Under the freeway sat two-story mountains of gravel and clusters of heavy construction machinery. Directly south of the highway, looking like a Hollywood movie backdrop, were groves of palm trees completely out of place in the industrial area. That was Los Angeles, Decker thought. Nothing matched. Beyond the groves was a housing development and a complex of yet-to-be-rented office buildings.

Decker drove parallel with the construction. No signs of life, but that was to be expected. If the boys were camping out, they’d be hidden. He told Rina to look for any phone booth. As they drove west, the embryonic freeway came to a sudden halt at Aviation Boulevard. Decker crossed the intersection, passing over railroad tracks, and continued in the same direction. The construction resumed on the north side of Imperial Highway, the south side taken up for blocks by Hughes Aircraft and office structures.

As he drove west, Decker was coming closer to the airport, but distancing himself from the 405 freeway—the only thoroughfare that hosted a number of motor vehicles at this time of night. Surface streets were deserted, blacktop reflecting converging lines of Christmas-colored traffic lights. Neither he nor Rina spotted any phone booths. He backtracked to Aviation. There were no through streets that paralleled the other side of the construction, so he was forced to detour through a working-class residential area, a neighborhood filled with trucks, vans, and decade-old American cars.

“What are you looking for?” Rina finally asked.

“Me and the chicken that crossed the road,” Decker said. “We’re trying to get to the other side.”

His voice was tense.

“Aren’t we near that outcall service place?” Rina asked.

“You’ve got a good sense of direction, honey.”

He wove through streets lined by small stucco homes until he came to Tropical Island Biway. He swung left, passing the palm groves sprouting from an expanse of newly planted sod. In front was a waterfall gushing down a Mediterranean basin; above it black script letters scrolled on white tile identifying the development as the Tropical Island Business Park. A long driveway led to a group of white stone buildings striped with green windows.

The business park was within walking distance of the construction and across the street from the 405 freeway. But there didn’t appear to be any phone booths near the offices. He continued on the Biway, slowing down the unmarked, hoping he’d see something.

As he approached 116th Street, he noticed a small unpaved service road that ran along the south side of Century Freeway.

He slowed, then stopped.

“What are we doing now?” Rina asked.

“I’m trying to decide whether I should park here or turn,” Decker answered. “Tires on an unpaved road would make a lot of noise.”

“I don’t see a phone booth,” Rina said.