Yeah, the clothes were great, but they couldn’t possibly compare to that feeling. That first stab when you break skin and feel that wet stream roll over your fingers. And you dig a little deeper until you feel the guts of the fish. Then you uncoil it slowly, bit by bit, inch by inch. Stick your hands in the blood. Then you look up at the sucker’s face and see it flail and squirm. But goddamn it, it knows it’s trapped.

Squirm, squirm, squirm.

And the fish begins to fight for its life. Just like the dickhead would squirm for his life.

But the dickhead would know it was over. Over, man, it’s over.

Now, you slice. A little nick here, a little nick there. The dickhead’s beggin’ you.

No mercy. No rachmanos.

Did the dickhead have rachmanos on you when he made you wear those smelly old clothes and all the kids made fun of you?

A deeper slice.

Or did the dickhead have mercy on you, when he made you sit alone in your room and spend hours tryin’ to read shit you couldn’t understand?

A sudden big stab.

Or when he punished you by not talkin’ to you for days. Or when he laughed at your schoolwork. Or when he called you dumb. Or when he told you you were just like the old lady. Or when he left you alone with the old lady for weeks at a time ’cause he had to go away on business.

Sure, it was business. Pussy business.

Then you plunge the sucker in!

Harder!

Harder! Harder! Twisting! And turning! And mashing until the insides ain’t nothin’ but soup.

Tears streaming from his eyes. His zeyde telling him to stop. Screaming at him to stop.

Hershela, what’s wrong, bubelah?

I was mad, Zeyde, he had answered back in Yiddish. Mad at my tati.

Zeyde shook his head sadly. Even he knew his son was for shit.

Everyone knew the dickhead was for shit.

The noise of a supercharged engine idling woke Decker. He stretched, wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. His brown suit was as wrinkled as a discarded paper sack and he smelled like a distillery. Ginger was barking. He quieted her, craned his head to see Rina walking through the door.

“Hi.”

“Hello there,” Rina said. “Did you have a nice nap?”

He stood up, feeling as ripe as a compost pile. “Don’t come too close. I need a shower.” He stretched. “What time is it? It’s dark outside. Where were you?”

Rina said, “It’s around six-thirty. And it’s more dusky than dark. I was at Santa Monica sorting through the homeless—”

“What!”

“I didn’t find Hersh or Noam,” Rina answered. “I’m not sure what I would have done had I spotted them. Probably called you. I took the Porsche. Found your spare key ring. I hope you don’t mind.”