LITMIR.BIZ

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1000-1122, BE 1000-1148, Kiddie 1000-1219—”

      “They’re inventory numbers of the films.”

      “God, this is sickening, Pete. Amputee SM 1000-1021. Here’s another abbreviation. RET? And SCHIZO?”

      “Porno with a nutcase?” Decker tried. “The night of the shootout, Pode’s confiscated bag contained ten films—six sado-masochisms, and four bondage-and-disciplines. We know he dealt in at least one snuff—”

      “That’s what SN probably stands for—snuff,” Marge said.

      “Yeah,” Decker nodded. “The numbers only go up to six, indicating he didn’t have too many of ’em floating around, and that would make sense … sense, if only we could find his books.”

      “Maybe Dustin has ’em.”

      “How the hell are we going to get to Dustin?” Decker said. “If the guy’s in on it, he’s going to be careful to the point of paranoia.”

      “Then forget about Dustin. Concentrate on the other one. The broker’s son.”

      Decker nodded. “Cameron Smithson.”

      “After all,” Marge went on, “the father said they do their ventures together. Besides, he impressed you as a weirdo.”

      “I’ve got an appointment with the two of them next week,” Decker said. “Jack Cohen is going to learn about film limited partnerships.”

      “Ignore Dustin,” Marge said. “Zero in on Cameron. It’ll throw Pode off the track just in case he’s suspicious.”

      “Okay.” Decker thought for a moment. “You want to poke around a little for me?”

      “What do you have in mind?”

      “Armand Arlington.”

      “Peter …”

      “Don’t tell me you’re intimidated.”

      “I like my job,” she said.

      “One of my ears was beaten to death by an old rich guy she used to service,” Decker said. “She died today.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “I am, too. And I’m very pissed. A hooker I talked to said there’s a bunch of them out there who trawl the area looking for young streetwalkers to pounce on. You want to hear something funny? Cecil Pode said the same thing. And so did Hollywood PD. I called up a Vice dick named Beauchamps. He said there’s a group of men who called themselves the Loving Grandpas—”

      “That’s sick.”

      “They have stooges in Jeeps who do the soliciting so they can’t get busted. Hollywood has tried using undercover women, but they never take the bait. Beauchamps thinks someone is tipping them off.”

      “So what do you want me to do?”

      “Talk to the ladies of the night. They’ll open up more to a woman than a man. I know one of the pervs goes by the name Maurice. I think Arlington’s involved. I know it’s a long shot, but I’d love to stick him with the death of my ears, Kiki. A murder would be too big for protection. If he wasn’t the actual murderer, try to find out who it was. And try to get someone to implicate Arlington in this group.”

      “You’re not hot for job security, are you?”

      “My ex used to say I was self-destructive.”

      “That’s a good adjective.”

      “Will you do it?”

      She sighed. “All right.”

      “Thanks.”

      They collected flotsam and jetsam, filling a bag and a half. Marge zipped up the sack and said:

      “You go up first. I’ll tie the bags and you pull them up. Then drop the rope back and reel me in.”

      Decker looked upward at the dangling cord and rubbed his hands together, grateful for the calluses, for the years of ranch work that had kept his body trim and muscular. But his arms, though strong and well defined, weren’t used to hoisting his own bulk. He felt his deltoids tighten, his pectorals strain, as he stretched toward the top. Man, he was hot. Goddam stupid to forget to take off his jacket before going down. He reached the top drenched in perspiration and knew his chest would be sore tomorrow.

      “How we doing up there?” Marge shouted.

      “Piece of cake,” he answered as he rolled his shoulders in their sockets. Again, he rubbed his hands together. Up came the bags, then Marge. The reeling in left him winded. The woman was no lightweight.

      They picked up the canvas bags, locked the door, and left the studio. They had gone a block when the explosion occurred. Decker immediately hit the ground, but Marge turned around and stared in disbelief, mouth agape. The front window of Pode’s studio had blown away. Glass shards had turned the sidewalk into a deadly obstacle course, eddies of ripped photographs flying through the air like a snowstorm. The front door had burst into a pile of splinters. They heard screams. Someone could be hurt.

      “You believe in God, Rabbi?” Marge asked.

      Decker rose quickly and brushed off his clothes. “We’d better call an ambulance,” he replied, shaking.

      He entered the study and took the chair opposite the Rosh Yeshiva. Schulman closed the tractate of Talmud he was studying and opened the Bible without uttering a word, then noticed Decker was empty handed.

      “Where’s your chumash?” the old man asked.

      “I didn’t bring it.”

      The rabbi closed the leather bound book and waited.

      “I ate traif today,” Decker said.

      “What did you eat?” Schulman asked.

      “A Big Mac.”

      “Was it good?”

      Decker broke into a smile.

      “Actually, it was terrible. The meat wasn’t tainted or anything like that, but it didn’t go down well.”

      “Hmmm,” said Schulman. “If you were going to eat traif, why didn’t you splurge on delicacies—lobster, shrimp, filet mignon?”

      Decker shrugged.

      “I could never figure it out,” Schulman said, pondering. “When bochrim go astray, they sin in the most mundane ways. Instead of committing adultry with a beautiful woman, they have sex with the ugliest zonah around. Instead of dining in the finest restaurant in L.A., they go to Taco Bell. Such lack of imagination. It defies logic. Why did you aim so low, Peter?”

      “I don’t know. I guess if you want to debase yourself, you don’t do it in high style.”

      The old man smiled.

      “So, my friend, I enjoy talking to you, but this is not a confessional. I am a teacher. If you want to learn, I will teach you. If you want to ruminate upon the meaning of life,” Schulman pointed upward, “talk to Him.”

      “I nearly got blown up today, Rabbi. A bomb went off and I was saved by seconds. I thought it might be a good time to pause for reflection. I sat for two hours tonight and prayed, Rabbi. I prayed and meditated and contemplated and came up with this. Today notwithstanding, there are times when I feel God is omnipresent. I feel Him everywhere I go, in everything I do. And there are times I think there’s nothing in the skies but an ozone layer. I’m not an agnostic. I’m not waiting for God to come down and prove His existence to me, because sometimes I just know He’s out there. I can’t explain why I feel so strongly one minute and like a total atheist the next. In short, sometimes I have doubts.”

      The old man looked at him impassively and extended his hand across the desktop.

      “Join the club, Peter.”

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