Decker waited for the man to finish, then asked, “If this isn’t Jewish Boro Park, what part is this?”

“Here you got your basic working Eyetalians, a few Puerto Ricans and Asians.” The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “You go that way—that’s east—you got Bay Ridge, your basic Eyetalians also. You go south, that’s Bensonhurst. What you got there is rich Eyetalians. You got relatives in Bensonhurst, no one’s gonna mess with you, hear what I’m sayin’?”

Decker said yes.

The attendant said, “You go west, you got Flatbush. Keep goin’ west, well, you don’t wanna go there, that ain’t good for nuttin’. You go north you eventually gonna hit Williamsburg. That’s them religious Jews again and lots of Puerto Ricans. We got every type of person, place, or thing here. Lots of things, let me tell you. What are you lookin’ for?”

Decker handed him the picture of Noam Levine. The attendant gave the photo a cursory glance, then handed it back to Decker.

“Never seen the kid,” he said. “Not that I’d know him if he was staring me straight in the eye. All those boys look alike to me with their Shirley Temple curls. Why would they want to do that to their boys, take the chance of turnin’ them into fags or something.”

Decker gave a noncommittal shrug. He remembered the talkative taxi driver saying that Flatbush was the main thoroughfare through Brooklyn. He asked for directions to Flatbush Avenue. He had addresses of a few arcades and movie theaters. But before he checked them out, he wanted to get a cursory feel for the city. Riding at night, alone…it helped him think.

Dusk had just about turned to night, Flatbush Avenue darkening, fading into sinister loneliness. Neons and shadows characterized the street. Every mile or so, Decker spotted groups of ski-hatted youths, convening in cloistered areas, bouncing on their feet, rubbing fingerless weight-lifting gloves together. Like cockroaches they sank deeper into their crevices whenever too many headlights illuminated the spot. Off the side streets were pods of homeless camped out in corners, warming their hands over trash-can fires.

As he’d done so many times before, Decker tried to place himself inside the mind and body of his quarry. This one was a fourteen-year-old boy with an ultra-religious background. If Noam was a runaway, Decker supposed part of the kid’s motivation was excitement. In a routinized world such as Boro Park, earthly sins were mighty tempting dishes.

But there was more to it than that. The interviews had painted a picture of an angry, lost boy. By running away, Noam was trying to find himself, emphasizing his schism with the community by leaving on Rosh Hashanah. An act of defiance, an act of hostility.