by Milk;Honey
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“All right.” Her voice was hesitant. She lowered her fork and said, “You scared me, Peter.”
Decker was taken aback. “Scared you?”
“It wasn’t what you said, or even how you said it.” She paused and tried to find her words. “It was the look in your eyes. The absolute rage. I…I felt…forget it.”
“Don’t stop now,” Decker said. He was trying to keep his voice calm.
“Put it this way,” Rina said. “I was cognizant of the fact that you had a gun.”
Decker was shocked. “What?”
“Well, you asked.”
Decker covered his face with his hands. “Well, this is charming. You thought I was going to shoot you.”
“I didn’t say that. I was just thinking if the boys had been there—”
“I’d shoot the boys, too?”
“Forget it.”
“No, no, no. Tell me. And you don’t have to be afraid of anything, because I’m not packing.”
“You’re very hurt.” Rina tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away. “I can’t help your feelings, Peter. Maybe you don’t realize how big and awesome you can be. And maybe you should realize it. Yitzchak was very soft-spoken, never raised his voice. I’m not telling you to be like him—I love you just the way you are—but I am telling you what the boys were used to. They’ve never seen a temper like that, and I’d like it to remain that way for their sake. They worship you. They’d be devastated if you…you glared at them like that. Especially Shmuli. You know how sensitive he is.”
Decker pushed his plate aside, feeling tired and old. Rina had wounded him, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been hit in that spot. Jan had told him the same thing once—a long time ago, right after they’d married. Afterward, he’d looked in the mirror. His eyes had been murderous. Decker supposed that look made him effective around the bad guys, but a hard person to deal with if you were on the right side.
“I’m sorry,” Rina said quietly.
“Don’t apologize,” Decker said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Like you said, I asked.”
“I love you, Peter.”
“I love you, too.”
“I know you do. And I know you’d never hurt me.”
“I’d rather kill myself.”
Rina got up and hugged him. “I know that. Dear God, I just want a little peace for the both of us. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Decker pulled his plate back, picked at his food.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t feel like it,” Rina said. “I won’t be offended.”
“No.” Decker sat up in his seat. “No, I’m going to eat and forget about work and Abel and losing my temper. I’m going to enjoy Shabbos and this wonderful dinner, because in a week you’ll be gone and I’ll be back to eating salami and crackers.” Decker picked up a veal rib and chomped into the meat. “Bon appétit.”
“Bon appétit,” Rina echoed. She sat back down in her chair and picked up the other rib.
They sat for hours, talking, singing Sabbath songs, laughing, and eating until the roast was reduced to bones.
The Fifth Commandment deemed Sabbath a day of rest, an obligation that Decker chose to take literally. He spent most of Saturday afternoon in bed, sleeping or otherwise, depending on Rina’s mood, and didn’t think about work or Abel. Instead, he concentrated on renewing his bedraggled spirit and reached moderate success. He and Rina were all sweetness and light, stargazing lovers. They went out Saturday night, saw a terrible play at the Music Center, then indulged in triple-scoop ice-cream sundaes. Sunday morning, Decker called the boys in New York and sent them his love directly. Then Rina packed a lunch and they went on a three-hour horseback ride. By Sunday evening, Decker felt good about himself, good about Rina. His relaxed manner had a great effect on her. Her face radiated good cheer.
But Sunday night he slept restlessly, had disturbing dreams about Abel. Not Nam dreams, thank God, but nightmares nonetheless—Abel falling down a cliff, drowning in an ocean, sinking in sand. And Decker was always a minute too late.
He got up at five Monday morning, realizing he didn’t have to be Freud to know what was going on. At six, he called County Hospital. The general operator wasn’t on duty, so he phoned a special police line and found out that Myra Steele was still in the County Complex—Women’s Hospital.
He dressed, showered, and said his morning prayers in a record twenty minutes. Right before he left, he gently shook Rina and told her he was going to work, his spare key ring was on the kitchen table. She could take the Jeep or the Porsche. She gave him a sleep-laced kiss, and pulled the covers over her head.
