Milk and Honey (4 page)

Baptist-bred Decker, now a
frummie
—a religious Jew. He’d had lots of second thoughts about becoming Jewish, let alone Orthodox. The extent of his observance had been a major source of conflict between them. How
committed
was he? Rina had decided to find out. She left the yeshiva—left
him
—and moved to New York a year ago, claiming he needed to be alone to make his own personal choices.

Six months later, away from her, away from the pressure, Decker arrived at a decision. He liked Judaism—his own modified version. He’d be observant most of the time, but would bend the letter of the law when it seemed right to do so. He explained his convictions to Rina one night in a three-hour phone conversation. She said it was something she could live with.

Now all he needed to do was convince her to move back and pick up where they had left off.

Two days to go
.

Decker stared out the window. Marge had turned left, cutting northeast. They passed a pit of huge boulders and sand deposits—rocks stripped of ore, leaving only dusty wasteland. A half-mile north was the Manfred development, two square miles of land cut from mountainside. Fifty yards down, workers were framing a convenience center. Marge parked the car on the first street, and they both got out.

“This is really the boonies, isn’t it?” Marge said.

Decker said, “The land won’t be empty forever. Much to the conservationists’ displeasure.”

“Well, I’ve got to agree with them on one account. These houses certainly don’t blend in with the landscape. Kind of reminds me of the lost colony of Roanoke.”

Decker smiled and said, “How do you want to divide up?”

Marge said, “Maple runs down the middle. I’ll take the houses north of it between Louisiana and Washington.”

“Roger,” Decker said. “Keep a look out for unusual tire marks or tiny footprints. Maybe we can trace little Sally’s late-night trek through the neighborhood.”

“Ground’s dry,” Marge said kicking up dust.

“In the early morning, the air was full of dew. You never can tell.”

“All right,” Marge said. “Here’s one of the sexy Polaroids I took this morning.”

The snapshot showed the blond, curly-haired toddler grinning, her nose wrinkling.

“What a little doll,” Decker said.

“Yeah,” Marge agreed. “Meet you back here…when?”

“Two hours from now?”

“Two hours sounds about right.”

“Good.”

They split up.

Nada
.

Two and a quarter hours of searching, and nothing but a pair of sore dogs. Decker radioed to Marge.

“The hour’s getting late,” he said. “How many houses do you have left?”

“About twenty,” she said. “Why don’t we call it quits? I’ll get the ones I missed and pick up the ones that weren’t home tomorrow or the next day.”

“Meet you at the car,” Decker said.

He walked back nursing a giant headache. Maybe it was
the lack of food and sleep, but some of it was caused by a sinking feeling that there was a corpse out there collecting flies.

He leaned against the Plymouth, waved to Marge as she approached.

“You’ve got a knowing gleam in your eye,” Decker told her. “What did you find out?”

“That a lady on Pennsylvania is boffing a repairman from ABC Refrigeration.” Marge consulted her notes. “There was this one woman, a Mrs. Patty Bingham on 1605 Oak Street. She denied ever seeing Sally, had no idea who she was, etc., etc. But something about her didn’t feel right. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I suspect she’s holding back.”

Decker asked, “Why wouldn’t she want to help identify a little kid?”

“It might implicate her in something nasty,” Marge said.

Decker nodded. “I don’t know about you, but whatever the story is with Sally, I don’t think the kid lived in this development.”

“I’ll agree with you there,” Marge said. “Too many people denied knowing her. And in a place with this many children, where the kids all play together, some of the neighborhood mothers would have recognized her…unless her parents kept her locked up and segregated.”

“I don’t think so,” Decker said. “Sally’s a sweet little girl—relates well to people, talks a little, smiles a lot. She doesn’t seem like a socially isolated kid to me. Plus, in my interviewing, none of the moms I’d talked to mentioned a weird family on such-and-such street.”

“Yeah,” Marge said. “In a small neighborhood like this, a weird family would stick out.” She furrowed her brow. “So that brings us back to the crucial question. Where the hell did Sally come from?”

“Sophi Rawlings made an interesting point. Maybe she was a pawn in a custody dispute. Maybe Dad kidnapped
her, then discovered how much work she was and dropped her off here to be found.”

“Here?”

“A nice family neighborhood,” Decker said. “Someone was bound to notice her.”

“Except no one did,” Marge said.

“I did.”

“But you weren’t from the neighborhood,” Marge answered. “And what about the blood?”

Decker shrugged.

Marge said, “How about this: Dad and Mom live close by. Dad whacks Mom in an argument, panics, and drops the kid here.”

