“It goes beyond the sexual perversity,” Decker said. “There’s a connection and I can’t bring it up.”

“Don’t fight it. It’ll come to you.” Marge scanned the crowds. “Besides, if you’re concentrating on fish, you’re going to miss what’s around you. And that’s why we came to Westwood.”

She was right. There were just too many people cluttering the street. He needed all his energy for observation.

They were walking north on Westwood heading toward the skyline of UCLA. The queues for the eight o’clock movies were around the block. Most of the boutiques were open—a western boot store, sports paraphernalia, a cubbyhole that specialized in humorous greeting cards. All the eateries were open as well. Most sold portable grub—ice cream, chocolate-chip cookies, muffins. Decker was munching on a buttermilk doughnut bought from a pushcart, sorting out the faces.

There were groups of college kids, that was to be expected. But there were also groups of children too young to go unsupervised. Boys and girls junior high school age. Plump little girls barely pubescent, sporting five earrings in each lobe, dyed green tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles. They wore miniskirts even though it was cold. The boys were dressed in baggy pants or combat fatigues, using cigarettes to look grown-up because their facial hair and muscle layer hadn’t come in yet. They made a lot of noise but for the most part, they were innocuous.

Not the case with the homeboys. Black teenaged boys, in oversized clothing—convenient duds if you’re hiding a gun. They checked out the scene, on the prowl for enemy color. Confrontive eyes, short haircuts covered by baseball caps worn backward. The Crips’ rivalry with the Bloods was so fierce, they wouldn’t even pronounce words that began with B—saying cecause for because.

Rap music boomed from ghetto blasters. Sometimes two rival groups would pass each other, eyes filled with malice, the music a cacophonous mix sounding like competing marching bands. The jaunty walks would slow just a tad. Cold glances exchanged, more threatening than words.

Westwood was well patrolled. It showcased L.A.’s first-run movies and held some upperclass restaurants. But with this many people cruising the sidewalks, so many cars clogging the streets, it would be easy for bystanders to catch a stray bullet if the gangbangers went to war.

Lots of people. But so far, no Hersh or Noam.

They had canvassed almost all the shops, all the ticket booths at the movie theaters. Now they were down to using their eyes.

Marge said, “I don’t think they’ve been here yet.”

Decker agreed.

“It’s almost ten-thirty,” she said. “Want to call it a night?”

“Might as well,” Decker said. “If they show up, most of the store owners have our business cards.”