“Why’d you live there?” he asked.
“Idealism.” She shook her head. “When Yitzchak announced that we were going back to the States, I cried tears of joy, then immediately felt guilty about it. I was leaving the Holy Land and ecstatic about it.”
She laughed softly.
“Then I read in the Talmud that a Jew who passes up a permissible pleasure is a fool. I was very foolish in those years.”
“Why didn’t you put your foot down and tell him you wanted to leave?”
“I didn’t make myself clear,” she said, taking off the towel. “He would have left a long time ago. I was the one who insisted we stay—always the martyr, Peter. I thought we should be religious chalutzniks—pioneers. Finally, he put his foot down. He said he couldn’t live in that kind of atmosphere. When Rav Schulman invited him to join the kollel, he quickly accepted without consulting me. I couldn’t even get mad at him. The poor guy was so miserable, and I was so oblivious to his needs because I believed in some higher purpose.
“But it all worked out in the end. Yitzchak had wanted to live and study in Jerusalem—a more beautiful and inspiring city never existed. Had we settled there, I would have never left Israel. And then I would have never met you.”
She touched his skin; it was burning and taut. She told him to hold still.
His body was soaked with perspiration. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bit his lip hard, tasting the blood as it trickled into his mouth. He could feel the knife blade slicing into the swelling. A stab of pain, then skin bursting open, exploding pus that soured the room with its fetid stench.
“Good,” he heard her say.
He felt faint, but male pride kept him conscious.
She began to bathe the arm in antiseptic. The pain was overwhelming and caused him to shiver. Tenderly, she dabbed his face while cleansing the open sore. Finally, she patted the wound dry.
“It looks clean, Peter. Keep the towel firmly pressed on the cut while I take a look in the medicine cabinet.”
She came back with two half-empty bottles of pills and a roll of gauze.
“These are penicillin tablets from when I had strep. Take two every six hours. Take a couple of aspirin, also. They’ll make you feel better and reduce the swelling and fever.”
She unfurled the gauze and began to wrap the wound.
“I love you,” Decker said.
“I love you, too, Peter. Promise me you’ll go to a doctor after Shabbos is over.”
“No argument.”
“Do you want to rest here?”
“No. It would look bad.”
“I don’t care—”
“I do. Finish wrapping this and go on to your class. They’re probably wondering what happened to you.”
She nodded and worked quickly. When she was done, she helped him on with his coat.
“You go first,” she said. “I want to clean up.”
He looked at the pus and blood splashed over the starched white Shabbos linens on her table and frowned. The odor of decay was still powerful.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said calmly. “I really wish you’d go to the hospital.”
“I’m all right.” He hugged her as tight as he could. “I feel better already. Thanks.”
“Peter, how did it happen?”
“I don’t want to get into it, honey.”
“Okay,” she said. “I won’t meddle.”
“You’re not meddling. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
She kissed his cheek. “You’d better get going.”
He kissed her back and left without another word, sucking in mouthfuls of air. Although his balance was unsteady, his pace was good. He had no intention of sitting through a lesson he didn’t understand, so he entered the main yeshiva building and headed for a small classroom in the basement. It was his favorite learning spot, and he’d hidden all the English translations of the holy books there. Taking out his chumash, he began to learn, trying to concentrate on the text instead of his pain.
Soon he became absorbed in the material, looking up references, checking sources, attempting to translate and understand the Hebrew which still eluded him.
It seemed he’d only been at it for minutes when he found himself squinting. The daylight had turned to dusk and it wouldn’t be long before the unlit room turned pitch black. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply, enjoying the solitude, feeling very calm. His arm felt much better; Rina had done an excellent job. She never ceased to surprise him—so utterly feminine yet so competent. He saw firsthand how she handled crises, and her strength and willpower were scary. Maybe it was the religion; the women in the Bible were not known for their passivity—Judith lopping off the head of Holofernes, Yael driving a tent peg through Sisera’s temples. He could picture Rina doing that. After all, didn’t she buy a gun?
He heard footsteps and saw Rabbi Schulman dressed in his formal Shabbos silks. Decker started to rise, but the old man motioned him to remain seated.
“How’s your arm?” the old man asked.
“She told you?”
“You should have gone to a hospital. Shabbos should not be preserved at risk to human life.” He sat down. “Pekuah nefesh—your life is more important. Halachically, you should have gone.”
“Let me ask you this, Rabbi Schulman. If it had been you, what would you have gone?”
The Rosh Yeshiva sighed.
“Halacha is halacha. If I were convinced it was life-threatening, I would have gone.”
“You’re hedging.”
“What you did was unwise, Peter.” The old man smiled dryly. “And on top of that, you missed my lecture.”
“What language did you give it in this time?” Decker asked grinning.
“Hebrew and Yiddish. But you’re a bright man. You would have picked up something.”
Schulman raised his eyebrows.
“You looked tired at shacharis this morning. A blind person could see your exhaustion, now. Go to my house and rest.”
“I want to go to mincha,” Decker said.
The old man nodded.
“All right. Come with me. I won’t waste an old man’s breath to try to dissuade you.”
