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Decker held back a smile and said, “I hear he’s doing very well since he made the switch from bail jumpers to stolen children.”
“His off-duty car is a ’sixty-four metallic-blue Rolls Silver Cloud,” Marge said. “We’re in the wrong field.”
“Yeah, well, we already knew that.”
“What do you want to do with my lady on Oak?”
“You want me to talk to her?”
“Yes, I do. Maybe a big guy like you can intimidate her into baring her soul.”
Decker said, “I can do it now, or I can let her sit on it and come back tomorrow. My personal opinion is to leave her alone for the night. She may see the light in the morning.”
Marge thought, then said, “Okay, let her sit on it. But not too long.”
“You think she’s planning a one-way trip somewhere?”
Marge shook her head. “No indication.”
“Great,” Decker said. “Let’s go. You drive.”
4
Decker stood outside the Los Angeles County Jail. It was a lousy day to dig up bones—three o’clock and the sun was still blasting mercilessly. Sweat ran down his forehead, beaded above his mustache. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, then sat down on the lone cement bench stranded on an island of scorched lawn. Although large and looming, the gray prison building in front of him cast only a couple feet worth of shadow. No relief there. He took off his suit jacket, and rechecked his watch.
C’mon, you son of a bitch. Let’s get it over with.
He stood up. The bench was hot. Besides, he was too antsy to sit. A Khaki-clad sheriff’s deputy walked past him and nodded. Decker nodded back, pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and began to peel the paper, letting the tobacco shavings fall to the ground. Thirty-seven out of forty cigarettes he handled per day ended up skinned, but better that than smoking the suckers.
Finally, the glass doors opened and Abel Atwater came out into the afternoon swelter. His former quarterback body had become emaciated—insubstantial under a blousy shirt. The top was faded stripes of orange and green, the weave of the fabric loose and speckled with moth holes. His jeans were frayed at the knees, and on his right foot was a rubbed-out suede Hush Puppy. The left pants leg, Decker knew, housed a Teflon prosthesis. His eyes were more deepset than Decker had remembered, almost sunken. His nose was longer and thinner. Limping along with surprising grace, he twirled his cane, Charlie Chaplin style. The loose-fitting shirt, the rhinestone-studded walking stick, the white bandage around his head, and the dark beard gave him the look of an Arab emir about to hold court.
He saw Decker and broke into a wide smile.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, hobbling over, his arms spread out like two parentheses. “Yo, Doc. How goes it?”
Decker rebuffed the embrace and looked at him.
“We need to talk, Abel.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves.
“Hey, Doc, why the long face? C’mon, what they’re sayin’ is shit.” He got down on his knee—his good one—and imitated Al Jolson. “Don’t you know me? I’m yo’ baby.” He laughed. “You remember me. Ole Honest Abe Atwater with the ten-inch prick.”
“Your prick got you into big trouble, Abel.”
Abel rose. “Lighten up, Pete. You don’t think I really raped her, do you?”
“She was full of your semen.”
Abel drawled out, “I didn’t say I didn’t fuck her. I said I didn’t rape her.”
Decker grabbed Abel’s shirt and pulled the thin face close to his.
“She’s got a five-inch cut running down her cheek with twenty stitches in it, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung from a stab wound.” He tightened his grip. “And your jism was inside of her. Now I’m going to ask you a question, Honest Abe, and I want the truth! Understand me well, I mean the truth! Did you rape her?”
“No.”
“Did you cut her?” Decker screamed.
“NO!”
“You’d better not be shucking me, buddy, because if you are, you’re gonna look back on our days crapped out in Da Nang as fond memories … catch my drift?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Pete. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I didn’t rape her!”
Decker let go of him and stared at the broken face.
“You’re in big trouble, buddy,” he said.
“I know,” Abel said weakly. “I know I am.”
“You can’t pretend that nothing happened, Abe.”
“I know.”
Decker placed his hand on Abe’s shoulder and led him over to the bench.
“Let’s sit down and talk about it.”
Abel dabbed his brow with a tissue. Despite the long, untrimmed beard and the unkempt dress, he smelled freshly scrubbed. He’d always been meticulous about his hygiene, Decker remembered. Used to groom himself like a cat. When the rest of the platoon was covered with caked-on scum, Old Honest Abe Atwater would be spitting into his palm, trying to wash off the grime.
“Thanks, big man,” Abel said. “Thanks for bailing me out.”
“S’all right.”
“I really mean it.”
“I know you do.”
Abel threw him a weak smile. Decker opened his arms, and they gave each other a bear hug.
“Good to see you, Doc.” Abel broke away. “Though I wish the circumstances were a tad better.”
