Sacred and Profane

“I love it!”

The loudspeaker a

“I’ve got to go.” She kissed his lips softly. “Take care of yourself.”

The tears had come back, but that didn’t stop her. She pivoted and walked toward the gate. She had a lovely sway, a graceful step.

“I love you, Rina,” he called out.

“I love you too, Akiva,” she shouted, turning her head to look at him as she strode toward her family.

By the time Decker got back to the car, he noticed his cheeks were wet. Goddam smog, he thought, rubbing his stinging eyes. Even at night, it doesn’t leave you alone.

25

Decker revved the Porsche up to ninety and flew on the empty stretch of freeway. The speed and wind gave him an illusion of infinite freedom, youth, and immortality. It had been months since he’d last burned rubber, and after seeing Rina off, he needed to rid himself of the emotion that had swelled inside and cut loose. The abandon lasted only a few minutes; his beeper went off, and his rearview mirror reflected a cruiser flashing him its blues. Pulling the Porsche onto the shoulder, he took out his badge disgustedly, got out of the car, and handed it to the uniform. The officer examined it carefully, then handed it back to him.

“What’d you clock me at?” Decker asked.

“Ninety-two.” The officer eyed the car. “Nice set of wheels.”

“Thanks. Put her together myself from bits and pieces over the years,” said Decker. “She sure can race.”

“I’ve got a ’68 ’Vette myself. Blown and supercharged. It’s one hell of a fast motherfucker.”

“A land jet.”

“You’ve got it, Sarge.” He smiled at Decker. “Take it easy.”

“I just got beeped,” Decker said. “I’m working Homicide. Mind if I use your radio?” He gave the cop his unit number and a moment later was patched through to Foothill.

“A break?” the patrolman asked after Decker hung up.

“Not sure, but I can hope,” Decker said. He got into his car and left behind a cloud of exhaust.

Marge was waiting for him at his desk.

“What’s so urgent at…” Decker checked his watch, “11:36 P.M.?”

“Did you take your No-Doz tonight?”

“What do you have?”

She slapped some papers into his hands-warrants.

“That was fast,” he said.

“Arlington’s statement carries clout with a certain judge. Morrison called up and voilà!”

Decker read the documents-search warrants for Executive First and Cameron Smithson’s condo, and an arrest warrant for Smithson Junior himself.

“Nothing for Dustin?” he asked.

“We don’t have anything on him. Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got.” Marge put on her coat. “A couple of West L.A. detectives are searching Junior’s house. We’ll take Executive First.”

Decker pocketed the papers.

“Let’s go catch a bastard,” he said.

Forty minutes later, the detectives turned onto Avenue of the Stars. The Century City thoroughfare was an empty ribbon of glistening blacktop bordered by steel-griddle buildings that shimmered in the cool, overcast air. Marge pulled the unmarked into a loading zone in front of a postmodern edifice of chrome and glass-no doubt someone’s architectural statement, she thought. Cold cold cold!

They walked up the black brick pathway to double glass doors. The entrance hall was brightly lit by a ceiling of fluorescent tubing and a security guard sat reading Sports Illustrated in a booth to the right of a bank of six elevators.

Decker knocked and the guard looked up-a middle-aged man with thick, fleshy features and a cue-ball head. Placing his hand on his gun, the guard swaggered over to them. They showed him their badges through the glass.

“What is it?” he asked them, opening the locked door.

“We have a search warrant for suite 581 of this building,” Marge informed him. “Your superior should have notified you of our arrival.”

“No one called me,” said the bald man, shrugging.

“Why don’t you call in?” suggested Decker.

As the watchman phoned, they waited on a bench in front of the elevators. Decker placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his palms. Until now he hadn’t fully realized how much of his life Rina, the boys, and the yeshiva had taken up. Now, with long stretches of time suddenly at his disposal, he felt aimless instead of liberated. Sudden anger welled up inside his chest. Rina had no right to desert him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Hadn’t he suggested they take a breather from each other? But a breather didn’t mean her leaving him and moving away.

Fuck it all! Well, better hostility than depression. At least anger pumped him up for work. Depression left him a zombie.

“What do you think we’ll find?” Marge asked.

“I’m not naive enough to think that the asshole left his books out in plain view, but maybe we can locate something incriminating against the whole shitload of scum.”

“You okay, Pete?”

“Fine.”

The guard put down the receiver and motioned them over.

“Yep,” he said to them, “you’re all cleared. Someone should have called, but you know how messages get screwed up. I think half our operators are on something.” The man scrunched his eyes and rubbed his egghead. “They talk kind of slurred and giggle all the time.”

“Can you take us up now?” Marge asked impatiently.

“Oh yeah. Sure, Detective. Right away.”

He unlocked an elevator, rode with them up to the fifth floor, took out a passkey, and walked them to the suite. Muffled voices could be heard through the walls. Decker put his index finger to his lips and motioned them into the corner of the hallway, far enough away from the suite not to be heard, but close enough to keep an eye on the door.

“When did they come up here?” Marge whispered to the guard.

“They must’ve entered before I came on duty because they didn’t come after I got here. I came on duty at ten P.M.”

“Maybe they never went home from work,” Decker suggested in a hushed voice. “Go back to your station. Use the stairwell and be very quiet about it.”

The guard nodded and disappeared. Decker drew his gun.

“Expecting trouble?” Marge asked, taking out her own.

“Not really,” he answered. “I checked gun registration, and nothing was ever issued to any of the Podes or Smithsons. But Cecil pulled a.38 on me and I’m not taking any more chances with these pricks.

“If Cameron Smithson is in there, the case is duck soup. We go in and make the arrest. If he isn’t, then we’ll have to do a number on whoever is in there.”

“Namely Smithson Senior or Pode or both,” Marge said.

“Just what we were going to do anyway. Any last minute things you want to go over?”

She shook her head. “How about yourself?”

“I’m clear. Let’s go.”

They went back to the office. Decker pounded on the door and stepped aside.

“Police,” he yelled. “Open up.”

Harrison Smithson responded by partially opening the door and sticking out his head. Flushed and panting, he looked overwrought.

“What’s going on?”

“Police officers,” Marge said. She opened her wallet and showed him the badge. “Open up.”

The broker paused.

“We have a search warrant, Mr. Smithson,” she added. “You have no choice.”

Decker pushed the door open.

Dustin Pode was stooped over, brushing off the knees of his trousers. The room was in complete disarray. Filing cabinet drawers were pulled out, boxes stuffed with papers were piled on the desks and chairs. A paper shredder was going full force in the corner. Marge ran over and shut it off.

“What the hell is going on?” Pode asked.

“Pla

“Who are you?” Pode spat at Decker. “Sure as hell your real name isn’t Jack Cohen.”