The men rose and Decker tensed his bicep. The joint was still stiff, but there was some limited motion—progress.
It was Sammy’s and Jacob’s turn to hold the havdalah candle. They stood on top of chairs flanking Decker, at the side of the dais, and lifted the silver candle holder high in the air. The Rosh Yeshiva struck the match and held it to the wicks, and soon the multicolored strands of braided wax were aglow with bright orange flames. The light flickered over the boys’ faces, and for a moment Decker flashed to the bonfires in Hotel Hell. The faces of the young squatters had been masks of death, but these boys were vibrant with life. Decker wrapped his fingers over their hands to protect them from the hot wax drippings and Sammy smiled at him. It warmed his heart.
Rav Schulman raised the silver goblet of wine and began, intoning a mellow singsong:
“Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu, Melach Haolam borei pre hagofen.”
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has created the fruit of the vine.
The congregation responded with a resonant “Amen.”
The rabbi put down the wine cup and lifted a two-foot sculptured tower of silver. Its roof was peaked and topped by a gilt flag; gilt bells dangled from the edge of the eaves. Three of the tower’s sides were embossed with Hebrew letters, the fourth held a miniature door. Inside were spices—cloves, frankincense, allspice, whole chunks of cinnamon. In a loud voice, the rabbi made the blessing over the aromatics, opened the door, and deeply inhaled their sweet/tart perfume. He passed the tower to Decker who held it to the boys’ noses and his own, then returned it to the rabbi.
“Amen.”
The rabbi put down the spicebox and blessed God, the creator of light, by holding his fingernails close to the flame of the candle. He t
hen recited the rest of the havdalah, the prayer marking the conclusion of Sabbath. Soon the new secular work week would start and God’s holy day of rest would officially be over.
Mellifluously, Schulman recited the last blessing and took a sip of wine. He poured the remaining wine into a silver dish, took the candle, and quenched the flame in it. The fire crackled and sparked until it was reduced to a stream of smoke.
“Baruch atah Adonai hamavdil beyn kodesh lechol.”
Blessed art Thou, Oh Lord, who hast made a distinction between sacred and profane.
10
The first snapshot was a white anus being penetrated by a black penis. Decker tossed it aside, but Hollander picked it up for a second look. He was a bald man with a fringe of brown hair, a large walrus mustache, and an overhang of belly. He was smiling this morning. He liked this assignment.
“Do you think this is a boy ass or a girl ass?” he asked Decker, puffing on his meerschaum. “From this angle, I can’t tell.”
Decker snatched the photo out of his hands and gave him a sour look.
“Mike,” he said, “we’re supposed to be looking at faces, not asses.” He held up several snapshots of Lindsey Bates. “This girl, Mike. We’re looking for this girl.”
The detective grunted unappreciatively and sucked in his gut.
“And put out the pipe,” Decker snarled. “This room is cramped enough without you smogging it up.”
Hollander killed the embers.
“What’s eating your ass, Rabbi? Have a bad weekend at the Holyland?”
“I had too good a weekend,” Decker complained. “I’m not ready to come back to this shit.”
“Pete, there are at least a dozen guys out there just waiting for this assignment.”
“And I’d be glad to give it to the drooling bastards, but the case is mine, Michael.”
“All I’m sayin’ is if this is gettin’ to you, you’ve got lots of backup.”
Decker picked up another photo. A blonde girl was fellating a fat man with a wart on his penis. Decker studied her face and then rejected it.
“Shit, Pete, get a load of the size of this—”
“I’m not interested.”
A moment later, Marge walked in.
“You know, MacPherson offered to trade Easter weekend with me if I’d give him this assignment.” She was incredulous. “Those boys are the horniest bunch of schmucks I’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t understand the male species, Marjorie,” Hollander said.
“You’ll explain it to me someday, Michael.”
He grinned lecherously. “Just give me a date.”
“Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll break in the twenty-first century together.”
Hollander was silent and appeared to be concentrating.
“Thirteen years from now, Mike,” Decker said.
Marge laughed. “Have a snapshot of Lindsey to refresh my memory?” she asked Decker.
He handed her one of their working pictures. It was Lindsey’s junior high school graduation photo—a head shot of an even-featured teenager ripening to womanhood—a flirtatious smile, a gleam in the eye. There was nothing stiff and frozen about the picture. Lindsey had presence. Marge made a face.
“Pretty little thing, wasn’t she,” Hollander said. “Damn shame.”
“She was Cindy’s age,” Decker said. “I asked around about her all day yesterday. Combed every mission, shelter, halfway house, and drug rehab center in the L.A. San Fernando Valley area, and nobody had ever seen her. I even took the photo down to Skid Row and tried some of the street people. Nada. This is a last resort and it probably won’t turn up anything. She was a nice kid according to everyone I’ve talked to. I don’t think we’ll find her in these archives.”
“Hey, Margie,” Hollander said, “Take a look at the—”
“Not interested, Michael.”
Hollander grumbled and chewed on his cold pipe stem.
Marge began sorting through a pile of pornography.