The sun had just risen, bad timing since he was heading eastward. Hot white light poured through the windshield, and Decker’s eyes began to water. He slipped on his shades, yanked down the unmarked’s sun visor, and sped down the Golden State Freeway and exited on Brooklyn Avenue in Boyle Heights.
East Los Angeles—Hollenbeck substation—had been Decker’s first assignment after he’d joined the LAPD. He’d been directed there because at the time he’d been one of the few white boys whose Spanish had been fluent. After having worked with the Cubans in Miami, Decker had found the Hispanics in Boyle Heights a soft-spoken and compliant group. A long time ago, the area had been Jewish, but since Decker had moved to L.A. the only Jewish remnants he’d seen were a few languishing delis and the Breed Street Shul—a synagogue still gloriously beautiful, but falling apart because of lack of money and worshipers.
Seated on the apex of a hill, Los Angeles County Medical Center peered down upon the industrial sink of downtown L.A., the most prominent of its buildings a tiered wedding cake of faded yellow concrete, fronted by an asphalt parking lot. He entered the complex through Marengo Drive, drove past the psychiatric and pediatric units, and followed the inclined road to the top. This area of the center had patches of lawn and shade, looking more like a college campus than a hospital. In a sense, County General was a campus—USC Medical School trained its docs here. The day was turning hot, grass wilting as the minutes ticked on. Only the eucalyptus seemed unaffected. Easygoing trees, taking L.A.’s summer heat and smog in stride, always large and leafy, emitting the tangy smell of menthol. Decker glanced across the roadway and he saw a shaded pathway leading to Women’s Hospital. Parking was around the corner.
He drove past the first group of structures, went around the block, passed the County Coroner’s Office and parked in a pay lot. Across the street was an orange and blue Howard Johnson’s resting in a deserted, weed-choked field.
Myra Steele had been placed in a semiprivate on the fourth floor. She and her roommate were sleeping, Myra closer to the door. The walls were institutional beige, the flooring new white tile. The room smelled of antiseptic spray and hummed with air-conditioning. A wooden file-holder was nailed onto the outside of the door, and in it was Myra’s chart. Decker looked over his shoulder, then lifted the chart and quickly peered through the medical findings. Most of the jargon he didn’t understand—technical terms for what had happened to her. He skimmed the pages for anything relevant.
Patient cooperates with procedures, meds, but refuses counseling at this time. Patient appears to be coping well, though still uncommunicative about the incident. Benefits of rape counseling explained several times to both patient and mother, but patient still refuses any psych treatment at this time. Mother may be an impediment.
Decker heard padded feet approaching and placed the chart in the holder before the nurse noticed him. He entered the room, found a chair, placed it next to Myra’s bed, and pulled the privacy curtain around the bed and himself. The noise of the metal rings dragging across the rod woke her up. She jumped up, startled, but fell back on her bed a moment later.
“Great,” she said. “Open my eyes and what do I see? Another cop. Leave me alone. I already sayed what I want to say.”
Decker looked at the teenage
d whore. Her right cheek had been bandaged where the knife wound was. The rest of her face was undeniably pretty. She was light-skinned, with amber almond-shaped eyes that slanted upward, giving her a hint of the Orient. Her jawline was long and sleek, her complexion smooth. Her lips were thick, her nose broad and poreless, her shoulder-length hair jet black, unruly and coarse, giving her a wild and sexy look. She had the sheet pulled up to her neck, until she noticed Decker’s eyes upon her. She lowered it, allowing him to see her open hospital gown, see large mounds of coffee-colored breasts.
“Like brown sugar, honey?” Her voice was hoarse.
Decker didn’t answer.
“Can always use more fuzz in my pocket,” she said.
“How many of us do you have?”
Myra smiled. “Why don’tchu join the club and find out?”
“Amazing you’re still going back to the trade after what happened to you.”
Myra was silent. She covered herself.
“Your main man pressing you a little hard, Myra?” Decker said. “You don’t work, it’s fewer pennies in his pocket.”
