Noam was big physically, maybe considered a tough one in Boro Park, but he wasn’t streetwise. He would eventually fold on foreign sod. That meant, if he stayed away long enough he’d probably do something stupid—commit a minor crime such as shoplifting and get caught. The act had a two-fold purpose. It was protective—sitting in a police station was safer than being mugged in a back alley—and getting arrested would get his parents’ attention.

Running away on Rosh Hashanah. Talk about spitting in your parents’ faces. The only other day that would have elicited greater outrage would have been the Day of Atonement—Yom Kippur. All sins against God and Man were washed away on Judaism’s most holy of days. The soul cleansed of all its contaminants—but only if there was true repentance.

Maybe Noam hoped to be back home by Yom Kippur so he could repent. The trick was to find him before he self-destructed or before someone destroyed him.

As Decker headed north, the neighborhood deteriorated even further, not the kind of place where a white teenager would take refuge.

He pulled to the curb and spread the map over the seat of the car, planning his route of attack. A moment later, he heard a heavy thump on his car door. Jerking his head up, he saw three dark-skinned youths, one of them mouthing the words “Need help?” through the locked window. Decker pulled out his Beretta and laid it on his lap. He smiled, winked, and mouthed back a “No, thank you.” The young man gave him a palms out “no-problem, man” gesture; then the three backed away, doing a fade-out into blackness.

Decker sat a moment, lit a cigarette. Doing crap like this on his honeymoon, the whole situation drawing him deeper into the Levine family—a friggin mess! He jammed his unloaded Beretta into his waistband, started the car, and headed south.

Through a series of turns, he found himself in friendlier territory. Not that the area was beautiful—this would be considered a down-scale neighborhood by L.A. standards—but at least the buildings weren’t gutted.

Working-class white.

Probably your basic Eyetalians.

Time to get down to specifics.

Along Ocean Parkway, he found his first stop on the list: SID’S ARCADE—MINORS WELCOME. As good a place to start as any. He parked Jonathan’s Matador, stretched, then walked over. On the door was a hand-printed sign stating no smoking, food, or drink allowed on the premises.

He went inside.