Head still buried, Eli mumbled something. Decker yanked the kid’s elbows off the table, causing his head to fall forward. Decker raised the boy’s face by his chin and said, “You’re lucky. You’re lucky you’re talking to me instead of a narc. You’re lucky you’re talking to me and not your parents. You’re also damn lucky you’re not Noam Levine because who the hell knows what happened to him. A kid’s life could depend on you, so cut the hysteria and answer my questions. Where do you meet Hersh?”

Eli looked up, the dilated eyes moist with tears. Shakily, he said, “We meet all sorts of places, mostly on the other side of Empire Boulevard.”

“Know where Hersh lives?”

“No!” Eli cried out. “I swear I—”

Shai broke in, “He once mentioned to me that he was originally from Flatbush—”

“You wouldn’t be conning me, would you, son?” Decker said.

“No sir, I’m not,” Shai said.

Decker regarded Shai. For whatever it was worth, the boy seemed lucid. He said, “So Hersh is named Schwartz or Shatz or something like that. And he’s from Flatbush originally.”

Both of the boys nodded. Kewpie dolls with coiled necks.

“Okay,” Decker said. “Where in Flatbush did he say he was from?”

“He never said,” Shai said.

“Never mentioned any street, any road, any house, any landmark?”

“No, sir,” Shai said. “Not to me.”

“Me, either,” whispered Eli.

“Hersh ever mention any family?”

Both boys shook their heads.

“So,” Decker said, “if he didn’t work out of his house, where’d you guys score from him?”

“He hangs around liquor stores on Empire,” Shai said.

“Which ones?” Decker said.

“All of them,” Shai said. “He hangs out with a group of Italians. I thought he was Italian until he told me his real name was Hersh.”

“What name did he use?” Decker said.

“Tony,” Eli whispered.

“Tony?” Decker repeated.

“Yeah, Tony,” Shai said. “He called himself Tony.”

Decker said, “I’m not from around here. What kind of area is Flatbush?”

“Flatbush is mixed,” Shai said. “There’re very religious areas, there’re black areas, there’re Italian areas. That’s why I thought he was Italian. He hung out with the Italians, he looked Italian, he even talked a little Italian. But then there was this one time. He was ticked off at his so-called friends. He showed his true colors. He pulled us aside and said he wasn’t a wop—his words, not mine—and his name was really Hersh. He even spoke to us in a bissel Yiddish, remember, Eli?”

There was no response.

Decker looked at Eli. He’d buried his head in his hands again. Decker said, “Go drink a quart of water right now, then make yourself a cup of strong black coffee.”