“Pennies?” Myra laughed. “Honey, I make more in a month than you do in a year.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Decker said. “But everyone knows it’s not what you get, it’s what you keep.”
Myra’s smile disappeared. “Fuck off. I’m not gonna do it and that’s that. So don’t try to convince me no more, or I’m gonna get real pissed and drop the whole case.”
Decker didn’t say anything, just tried to assimilate what he’d just heard. Drop the whole case? Myra seemed to misunderstand his silence.
“Look,” she said. “I sayed all this before, but I’ll say it again. Ain’t the first time I’ve been cut up—been the worst time, but it ain’t the first time. I go testify and ’spite all yo’ double-talk about none of my past history comin’ out, it’s gonna come out.”
Decker had to improvise. “The jury will be instructed to exclude any of your sexual history—”
“Shit, shit, and more shit,” Myra said. She took out an emery board from her nightstand drawer. Her eyes glanced at the clock. “What the hell do you think you doin’, botherin’ me with your shit at six-thirty in the morning? I didn’t even brush my teeth yet.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I bet,” Myra said. She sawed her nail tips furiously. “Go away.”
Decker said, “I just want—”
“You just want a big gold star on your record, and you don’t give a shit what happens to me. Let me tell you this, Mister Policeman. My man and my lawyer are handling this. You just keep your big nose out of my face, and maybe you and your buddies’ll get a itty-bitty gold star for putting the son of a bitch away for a couple of months.”
“You’re not worried about him coming back?”
Myra laughed. “They never come back. Just go on and carve up a new one. Hell, by then, I’m out of here.”
“You don’t seem too traumatized by the rape,” Decker remarked.
Her eyes grew mean. “I don’t need to cry and moan and weep like them weak bitches out there. But that don’t mean it didn’t happen to me.”
Decker said, “I’m sorry about that, too.”
“You just full of sorrys today.”
Decker’s brain moved fast, putting two and two together. Myra didn’t want to testify because she didn’t want her sexual conduct coming out in court. She was willing to plea-bargain the case down to a lesser count. But why? She seemed like a tough woman, could stand up against all the shit in court.
“Myra,” Decker said, “I don’t mean to sound blunt, but people know what you do. Why are you so anxious to keep it under wraps?”
“None of yo’ business.”
Decker thought hard. Who wouldn’t she want to know her past. A boyfriend? Her parents? Or was she protecting her man by not testifying, afraid that she might give something away if she went on the stand?
All guesses. He recalled what he knew about her. She came from Detroit, but her three priors happened in L.A.
On a hunch, he said, “You called Mama when it happened, huh? And she came out to lick your wounds. She doesn’t know about you, does she?”
Myra sucked in her breath, then let out a phlegmy cough.
Decker waited until she was done and said, “Can’t blame you for not wanting her to know. What’s your problem? Mama won’t leave until the whole mess is settled? Meaning if this goes to trial, she’s gonna hear everything about you?”
Myra said, “Man, if I’da knowed all this was gonna happen, I don’t think I woulda said nothing.”
“Mama’s driving you crazy?”
“Mister Po-liceman, you don’t know the half of it. Mama’s fine in the clinch. And fine if you like tea parties with the preacher and happen to be sexual in the usual way. But since this girl never wanted no boys, no husband, and no babies, we just didn’t get on real good, know what I’m sayin’?”
Decker nodded. “Can’t get rid of her?”
“Like you said, not until this mess is cleared up,” Myra said. “So you see why I don’t want no trial. When I ran away, I wrote to Mama and told her I found a job. And she goes, ‘Which job is that, honey? You don’t got no education.’ Well, then I told her I worked as a waitress during the day and was studying to get my high school diploma at night. Mama don’t like bad girls. That kept her quiet. Now she’s back and asking me about when I’m gonna graduate. I got to get her outta here before she finds out the truth.”
“What would happen if she found out?” Decker asked.
Myra looked grave. “Mama has a bad temper for sinners. Once she found out that my baby sister was chippin’. Mama whopped her good. I mean, Mama’s a good woman, but she don’t like no one giving her a bad name. So…”
Decker said, “Why don’t you get your high school diploma? Why are you doin’ what you’re doin’?”
