Sacred and Profane

“You can’t see Mr. Arlington without an appointment,” she said.

“But I have to see him. He’ll be very disappointed if he doesn’t see me.”

The baffled look deepened.

“Uh, let me buzz Ms. Scott, Mr. Arlington’s personal secretary-”

“Is she through that door?”

“Yes, all the offices are. But you can’t-”

“That’s okay.”

“Wait a minute,” the plump woman protested, hurrying after Decker as he sprinted down the hallway.

The corridor ended in a pair of twelve-foot rosewood double doors with a pair of brass name plaques affixed to them: Armand Arlington, Chairman of the Board, and directly under it in smaller letters, Ms. Monique Scott, Executive Secretary. He swung one door open, almost clipping the receptionist, and marched into the interior office. A statuesque blonde stood up and glared at both of them.

“He just stormed past me, Ms. Scott. I-”

“I’ll handle it, Jeanine. Go back to your desk.”

Decker locked eyes with Scott. The stuff of which dreams are made, Mama. She was in her late twenties, with wide-set gray eyes and full, bee-stung lips. Decker smiled. She didn’t. Her eyes hardened into cold, metal dimes.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Arlington,” he said.

“He’s not here.”

“Then I’ll wait in his office.”

“The adjoining door is locked and I’m not about to buzz you in.”

She sauntered to the front of her desk and placed her hands on her hips.

“Listen, sir, I don’t know who you think you are storming your way in like this, but Mr. Arlington doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. If you don’t leave, I’m going to call Security.”

Decker flashed her his badge and Ms. Scott sighed.

“What seems to be the trouble, Officer?”

“It’s personal, ma’am.”

She dialed a number and spoke into the receiver in a carefully modulated voice.

“Mr. Arlington won’t be available for another three hours,” she told him.

“I’ll wait.” Decker held up a folder he was carrying. “I’ll just do a little work in the meantime.”

He sat down in a brocade wingback.

“I’d prefer that you wait outside in the receiving office. The chairs are quite comfortable out there. I’ll have Jeanine bring you coffee if you’d like.”

“It’s a lot quieter in here,” Decker answered without budging.

“It’s impossible for me to concentrate with you here.”

“I’ll be real quiet.”

She glared at him, but returned to her desk chair and lit a cigarette.

“Oh, you smoke,” he said. “Then you don’t mind if I do?”

“I only have one ashtray. There are several outside.”

“I like to share.” Decker lit up, walked over to the desk, lit a match, and tossed it in the crystal dish. Standing over her shoulder, he peered at her paperwork.

“Officer, I find it difficult to work with you breathing down my neck.”

“Oh, sorry.” He backed away. “I was just curious about what you do. People ask me all the time about my work.”

She didn’t answer. Walking back to his chair, he took off his jacket.

“I work in Sex Crimes, you know.”

She looked up at him. When he had caught her eye, he unhitched his gun and opened the barrel, dumping the bullets into his palm.

“I had this rape case once that was unbelievable,” he said. His cigarette dangled from his lips and dropped ash as he spoke.

Her eyes fixed on the gun for a moment, then quickly focused down to her desktop. “I’m very busy-”

The first bullet clunked into the chamber.

“Seems like two convicts had just gotten out of the slammer and picked up this whore…” He sighted down the revolver and aimed it toward the window.

“Do you have to do that?” the secretary asked nervously.

“Do what?”

“Point that thing?”

He laughed, lowered the gun, and plunked two more bullets into the barrel. “Hey, you’re safe. I’m an A-one shot. Only pick off what I’m aiming at and I’m not aiming at you.”

The woman didn’t appear consoled.

“Where was I?” He puffed out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette, finished reloading, and snapped the chamber shut. “Oh, yeah…these two hardtimers bought this bimbo and brought her to a hotel room-not too far from here actually, around Fifth and Main. Anyway, they took turns doing a number on her with a coat hanger and a bar of soap-”

“Officer, I’m really not interested-”

“Then, one of them gets the bright idea of calling up a bunch of their buddies for a little party. Ten minutes later, about fifteen of them show up-”

“Officer-”

“And do their thing ’til the poor hooker passes out. When she comes to, she’s got six guys going at her in every conceivable orifice. Blood’s spurting like a geyser-”

“Please!”

“Know what happened?” He smiled. “They pierced through the vagina into the abdominal wall-”

“Let me try and get hold of Mr. Arlington again.”

“That’s a terrific idea, Ms. Scott,” he said, smiling. He stared at the beautiful face, now coated with a sickly green pallor. He almost felt sorry for her.

Five minutes later Arlington stomped in. Decker remembered him from the film bust as being a small man cowering in the corner, hiding from the spray of human remains. But on his own turf he seemed larger, augmented by power and anger. His black eyes spat fire, his mouth quivered with fury, lips almost white from tension. The only thing that softened him was his nose-veiny, bulbous, a product of too much ninety proof.

“You’re in big trouble, Detective,” he bellowed. “I’m going to call up your superior right now and-”

“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mr. Arlington. Why don’t we have a little chat in your suite?”

“Get out of here!”

“Mr. Arlington, there are things I’d like to say to you, and I don’t want to say them in front of your secretary.”

“Call Security, Monique,” Arlington ordered.

Decker ripped the phone away from her hands.

“You’ve got a wife and six kids,” Decker said quickly. “I’m sure they know about Monique here. I don’t think they’re aware of any of your other peculiarities. I’d be happy to tell them about it if you’d like. After all, I was there when you were arrested, Charlie.”

The rage subsided as Arlington weighed his options. Perfectly composed, he unlocked the door to the i

His suite was rich, dark, and austere, and smelled of leather and good tobacco. The desk was nine feet wide, traditional, and intricately carved, with a leather top upon which sat a marble desk set and crystal inkwell. The walls were oxblood embossed leather alternating with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with gold mesh doors. The oils were Flemish and mostly unfamiliar to Decker, but he knew they weren’t dimestore copies. The artists he did recognize were a Hals over the marble mantlepiece and a Vermeer on the opposite side of the room. Decker sat in a leather armchair and propped his feet on an ottoman. Next to him was a mounted globe, which he spun idly, watching the countries pass under the tips of his fingers.

Arlington sat behind his desk.

“Who is your superior?”

Decker flipped him a card.

“Call this extension. Ask for Captain Morrison. He’ll deny sending me here and I’ll catch hell, if that’s what you want.”

Arlington picked up the phone, but put it down. Wordlessly, he opened his drawer and took out a wad of cash.

“How much?”

“I’m not interested in money. I need information.”

“As I told the police before, the screenings were arranged by Cecil Pode. He’s dead. That’s all I can say.”

“Pode distributed, but he isn’t the type of scum you’d work with directly. You’d deal with someone more respectable than a two-bit bagman-someone with at least a veneer of respectability.”

Arlington pursed his lips.

“I have nothing else to say.”

“Then maybe I’ll ring up your little woman. I also have this friend over at the Times-”