LITMIR.BIZ

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you keep your gun loaded, don’t you?”

      “Rina, I’m a police officer.”

      “What did you do when Cindy was growing up?”

      “When I wasn’t wearing my gun, I kept it locked up. I never, never left a loaded gun lying in an unlocked drawer or on my nightstand. I have a great deal of respect for what it can do.”

      “Do you lock your gun up now?” she asked.

      “No, because I live alone,” he said. “But when Cindy visits me for the weekend, it’s locked. When you and the kids come visit, it’s locked.”

      She handed him his coffee and noticed the slight bulge under his jacket. He’d worn his gun while he learned Torah. For some reason, that disturbed her, but she didn’t say anything. It would have seemed ludicrous to mention it in view of her recent purchase. She sat down beside him, held her gun in her hand, stared at it, then put it down.

      “If you’ve got ambivalence about it,” Decker said softly, “don’t even start. There’s nothing wrong with chucking the whole idea, Rina.”

      “No,” she insisted. “I want to know how to use it. Hopefully, I’ll never have to.”

      He picked up the Colt and sighted down the barrel.

      “Let me take this home,” he said. “I’ll clean it and oil it. Maybe even break it in for you.”

      “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you show me how to clean, oil, and break in the gun?”

      He frowned.

      “We do such romantic things together, Rina. We talk religious philosophy and clean guns. What ever happened to midnight walks on the beach while gazing at the moonlight?”

      “The beach isn’t safe at night and the water is polluted.”

      “You’re incurably sentimental.”

      Her lips turned upward and broke into a mysterious smile.

      “You’re going to be sorry for that sarcastic tone of voice.” She opened a drawer and brought out a flat, rectangular package. “Something to wear for Shabbos tomorrow.”

      She’d bought him a tie, he thought.

      “I take it all back,” he said.

      She stood over him as he opened the box. Inside was a flatter, black satin box. He looked at her, puzzled. “What did you do?”

      “Open it,” she instructed.

      He lifted the lid and took out the contents.

      “A watch?”

      “Do you like it?”

      “Rina—this is solid gold.”

      “Do you like it?”

      He stood up and hugged her.

      “Honey, it’s gorgeous. But I can’t accept—”

      “Sure you can. You’d better. It’s engraved on the back, and that makes it nonreturnable.”

      He flipped it over and smiled at the inscription.

      “It’s because I love you, Peter,” she said softly. “I can’t show it physically, but the feeling is still there.”

      “I love you, too, Rina.” He gave her a suitably chaste kiss on the lips. Now he knew he’d never get to sleep tonight. “I don’t know what to say.”

      “I see you learning in the beis hamidresh, Peter. You don’t even know I’m there, but I see you, poring over the alef beis, reading, studying. You say it all that way … way knew this boy, once. He was a ba’al t’shuvah—a nonreligious Jew who decided to live the Torah life. It lasted maybe six months. He said it was too emasculating for him. He knew too little and couldn’t stand it. It takes an extremely big person to do what you’re doing—learning as you do from scratch. I don’t think I could. I envy your strength of character.”

      She gave him a bear hug.

      “I’m a little choked up,” Decker said.

      “You’re entitled.”

      He began to feel physically amorous. He suspected Rina was feeling the same way, because she broke away abruptly. He said, “Can you keep this for me until tomorrow? I’m not going straight home and I don’t want to take it with me.”

      “Where’re you going?” she asked.

      “To find out about a possible runaway. To glamorous Hollyweird.”

      7

      He parked on a side street off Sunset, east of the Strip, took off his yarmulke and tie, and unfastened the top three buttons on his white shirt. Slipping on a couple of gold chains, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. He needed a shave and that was good, but he was still not satisfied. Mussing his hair, he pulled a lock over his forehead down to his brow, then took off his brown suit jacket and donned a cheap baggy windbreaker that didn’t show the swell of his .38. He placed a pack of Marlboros and a penlight in a front pocket, opened the door of the Plymouth, and stepped outside.

      The underbelly of Hollywood was a vampire leeching out the blood of the city, he thought, the sidewalk teeming with action that thrives in the shadows. He found a spot that looked good—a fine vantage point from where he could see the pimps, hookers, addicts, dealers, and everyday desperados and degenerates. But the best part about the location was the number of independent streetwalkers. He needed a sucker not shackled to a pimp.

      It didn’t take long. The one he picked out was a skinny black girl in an electric blue tank top, denim cut-offs, and a knee-length black boots. Her hair had been cornrowed, her eyelids painted blue and pink. Two red slashes highlighted her cheekbones. He gave her the eye, then quickly averted his gaze.

      He’d always felt that the key to being a good undercover vice cop was thinking like a woman. You had to be coy and flirtatious. Most bona fide johns were pretty damn shy when approaching a hooker. There was usually some resistance, and it was the whore who made the moves. Any guy who came on too strong smelled of weirdo or cop.

      He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and flashed a quick glance at Hot Pants. She cocked her head and gave him an open smile. He smiled back and returned to his smoke. He didn’t turn around, but he could hear her approaching.

      “Got a light?” she asked. Her voice was sultry.

      Decker slipped out his matches and lit her cigarette.

      “Thank you, Honey,” she said.

      “You’re welcome.”

      “What are you doing out here all alone, Sugar?”

      He paused, then said, “Enjoying the air.”

      “Nature lover, huh?”

      He let his eyes drift slowly over her body. Her tight nylon top offered little support for her sagging breasts. Her crotch was bisected by sprayed-on shorts—cunt-cutters.

      “I love what nature has given us,” he answered trying to look hungry.

      “How much do you love nature, Sugar?”

      “How much does it cost to love nature?”

      “I think fifty dollars will give you an awful lot of raw beauty.”

      “What are we talking about here?” he said exhaling a plume of smoke.

      “What do you want, Honey?”

      “What are my choices?”

      “You tell me what you want,” she said.

      He wasn’t about to entrap her, so he changed course abruptly.

      “Listen, bitch, if you’re gonna fuck with my

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