Sacred and Profane

“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 says I’ll be fine.”

“Hey, Rabbi,” Hollander said. “You never did tell us how the hell that happened.”

“Would you believe I got bit by a dog? Of all the stupid things.”

“Happens to the best of us,” said Hollander. “I remember once getting stung by a bee. People always tell you if you don’t bother it, it won’t bother you. Well, I didn’t do a thing and the little fucker looked me straight in the eye and stuck its stinger into my arm. Really pissed me off.”

“Ernst got stung by a bee,” Marge said. “Blew up like a blimp.”

“How is he?” Decker asked, shuffling photos.

“Beats me. Haven’t seen the sucker for two weeks.”

Decker looked up. “You’re kidding. I thought you two were tight.”

“Appearances are deceiving,” Marge said.

“What happened?” Decker asked.

“It was mutual. I think I was too much woman for him.”

“I’ll say,” Hollander snickered. “You outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Take a look at this, Pete.”

Another blonde girl, not more than fifteen, was performing cu

“I’d say no, but it’s close. What do you think, Marge?”

She scrutinized the picture.

“Too close to call. My gut instinct is no, but I’d check it out.”

“This photo reminds me of a joke,” Hollander said. “What’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”

“Not everyone eats parsley,” Marge said. “That’s old, Mike. Even older than you.”

“Okay. How about this one?” said Hollander. “What’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”

“What?” Decker asked.

“Parsley leaves a good aftertaste.”

Decker smiled, but Marge frowned.

“You’ve been munching the wrong carpet, Mike,” she said.

“You sound jealous, Margie,” Hollander said, gri

“Don’t make me ill,” she answered, looking ill.

“Give me the snapshot, Mike,” Decker said. “We’ll start a close-call pile over here.” He turned to Marge. “You want me to spread the word around that you’re available?”

“Thanks, but I just met someone.”

“Jesus, you don’t waste any time, do you, girl,” Mike said.

“When you’re hot, you’re hot,” Decker said.

“Who’s the lucky guy, Margie?” Hollander asked.

“Carroll.”

Hollander looked at her. “A girl?”

“Watch your mouth, Mike. Two r’s, two l’s. He’s six six and weighs a hard two ninety.”

“Carroll’s a great name,” Hollander said quickly.

“What instrument does he play?” Decker asked.

“He’s tone deaf,” Marge said glumly.

“That’s a departure,” said Decker, discarding another photo.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t done too well with the musicians in my life. I figured it was time for a change. The only trouble is now I don’t have anyone to play my flute with.”

“What a shame!” Hollander said, holding back a smile. Marge was a terrible musician, but that didn’t stop her from performing in public, usually with her musician boyfriends. No one had the heart to tell her the truth.

“But it’s good for me,” she continued. “I’ll work on some solo pieces and let you guys know when I’m ready.”

Decker stifled a groan.

“Great, Marge,” he said.

“How’s Rina?” Marge asked.

“Fine.”

“You two going to do something soon?” Mike asked. “You’re obviously smitten by the lass. Or is it smote? You should know about that, Rabbi. Didn’t the Jews smote the Egyptians or something like that?”

Decker shrugged. The digs were good-natured and he let them pass. After all, his transformation over the past months had to seem strange to his colleagues. No doubt they attributed his metamorphosis to Rina; he loved her and was changing to please her.

But Decker knew it was deeper than that. Religion had given him a spark of renewed faith, and though it hadn’t blossomed into fire-maybe he was too cynical for it to ever get that bright-it was still better than complete darkness.

His thoughts were interrupted when a young detective with a pencil-line mustache stuck his head in the room.

“You’ve got a call, Pete.”

“Okay, George.”

The mustache turned upward into a grin.

“Want me to take over for a while, Rabbi?” George asked. “All those immoral photographs must be very unsettling to the spirit.”

“That won’t be necessary,” answered Decker. He picked up a receiver on an empty desk. A shrill young voice broke through.

“Ya know, you guys have a lot of nerve. I musta called this number a hundred times over the weekend and nobody answered. What if I had something important to tell you? I don’t think you give a shit who gets ripped off just as long as it don’t happen on your precious weekend-”

“Who is this?” Decker yelled into the receiver.

“It’s your informant, Decker.”

“Got something you want to tell me, Kiki?”

“Not over the phone.”

“I’m not meeting with you unless you tell me what this is about.”

There was a pause.

“Well…” she teased.

Decker checked his watch. “I’ve got a shitload of work, Kiki, so either put up or shut up.”

“I didn’t find out anything about the girl, but I’m still trying.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Yeah, that and ten cents-excuse me-twenty cents won’t get me a fucking phone call. I do have a name for you. A photographer who shoots porno. Lots of young ones and runaways.”

Decker grabbed a scrap of paper.

“Go on.”

“He runs a legit operation, also. You know-weddings, graduation, confirmations-”

“Name Kiki.”

“Cecil Pode. His place is in Culver City. Is that worth anything, Decker?”

“Could be.”

“Man, I’m busted. Have a heart.”

“What do you want?”

“A sawbuck would sure feel fine.”

“Get me some names of pimps who specialize in runaways and we may be able to work something out.”

“By what time?”

“Two.”