“You have a lawyer?”
“I thought maybe you could help me out.”
“I haven’t practiced law in twelve years.”
“Do you know anyone?”
“Not offhand,” Decker said. “I do most of my work with district attorneys. Who’s your PD?”
“Some incompetent with a perpetual allergy. Nose is running all the time.” Abel pinched off a nostril and sniffed deeply with the other. “Know what I mean?”
“I’ll ask around,” Decker said. “We’ll dig up someone.”
“Appreciate it. Preferably someone without a habit.”
“That’s not so easy.”
“I know. I wasn’t being facetious.” Abel looked at the sky and squinted. “Hot one, ain’t it?”
Decker didn’t answer.
“Not interested in the weather, huh?” Abel said. “Well, how ’bout them Dodgers?”
“Abel, have you eaten anything today?” Decker asked.
“Some swill for breakfast. Amorphous goop that doubles for Elmer’s in a pinch.”
“Let’s get something to eat.”
“I’ll check my finances.” Abel took out his wallet. “Damn. Forgot my platinum card. We’ll have to forego Spago.”
Decker looked at his watch. “Let’s fill our bellies. It’s late and some of us have a long drive home.”
Decker swung the unmarked onto the Santa Monica Freeway west. When he hit the downtown interchange, the traffic coagulated. Vehicles burped noxious fumes into a smoggy sky. At least the air conditioner was working, sucking up stale hot air and turning it to stale cool air. They rode for a half hour in silence. When Decker exited on the Robertson off-ramp, Abel spoke up.
“Where are we going?”
“Does it matter?”
“Nope.”
Ten minutes later, Decker pulled up in front of the Pico Kosher Deli, turned off the motor, and got out. Abel followed.
“You like corned beef?” Decker asked, popping dimes into the meter.
“At the moment, I’ll take anything that’s edible.”
Decker placed a crocheted yarmulke atop his hair and secured it with a bobby pin.
“What’s with the beany cap?” Abel asked.
“I’ve become a little religious in my old age.”
“Religious I can understand,” Abel said. “But since when have you become Jewish?”
“It’s a long story. Best reserved for another time. Let’s go.”
The place was half full. Out of habit, Decker chose a back table that afforded privacy. Off to the left side was a refrigerator case loaded with smoked fish—metal trays piled high with lox, cod, and whitefish chubs. Decker looked at the plastic laminated menu.
“What’s good?” Abel asked.
“Everything,” Decker said. “One of the few haunts left that serves an honest meal.”
A waitress came over. She was very young, wide-hipped, with blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Abel winked at her.
“What’s the story, sugar?”
She smiled uncomfortably.
Decker said, “I’ll have a pastrami on rye with a large orange juice.”
“Make mine a salami and cheese on rye with a Bud. If you can’t find a Bud, I’ll take you.”
Decker rolled his eyes. “You can’t have cheese here, Abel. The place is kosher. They don’t mix meat and dairy products.”
Abel said to the girl, “Then just give me you, honey.”
“Give him a salami on rye and a Heineken,” Decker ordered.
The waitress nodded gratefully and left them. Abel bit his lower lip and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
“Want to tell me about it?” Decker asked.
Abel rubbed his face with his hands. “She was a hooker, natch. She called herself Plum Pie. I don’t know her real name—”
“Myra Steele,” Decker interrupted. “She’s eighteen, which makes her an adult. Thank God for small favors, otherwise you’d be in the can for statutory rape even if you didn’t coerce her. She’s from Detroit, has three priors for soliciting—two when she was still a juvenile, the last one three months ago. She used to work for a pimp named Letwoine Monroe—he was the one who posted bail for her after her last arrest—but I found out he bit the dust a month ago in a drug deal that went sour. I don’t know who she’s peddling her ass for now.”
There was a brief silence.
Abel said, “Why didn’t my lawyer tell me all of this?”
“He probably didn’t know,” Decker said. “It’s all incidental to your case. I just like details.”
“Incidental? The bitch is a hooker with three priors—”
“For God’s sake. Lower your voice, Abe.” Decker sighed. “What she does to earn a buck is irrelevant. If you forced her to have intercourse, it’s rape.”
“I didn’t force her to do anything. It was a mutually agreed-upon business transaction. And I certainly didn’t beat or slice her.”
“Abe,” Decker said, “if you’ve got to go to hookers, you go to hookers. But why didn’t you wear a condom, for chrissakes? In case you haven’t heard, there are nasty viruses floating around. What, Nam wasn’t enough? You’ve got a death wish?”
“She didn’t have AIDS.”
“And how do you know that?”
“She’s got one of those cards from a laboratory certifying her clean.”