Myra shrugged. “My man gives me a house, food, dope. And I got lots of girlfriends in the trade. Guess I’m lazy. And my man’s got a mean temper. I quit now, he might just get a little physical. But one day, I’ll quit. Find me some fat old fart with lots of bread. Get him to give me a ring. Let the sucker fuck me while I whip him with cat-o’-nine-tails. He’ll hire me a cute little piece o’ black ass that I can have whenever I want. I got it all planned out.”
“As long as Mama is out of the way.”
Myra didn’t answer. Decker stopped talking for a moment, let the silence cleanse his thoughts. Then he said, “If your pimp didn’t cut you up, why won’t you give us his name?”
“My man like to remain an-no-mim-no-mous. He says publicity makes you fatheaded.”
“I’d still like to talk with him,” Decker said.
“Yeah, so would all of Vice.” Myra laughed. “You is on your own, mister.”
“You say your pimp didn’t cut you?”
“He didn’t cut me.”
“Then who did?”
“You got who did it,” Myra cried out.
“Myra, there’s some physical doubt that the man we apprehended is the man who cut you.” Decker sized up the whore. She looked pained. “Way his lawyer figures it, the man we have in custody had sex with you, but didn’t cut you—”
“That’s a lie!”
“We just don’t want to play plea-bargain unless we have an ironclad case against him.”
“He raped me!” Myra exclaimed. “Son of a bitch, bastard raped me and sliced me and beat me—”
“Okay, okay,” Decker said, trying to calm her down. “I believe you. But I really need your man’s name just to clear him. Just so I can go back to the district attorney and say, ‘Hey, the woman’s man definitely didn’t wield the knife. It wasn’t a domestic type of thing. Go ahead with the case as is.’”
“I won’t give you his name,” Myra said.
“Your man really has you spooked, huh?”
Myra said nothing.
“Your man a Santeria?” Decker asked.
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The whore stiffened.
“A Palo Mayombero,” Decker said. “Or maybe he has a tía who’s a bruja. She’ll put a hex on you—”
“Stop it!”
“You don’t really believe that shit, do you?”
Myra didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “I like to stay healthy, man. I like to stay healthy.”
Decker regarded her. She looked anything but healthy, but the irony was lost.
“I want to help you, Myra,” he said. “I want to make sure the guy is really guilty, so trial is out of the question, and we’ve got the goodies, so he’ll be begging to bargain. But if you don’t cooperate, give us your pimp’s name, PD may get wind of what’s going on, that his client has an out—your man. He’ll insist on a trial. Then Mama may find out.”
Myra broke her emery board in half. “You’re bastards, all of you. Don’t give a fuck what happens as long as you get your fucking gold star. So what if my mama finds out, if my man finds out? So what? Who gives a shit about Myra—the victim!” She laughed bitterly. “That’s what I am. A fucking victim—twice.”
Her eyes remained hard, but they were moist as well. Decker took a minute to think. He focused in on Abel, on all they’d gone through together. Yes, he had saved Abel’s ass. But Decker couldn’t count the number of times that Abel had saved him as well. It had been so common back then. Everyone saving everyone else’s ass. Best thing you could have done was get along with everyone on your side. Because you never knew if someday that guy you called an asshole was the one to yank you down when enemy fire started, to jerk you away from stepping on a land mine, cover your body when a grenade exploded. Something you just did. Saved asses.
But that was then. Decker, the empathic rape cop of today, said, “You are a victim. And I’m sorry. Again, I’ll find your man without your help.”
“I bet,” Myra said. She brushed tears away from her eyes and sunk under her covers. “My man finds out I talked to another cop, he’s gonna fix me good.”
“Myra…” Decker leaned in close. “Don’t worry about your man. I can reverse whatever he puts on you.” He closed his eyes, and murmured a Santeria chant he’d memorized from the old days. When he was done, he put his fingers to his lips and whispered, “All I need is a bag of chicken feathers and a roll of pennies.”
