There were four public booths near the 10-East, none situated near fleabag hotels. But Decker did notice that one of the booths was fifty yards from an overpass. Beneath it was a sheltered spot used by the homeless. At eleven in the morning, most of the transients were up. Men with matted hair were stuffing their respective belongings into torn plastic bags. They were of indeterminate age—any one of them could have been from twenty to fifty. Next to the pack rats, a grizzled old man with a gray beard was sucking on a bottle of Thunderbird. He was lying on his side, running his finger across moist dirt stubbled with weeds. Across from him, two other men were talking to themselves while eating a breakfast of dog food scooped out of cans with their fingers. They looked at Decker with fearful eyes, cradled their meager possessions as if they were babies.

Decker lit a cigarette, not because he wanted a smoke but to kill the stench. He puffed out a few clouds, then pulled out a fin and the snapshots of Hersh and Noam. Everyone eagerly nodded, said yes they were here, then held out their hands. Worthless information.

Decker flicked the bill between his fingers.

“Where did they go?” he asked.

Again, he got answers, but nothing that he believed to be true.

Then the grizzled man with the Thunderbird spoke up. He pointed a finger at Decker and said, “They were here.”

His statement was followed by a drone of: “They were here! They were here!” Then out came the empty palms. Decker pushed the palsied hands aside. He bent down next to the old man until they were face-to-face. The coot reeked of alcohol, as if he’d been preserved in the stuff. On top of that, his teeth were so rotten, Decker could smell putrefaction on his breath. He took a very deep drag on his cigarette.

“What makes you so sure about it, old man?”

“’Cause one of ’em gave me sompin’,” the coot said.

“What’d he give you?” Decker asked.

The coot shook his head. “Uh, uh, uh. You gonna take it from me, if I show you it.”

Decker flashed the money in front of the old man’s face. “You show it to me, and if I like it, I’ll buy it from you.”

The old man scrunched his eyebrows. He ran his tongue against his hollow cheeks. Then he continued sucking on his wine.

Decker showed him the pictures. “Both of these guys were here last night?”

The coot broke suction with the bottle. “For a coupla hours. This one”—he banged his hand against Hersh’s picture—“he slept. But this one”—this time the hand went to Noam’s picture—“he got up and came back later…and he wasn’t ’apposed to do that. ’Cause the big one said…‘Don’t go away.’ But the little one…he wennaway anyhow.”