LITMIR.BIZ

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have to do with the girl you were asking about?”

      “What do you know about the Countess?”

      Kiki sighed.

      “Man, I’m really thirsty. And hungry, too. I dunno if they can change a twenty.”

      “What do you want?”

      “Make it a number six this time, with lots of cheese and garlic. And a large Coke.”

      He got up and returned with her order. It smelled toxic. She bit into the hot dog, chewed, then wiped her mouth and took a sip of soda.

      “What can I tell you? She’s a weirdo. Or was a weirdo. She’s really dead, huh?”

      Probably, he thought.

      “Yes,” he answered.

      “You know, I hear Clementine knew her before she got real weird. I bet he could tell you a bunch about her.”

      “You’re stalling,” he said.

      “Decker, I don’t know anything for sure. She was bad and did weird things, or so they say.”

      “What weird things?”

      “Just weird things.”

      “Like what?”

      The girl brought her face close to his. Her breath stank.

      “They say she snared dupes, ya know? Maybe some illegals who she threatened to expose to Immigration. She’d do kinky things with them—make ’em fuck dogs or eat dead rats. They say she cut up animals and drank their blood.”

      A real sweetheart, he thought. What could that have to do with Lindsey?

      Kiki pulled away from him, sweating profusely.

      “I talk too much.”

      “What else?”

      “I don’t know anything more.”

      “And Clementine was her pimp?”

      “I dunno. Maybe they had a thing goin’.”

      “Did she photograph her parties?”

      “Shit, I dunno.”

      “I’m a pervert,” he said. “Where do I get ahold of kinky films?”

      “I dunno.”

      “C’mon!”

      “I dunno!” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Honest.”

      “Then ask around for me, huh?”

      “Uh huh,” she said, quickly. “I got my own ass to think about.”

      Decker was silent. Kiki bit her lip.

      “How much will you give me?” she asked.

      “You get me any kind of still or celluloid that links the Countess and Lindsey Bates and I’ll do more than get you money, I’ll get you off the streets, Kiki. I’ll get you into the best halfway house in the city and make sure you’re taken care of until you reach legal age. If you’ve got a habit, I’ll get you into a top-notch rehab program. No cold turkey, something with compassion. I’m in Juvey, I have a lot of favors owed to me, and I know how to pull strings.”

      “And if I don’t find anything, I stay out here peddling my ass. That the idea, Decker?”

      The detective chewed on his mustache, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

      “I need something to bargain with in order to strike deals,” he said. “I’m sorry but that’s the way it works. If I took you off the streets now, maybe they could find a home for you, maybe not. But if I take you off after you’ve produced and tell my buddies, ‘Hey, guys, this little gal has come through at risk to herself and we need to pay her back, otherwise our credibility with teenage informants is diddlysquat,’ then we’ve got something. They still won’t give a shit about you, but they’ll do it.”

      She folded her arms and scrunched her body into a tight ball.

      “You guys are a bunch of creeps, you know that?”

      He said nothing.

      “Give me a cigarette.”

      He handed her a Marlboro and lit it for her.

      “I start nosing around where I don’t belong, and bad people are gonna get suspicious.”

      He took a deep drag on his smoke and patted her shoulder.

      “Listen, you’ve got rules, I’ve got rules,” he said. “First thing you have to do is stay alive.”

      He stood up. She looked skinny and her chin was smeared with sauce.

      “No matter what you come up with, I’ll see what I can do about getting your ass out of here. But no promises.”

      She tried to look tough, but her face crumpled. She started to cry. He sat back down, and she threw her arms around him, hugging him hard while sobbing on his shoulder.

      “You must get a lot of this crybaby shit,” she sniffed.

      “It’s happened before.”

      “I’ll do what I can, Decker.”

      “Good. But don’t get yourself killed for it.” He broke away. “Take your time, Kiki. You poke around too quickly, someone’s ears will perk up. So don’t rush it.”

      She nodded and wiped her tears with a dirty napkin.

      “I’ve got to go,” he said. “You keep in touch.”

      “Yeah.”

      He tousled her hair and slipped her a five from his own pocket. Kids, he thought. Inside, they were all just kids.

      12

      Cecil Pode’s work address led Decker to a block-long shopping center off Venice Boulevard in Culver City. The studio, sandwiched between a shoe store and a takeout pizza shop, was fronted by two large windows that displayed blowups of stiff poses and pasted-on smiles: a family dressed in Sunday finest, a bride silhouetted by backlighting, a bar mitzvah boy, a confirmation girl. In the distance, propped on an easel, was a sixteen-by-twenty photo of a pair of hands with matching wedding rings resting against a background of flowers.

      No cum or beaver shots here.

      Decker walked inside, and as he stepped over the threshold, a bell jingled. The room was empty, but a voice from the back told him he’d be out in a second. Decker said okay and sat down on a couch. In front of him was a coffee table covered with albums containing sample photos. He picked one up. More proofs of brides, grooms, bar mitzvah boys, nice families.

      Restless, he stood up and walked around, his eyes finally focusing on a cork bulletin board full of tacked-on business cards—a professional baby-sitter; two shyster lawyers promising cheap fees (se habla español), CPAs, interior designers, a licensed marriage and family counselor (flashing on his sessions with Jan, he knew what that was worth). One card caught his attention. It bore the same last name as the studio’s owner. Dustin Pode, Vice President/Executive First Brokerage House. Member SPIC/The quality discount broker: investments, tax shelters, real estate, and retirement funds.

      Decker pocketed the card, and a moment later a man came out of the back room. He looked older than fifty-two, stoop-shouldered, with coarse black hair streaked with steel encircling a large bald spot, and a matching swatch of Brillo under his small, round nose. He was overweight, with loose jowls and thin lips. The dark eyes managed to be weary and alert at the same time.

      “How may I help you, sir?”

      “Police,” Decker said taking out his badge.

      Pode smiled unctuously.

      “How can I be of service, Sergeant?” he asked.

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