it wasn’t unusual for the computer to turn up a blank, because the kid was so young, she’d hoped for a break.
She looked up Barry Delferno’s number. The first time she’d met the bounty hunter, she’d expected someone fat and swarthy with a bucket’s worth of grease plastered on his hair. Instead, she found a tall, sandy-haired muscle man with dancing eyes. He’d asked her out and she’d accepted, only to find out a week later that he was married.
Bounty hunters. No matter what they looked like, they were all sleazeballs.
She punched Delferno’s number into the phone, and a moment later a deep voice resonated inside the earpiece.
“It’s Marge Dunn, Barry,” she said.
“Detective Dunn,” Delferno crooned. “How’s the LAPD’s finest?”
“Not bad.”
“You know, I was gonna call you.”
“Were you now?”
“No shit. I’m divorced, Margie. For real this time. Free and clear. You can check it out, if you don’t believe me.”
“I called for professional reasons, Barry. Got your current caseload in front of you?”
“Margie, Margie, Margie. What is the rush?”
“I don’t chat when I’m on duty.”
“So how ’bout if we chat over drinks?”
Marge ignored him. “We picked up a little girl—around two, curly blond hair, brown eyes, height thirty-two inches, weight twenty-six pounds. I’ve got Polaroids and footprints I’d like to fax over to you. See if we come up with a match.”
“As long as the match is a love match between you and me, my Greek goddess.”
“Knock it off.”
Delferno said, “I love a woman who talks tough. It turns me on. Gets my blood boiling and my—”
“You’re wasting your breath.”
“All right. Be surly. I’ll get you anyway. In the meantime, send me the pics and the prints.”
Marge placed the information into the machine. She said, “Call me back when you’ve got them.”
“How about dinner? Tonight, even. Wait, tonight’s not good. How about tomor—”
“I’m hanging up now, Barry.”
“It’s not nice to alienate the hired help.”
Marge laughed and placed the receiver in its cradle. She poured herself a cup of coffee and waited for Delferno to call back. A few minutes later, her phone rang.
“Dunn,” she answered.
“Nothing,” Delferno said.
“Sure?”
“Positive. Never seen the little tyke. Was she abused?”
“Nope. She seemed to be very well cared for.”
“Foul play with the parents?”
“Could be,” Marge said. “We found blood on her pajamas. Ask around for me, Barry.”
“What do I get in return?”
“What do you want?”
“How about a weekend in Cabo San Lucas? We’ll four-wheel it down to Baja, dip our toes in the gentle warm oceano, and fish for yellowtail.”
“I don’t fish.”
“Then we can sunbathe on the white-sand beaches…no tan lines, Margie.”
“I’m involved with someone else, Barry,” Marge said.
Delferno paused. “I heard you broke up with Carroll.”
“Well, you heard wrong,” Marge lied. “You remember Carroll—six-six, two-sixty, hands as big as catchers’ mitts.”
“For chrissakes, why didn’t you tell me in the first place, Margie?”
“It slipped my mind. Kinda like your wife slipped yours a while back.”
Delferno paused, then said, “Was this whole thing a setup for revenge?”
Marge smiled. “Well, let me put it this way. If I’m ever interested, I’ll give you a call. Until then, give me and the kid a break and pass on the photo to your buddies. Maybe they’ve seen her.”
“If it means another chance at your body, Detective Dunn, I will do that. I like my women like my tales—long and tall.”
“I like my men like my good-byes—short.” She laughed and hung up the phone. Decker walked into the squad room.
“What’s so amusing?” he asked. “I could use a few giggles.”
“Delferno,” she said. “Same old lech.”
“Any luck with Sally?” inquired Decker.
“Zip. I told Barry to pass the picture along to his colleagues. I also tried the Missing Children Hotline. No one matching Sally’s description has been reported recently.”
Decker sighed. “Poor little kid. This has turned into a rotten day.”
“Worse than most?”
“Yeah, when it involves a two-year-old, it’s worse than most.”
Marge turned and faced him. “Lunch with your rape-o friend didn’t go so good?”
“Par for the course.”
“Did he do it?”
“He says no.”
“And you believe him?”
Decker paused, then nodded yes.
Marge said, “The friend in you says innocent, but the cop decrees guilty.”
“No,” Decker said. “I really don’t believe he did it.”
“Jesus,” Marge said. “What’s between you and that scumbag that’s turning your brain to mush? Did he save your life?”
“I told you no.”
“Then how do you owe him?”
“I’m not paying off a debt, Marge. I happen to think he’s innocent—”
“Oh, give me a break, Pete,” Marge said. “Fess up. Was he your illicit lover or something when all you men were dogged out in the combat zone?”
Decker laughed. “No.”
