Decker slowed himself down. “You’re right. I did snap at you and I apologize. I’m not used to getting ideas from my wife. Tell me, honey. What’s your idea?”

“Well,” Rina started out, “maybe they didn’t take the bus out of Inglewood right away. Being tired and not knowing where they were, maybe the two of them checked into one of those cheap motels near the airport. Those places have closed-circuit TV, the type of junk that might interest Hersh….”

Bingo!

He said, “How do you know about closed-circuit TV, Rina?”

“They advertise on the marquee, Peter.”

Decker said, “The ones that say XXX, nudes—topless, bottomless, adult entertainment in each room.”

“Yes, those.”

“Never look at them.” Decker got off the bed, walked over to Rina, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’ve got a good mind, darlin’. Better than your old man’s. Let’s go.”

Rina tried to hide a smile by rummaging through her purse.

Decker said, “Hey, you think if I muscle the desk clerk hard enough, he’ll comp us a room for an hour?”

“I’m not doing anything on those sheets,” Rina said. “You don’t know where they’ve been!”

21

Rina could never figure out why men became unglued behind the wheel of a car. She said nothing as Peter weaved in and out of traffic, swore, banged the dashboard of the unmarked, and talked not only to himself but also to drivers who couldn’t hear him. A psychiatrist witnessing the situation out of context would have declared her husband psychotic.

At least his mood didn’t dampen the day. It was already ugly. The sky was overcast with clouds and smog, the air smelled of chemical emissions, and the temperature had fallen to a dank sixty degrees. Nothing like New York freeze, but cold for Los Angeles in early October. The trip from the east valley to Inglewood under the best of circumstances took over an hour. In stop-and-go traffic, it was going to take a lot longer. The extra time allowed Rina to observe landmarks such as the Fox Hills shopping mall, the complex just a stone’s throw away from the Doric columns of Al Jolson’s cemetery edifice. Ten minutes later the oil derricks came into view, pumping oil from the surrounding mountainside, looking like skeletal dinosaurs bobbing for apples.

She heard Peter mutter a “fuck” and turned toward him. He offered no apology—just a “Did you see that asshole?” When Rina didn’t respond, he jerked the car into the far right lane, slamming on the brakes to prevent rear-ending the Honda in front of him. She breathed a sigh of relief when he exited on Century Boulevard.

Decker glanced at his watch, then started groping his seat cushion.

“What are you looking for?” Rina asked.

Decker swung left, then a right onto Century. “My list. I put it next to my—”