Decker said. “But where do Dad and Mom live if they don’t live here?”

Marge said, “There’re a few isolated ranches around here.” She looked toward the mountains. “Probably more squatters than we’d care to admit in those hills.”

Decker nodded and said, “In the meantime, start up a Missing Person file on Sally. I’ll go to meet my buddy—”

“The rapist.”

“Alleged rapist,” Decker said. “You punch Sally’s description and prints into the computer. Also, contact Barry Delferno.”

Marge stuck out her tongue.

Decker said, “Want me to call him?”

“No, no, no,” Marge insisted. “My past experience with the sleaze shall have no bearing on my professional duties.”

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.”

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 run
ning 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.”

“Abel—”

“Yeah, cards can be forged,” Abel broke in. “I’m well aware of that, Doc. But we believe what we want to believe. And condoms don’t fit my fantasies.”

“You’re a first-class ass.”

“Tell me something we both don’t already know.”

“Where’d you find this babe?” Decker asked.

“Strutting up the boulevard. My nest isn’t too far from the garden spot.”

“Go on.”

“We made arrangements, and she took me up to her place. Jesus, what a sty! Place was redolent with foot odor and other rancid—”

“Get to the point, Abe.”

“Okay, okay. We fucked. She was good, and I wanted more. So I paid for another round.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on bringing back the memory. “I was feeling really virile. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time, Pete. This one…I don’t know…she was really good. I paid for a third time—”

“Where’d you get all this bread?”

“From good old red, white, and blue Uncle Sam. I’m part of the national debt, Pete. Sammy owes me forever for my leg.” He wiped his forehead with his napkin. “Also, I pick up spare change from odd jobs. My needs are simple, and sex is cheap.”

“All right. Go on.”

“By the end of the third time, I was pretty wasted.”

“Were you doping?”

“No. She was, but I wasn’t. By wasted, I meant tired. I asked her if I could crash out at her place, and she agreed.”

“For a fee.”

“It’s America,” Abel said. “Everything has a price.”

“Around what time was that?” Decker asked.

“About one, two in the morning. She told me she was through for the evening anyway. She’d made her quota, and her main man would be happy.”

The waitress brought the sandwiches.

“I’ll be right back,” Decker said.

He got up and walked back toward the restaurant’s kitchen, over to an industrial sink. Hanging over the lave was a two-handled brass stein and a roll of paper towels.
Decker took the chalice off the hook, filled it with water, and poured it over his hands twice. Shaking off the excess water, he dried his hands and said the blessing for the ritual washing. He walked back to the table, mumbled another blessing over bread, then chomped on his pastrami on rye.

Abel stared at him. “You’re real serious about this.”

Decker chewed, swallowed, and gulped down half his orange juice. He said, “My woman is religious.”

“Your wife?”

“Not yet,” Decker said. “But I hope to change that very soon.”

“We’re talking about marriage number two, right? Or is it more?”

“Only two.”

“When did you divorce the first one? What was her name? Jean…no, Jan.”

“Yeah. Jan. I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Didn’t you two have a kid?”

“Still do. A daughter—”

“Cynthia.”

Decker nodded. “She’s going to be a freshman at Columbia this fall. The marriage was worth it for her.”

“So she’s what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“About the same age we were when we met,” Abel said.

“Frightening,” Decker said.

“Damn frightening,” Abel said. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”

“No.”

“I did. About seven years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. We’re still married, so far as I know. We don’t live together. No one can live with me.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine,” Abel said. “She’s got three from previous li
aisons, none of them married her. I took pity—seventeen-year-old girl and three kids. Nice chicklet, cute, but stupid as shit. Just can’t say no. So I got her fixed up with an IUD. I send her a little cash, see her when I go back home for Christmas. She’s happy, I’m happy.”

“It’s great to be happy.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “Let’s get back to the rape.”

“Where was I?”

“You paid to sleep over at her house.”

Abel nodded. “That was the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew, I woke up—handcuffed. My skull is cracked open, and the bitch is screaming bloody murder….”

“She said you held a shiv across her throat while you raped her. Then you went nuts. She knocked you out by cracking a lamp over your head, then called the police.”

“I don’t even own a shiv.”

“You still get those blackouts?”

“Yeah. But not
this
time. I was
sleeping
, Doc. I heard someone screaming, woke up and saw blood.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I thought I was having another routine nightmare. Man, I never stopped getting nightmares, you know. But this one seemed ordinary enough. So I said to myself, ‘Abe, go back to sleep. It’s just another nightmare.’ Only it was
real
. God, was it real.”