“What are you going to do for him? Bribe the judge? Burn the files?”
Decker sat down at his desk and peeled another cigarette. “I’m going to find the man who raped and cut up the hooker.”
“You already bailed the guilty party out of jail, my friend.”
“Well, I don’t think so.”
Marge leaned back in her chair, shook her head. “A seasoned guy like yourself, falling for his shit…Let me look into it. At least I’m objective.”
“Nope,” Decker said. “I’ve got my eyes wide open, Marge. I can handle it.”
“Sure you can.”
Decker rubbed his eyes and said, “We can keep bickering like this, honey, or I can do something productive like go home and get some sleep.”
“Pete!” Marge said. “You called me honey!”
“That’s ’cause you’re acting like a broad, Margie.”
Marge grinned. “No, Decker, you’re acting like a civilian.”
Decker said, “I’m going home. Beep me if something comes up with Sally. I’m going down to Hollywood Division tonight and review the case files. Try to get a handle on this hooker. You can call me there if anything comes up.”
Marge leaned back in her chair. “Colonel Dunn says that the attachments he made with his war buddies ran deeper than blood. That true with you?”
/>
“Nope.”
“Yeah, Colonel Dunn has been known to spout a lot of shit.”
Decker smiled.
“You didn’t get together with any of your buddies when you came back to civilian life?” Marge asked.
“Only once,” Decker said. “Somewhere between the second and third hour, after we rehashed all the old nightmares, I discovered I didn’t have a thing in common with any of them.”
“And that was it?”
“That was it. You know, Margie, I worked damn hard at putting it all behind me. And it’s especially hard because America has had a sudden change of heart and decided we weren’t all baby-killers. Nam vets have become the darlings of Hollywood. Indochina has great box-office appeal—all those shirtless sweaty bodies crawling through the jungle. Leeches! Gooks! Grunts going nuts! Makes for exotic drama. And the producers? They’re former hippies who now drive Mercedes instead of VW bugs. They want to talk to us, make nice. Except I remember how they treated me when I came back to the world. It don’t wash, babe.”
“Colonel Dunn was once asked to be a consultant on a Nam film.”
“What did your dad do?”
Marge blushed.
Decker said, “That bad?”
“Let’s put it this way. The screenplay was long, and Mom didn’t have to buy toilet paper for a month.”
Decker burst into laughter.
Marge asked, “So who’s this guy who you’re going the distance for?”
“Abel Atwater,” Decker said. “A hillbilly boy from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Kentucky.” Decker’s voice had taken on a nasal twang. “One of eleven chillun. His father could barely read and write, his mother was completely illiterate. Abel learned to read by sifting through mail-order catalogs. He used to entertain us by reciting Sears, Roebuck copy. Bright guy. The war messed him up.”
“A lot of rape-os are intelligent.”
“He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not manipulative, he’s got great impulse control. He’s not the kind of person who goes around beating up hookers.”
Marge didn’t answer him.
Decker said, “All right. If I’d be brutally honest with myself, I’d say there was an off-chance that he freaked and did it. But we were in combat together for a while. I never saw him explode. Abel had a rep for being coolheaded. Type of guy the COs chose for pointman—lead-off guy in foot patrol—because he was careful and didn’t panic when things got hot.”
“Ever see him kill anybody?”
“You saw smoke, you busted some caps. Simple as that. When everything cooled off and you went in for cleanup, you’d see all these fucking bodies. Well, they didn’t drop dead from birdshit. You were shooting to kill, you killed. In answer to your question, I never saw him waste anyone for the sake of killing, and there was plenty of that going around!”
Decker stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“Abel could have been something if the war hadn’t left him paralyzed. Matter of fact, he wanted to be a cop, but Charlie blew off his leg and ended that dream.”
He snapped a pencil in half.
“I’m his dream, Marge. Maybe I feel guilty because Abel had all the fantasies, and I wound up with his dream.”
The phone was ringing when Decker opened the door. He raced over to the kitchen wall, his Irish setter, Ginger, nipping at his heels, and picked up the receiver.
“Did you just walk in?” Rina asked.
“Yeah,” Decker said. “I didn’t even close the front door. Hang on a sec.”
“Sure.”
He walked through his living room, Ginger following him, barking for attention. The room was comfortable, full of furniture made in his size—an overstuffed sofa, two buckskin chairs, and a leather recliner that sat in front of a picture window. In the heat, the room seemed alive, seemed to sweat. Decker quieted the dog and shut the front door. He drew open the front-window curtains, and a white square of sinking sun fell upon his Navajo rug.
He picked up the receiver and pulled out a kitchen chair with his foot. He sat down and petted Ginger’s head.
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you now. Speak.”
