The wife said, “Can I wait outside the doorway?”

“It’s better if you wait downstairs,” Decker said. He put on his professional smile. “Your guests might need you.”

“Yes, you’re right,” the woman said. She hurried downstairs.

Decker gently ushered the boys inside their room and closed the door behind him.

In this community, pinups of bikinied models and rock stars were taboo. But the local mores hadn’t banned professional sports. The walls were plastered with posters of the Mets, the Yankees, the Knicks, and the Giants. Larger-than-life figures leaping into the air for impossible catches, soaring through the sky to make a slam dunk, ramming through piles of meat to make a touchdown. The room was small and, with the posters as an audience, the floor space seemed like a tiny stage. The beds abutted one another, the desk was a pyramid of papers. A computer had been stuffed into a closet, resting on cinder blocks. Clothes were all over the place. A square grated window was open, airing out a stale, unwashed smell.

Decker motioned the boys to sit on their beds. He leaned against the wall, sandwiched between Don Mattingly and Steve Sax. He pointed to Sax and said, “He was one of ours.”

The boys smiled.

“We were sorry to see him go,” Decker said.

The light-eyed boy said, “We were sorry to let the Dodgers go.”

Decker smiled. “You guys didn’t deserve the Dodgers. You treated them like bums.”

“From their stats,” the dark-eyed boy said, “they played like bums.”

“They’ve earned their keep in L.A.,” Decker said.

The dark-eyed boy said, “That’s for sure.”

It came out: Datsfohshua.

Decker said, “Which one’s Moshe?”

The light-eyed boy raised his hand. He looked to be around fourteen. The dark-eyed one, Ephraim, was maybe a year or two younger. Decker said, “You know who I am?”

“Sure,” Moshe said. “You’re Shmuli and Yonkie’s stepdad. The cop.”

Decker smiled.

“Mrs. Lazarus’s husband,” Ephraim said. He looked at Decker. “I guess she isn’t Mrs. Lazarus anymore.”

Decker laughed.

“She’s very nice,” Moshe said.

“Thank you.”

“Yes, she’s very nice,” Ephraim agreed.

There was a pregnant pause, the obvious not being said.

She’s very pretty.

He wondered how many boys had a crush on her?

Moshe said, “Shmuli’s in my shiur.”

Sammy was twelve; how could he be in this kid’s class? Then Decker remembered that the shiurim—lessons in Jewish studies—weren’t based on age but on ability.

Decker said, “Is Noam in your shiur too?”

The boys laughed nervously. Moshe said, “Noam sits with us, but in learning he’s behind Yonkie.”

“He’s real dumb,” Ephraim said.

“He’s not dumb,” Moshe said.

“He’s dumb,” Ephraim repeated.