LITMIR.BIZ

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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 then 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

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