“That’s why I called.” She dropped her voice a notch. “The kids are home. I can’t really talk. We’ve got to leave any moment for my brother-in-law’s birthday party.”
“You sound thrilled.”
“I’m nearly faint with excitement.”
“Don’t go, if you don’t want to.”
“I can’t get out of it. At least not without lying.”
“Then be honest. Just say, ‘I find all this family stuff boring—’”
“Boring is the least of it.”
“Troubles with the family?”
“Something like that.”
“They’re giving you a hard time because they don’t approve of me.”
“Much more than that. Hold on.”
Decker heard her quiet her younger son, Jacob. When she returned on the line, he said, “Boys want to talk to me?”
“Very much,” Rina answered. “Look, can I call you back tonight?”
Decker paused.
“You’re working?” Rina asked.
“Just tying up odds and ends. I’ll put it off.”
“Don’t bother. I bought my ticket this afternoon, so I’ll see you in two days. Want to take down all the flight information?”
“Yeah, let me get a pen.” He rummaged through a junk drawer and came up with a red pen and the back of an old electric bill. He placed the paper on the wall and said, “Go ahead.”
Rina stated all the pertinent data, then gave Jacob the telephone.
“Hi, Yonkel,” Decker said. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“How’s school?”
“Fine.”
“How’s basketball?”
“Fine.”
“How many lay-ups did you do yesterday?”
“Four.”
“Terrific.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you taking good care of your eema for me?”
“Yes.”
“Being good to your grandparents?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” Decker said. “I miss you, kiddo.”
“Peter?”
“What, Jakie?”
“When can we come back to your ranch?”
Decker sighed, hesitated. The kid was a sweetie. Decker pictured him talking on the phone, big blue eyes wide with innocence. He said, “Honey, you’re welcome here anytime your eema says it’s okay.”
“I miss the horses.”
“They miss you, too.”
“Okay, ’bye. Here’s Shmuli.”
Rina’s elder son came on the line.
“I’m upset,” Sammy said.
“What’s wrong?” Decker asked.
“Why can’t we come to L.A. with Eema? It’s not fair!”
“Sammy, I’d love for you guys to come out here—”
“So why can’t we come with Eema on Wednesday?”
“Because there’re things that your eema and I have to discuss privately.”
“So we’ll wait in the other room while you guys talk.”
“It’s not that simple, honey.”
“Eema just doesn’t want us around.”
“No, honey, that’s not true.”
“It is true. You’re just defending her.”
Decker paused a moment. The boy had to be handled carefully.
“Sammy, honey, try to understand this. I haven’t seen your eema in six months. We’re kind of like strangers, and it’s going to take us a while to get to know each other again. Now, I want to know your eema real well before you and your brother and I get reacquainted. That way I can pay attention to you guys and not have to worry about your mother. Does that make sense to you?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you and Eema fighting?” Sammy asked.
“
No, Sam, not at all.”
“I mean, you’re not breaking up, are you?”
“No.”
“Because if you are and you’re just trying to protect me…”
“We’re not breaking up.”
“Well okay…Peter, can you talk her into taking us?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea now.”
“Then when can we come out?”
“Before baseball season’s over.”
“Baseball season! That could take three more months.”
“One thing at a time, Sammy,” Decker said. “Let me talk to your eema first.”
“You sure you’re not hiding some bad news from me?”
“Sammy, I promise you, I’ll see you before the summer’s over,” Decker said.
“Okay,” Sammy answered sullenly. “Here’s Eema again.”
Decker felt tense. The kid always wore him out. Sammy was a typical firstborn—precocious, sharp as a tack. He’d been the light of his father’s eye, Rina had told him. His father’s death had hit him very hard, made him very suspicious of losing people he loved.
Rina came back on the line.
“They’re angry I’m not bringing them home with me,” she said. “Especially Shmuli.”
“I heard,” Decker said.
“They miss Los Angeles. They miss you. I miss you, too.”
“Then come home!”
The line went quiet.
“You still with me?” Decker asked.
“I’m still here,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. How are your studies with Rav Schulman?”
“Fine.”
“What are you learning—oh darn! The doorbell’s ringing. It’s probably my sister-in-law. I’m not wearing a shaytel, and Esther’s going to yell at me for answering the door with my hair uncovered.”
“Tell her to shove it up—”
“Peter.”
“She doesn’t approve of me, I don’t have to approve of her.”
“Esther’s not the problem, although she has problems. Dear God, I never realized the extent of her problems. Unfortunately, now they’ve become my problems and—now, she’s banging at the door. Any moment one of my neighbors is going to stick a head out and ask what’s wrong. Tiny apartments they have here. I feel like a laboratory rat. Things are really a mess. I’ve got to go.”