“How many boxes of this garbage do we have?” she asked.
“As many as you want,” Decker said, tossing photographs aside.
“You ever get hold of Mr. Bates?” Marge asked.
Decker winced and waved his hand in the air.
“That bad, huh?” Hollander said.
“One of those repressed types,” said Decker. “Midway through the questions, he cracked. It was bad. The floodgates opened and it was all downhill from that point on. God, I feel for that man. I don’t think I’d do any better.”
They sorted through some more photos—contorted positions designed for the camera rather than pleasure.
“Pete, what do you think of this?” Marge showed him a teenage girl masturbating.
Decker studied the photo and shook his head.
“The eyes are wrong.”
Marge shrugged and attacked another pile of pictures.
“What do we do if we find her in one of these?” Hollander asked.
“They’re numbered on the back, Mike,” Decker answered. “If we find a match, we can look up where the photo came from and, hopefully, get a fix on who the photographer was.”
“How was Saturday at the yeshiva, Pete?” Marge asked.
“Terrific.”
“Your arm looks looser,” she said.
“Doc says I’ll be fine.”
“Hey, Rabbi,” Hollander said. “You never did tell us how the hell that happened.”
“Would you believe I got bit by a dog? Of all the stupid things.”
“Happens to the best of us,” said Hollander. “I remember once getting stung by a bee. People always tell you if you don’t bother it, it won’t bother you. Well, I didn’t do a thing and the little fucker looked me straight in the eye and stuck its stinger into my arm. Really pissed me off.”
“Ernst got stung by a bee,” Marge said. “Blew up like a blimp.”
“How is he?” Decker asked, shuffling photos.
“Beats me. Haven’t seen the sucker for two weeks.”
Decker looked up. “You’re kidding. I thought you two were tight.”
“Appearances are deceiving,” Marge said.
“What happened?” Decker asked.
“It was mutual. I think I was too much woman for him.”
“I’ll say,” Hollander snickered. “You outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Take a look at this, Pete.”
Another blonde girl, not more than fifteen, was performing cunnilingus on a gaping vagina. Decker studied the snapshot closely.
“I’d say no, but it’s close. What do you think, Marge?”
She scrutinized the picture.
“Too close to call. My gut instinct is no, but I’d check it out.”
“This photo reminds me of a joke,” Hollander said. “What’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”
“Not everyone eats parsley,” Marge said. “That’s old, Mike. Even older than you.”
“Okay. How about this one?” said Hollander. “What’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”
“What?” Decker asked.
“Parsley leaves a good aftertaste.”
Decker smiled, but Marge frowned.
“You’ve been munching the wrong carpet, Mike,” she said.
“You sound jealous, Margie,” Hollander said, grinning. “Maybe it’s your recent loss of male companionship. For a small fee, I can accommodate your needs sooner than the twenty-first century.”
“Don’t make me ill,” she answered, looking ill.
“Give me the snapshot, Mike,” Decker said. “We’ll start a close-call pile over here.” He turned to Marge. “You want me to spread the word around that you’re available?”
“Thanks, but I just met someone.”
“Jesus, you don’t waste any time, do you, girl,” Mike said.
“When you’re hot, you’re hot,” Decker said.
“Who’s the lucky guy, Margie?” Hollander asked.
“Car
roll.”
Hollander looked at her. “A girl?”
“Watch your mouth, Mike. Two r’s, two l’s. He’s six six and weighs a hard two ninety.”
“Carroll’s a great name,” Hollander said quickly.
“What instrument does he play?” Decker asked.
“He’s tone deaf,” Marge said glumly.
“That’s a departure,” said Decker, discarding another photo.
“Yeah, well, I haven’t done too well with the musicians in my life. I figured it was time for a change. The only trouble is now I don’t have anyone to play my flute with.”
“What a shame!” Hollander said, holding back a smile. Marge was a terrible musician, but that didn’t stop her from performing in public, usually with her musician boyfriends. No one had the heart to tell her the truth.
“But it’s good for me,” she continued. “I’ll work on some solo pieces and let you guys know when I’m ready.”
Decker stifled a groan.
“Great, Marge,” he said.
“How’s Rina?” Marge asked.
“Fine.”
“You two going to do something soon?” Mike asked. “You’re obviously smitten by the lass. Or is it smote? You should know about that, Rabbi. Didn’t the Jews smote the Egyptians or something like that?”
Decker shrugged. The digs were good-natured and he let them pass. After all, his transformation over the past months had to seem strange to his colleagues. No doubt they attributed his metamorphosis to Rina; he loved her and was changing to please her.
But Decker knew it was deeper than that. Religion had given him a spark of renewed faith, and though it hadn’t blossomed into fire—maybe he was too cynical for it to ever get that bright—it was still better than complete darkness.
His thoughts were interrupted when a young detective with a pencil-line mustache stuck his head in the room.
“You’ve got a call, Pete.”
“Okay, George.”
The mustache turned upward into a grin.
“Want me to take over for a while, Rabbi?” George asked. “All those immoral photographs must be very unsettling to the spirit.”
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