Decker gave her a weak smile, then averted his eyes. Goddamn, the woman was perceptive. Those walks with Ezra and Shimon, the talks with Jonathan: They had opened a Pandora’s box he’d never realized he’d owned. Whenever he seriously thought about it, he became dizzy, sick. Then he’d chastise himself for feeling that way. He had parents, he had a brother—what the hell did he care what these strangers thought of him? Yet the feelings of kinship had pierced his skin as subtly as a pinprick.

He reached out to Rina like a poor man begging for alms. She was his heartbeat, the steady rhythmic pulse that gave him life. In her embrace, he found a place he would forever call home.

Even accounting for getting-lost time, Decker figured Crown Heights to be no more than a twenty-minute car ride from Boro Park. It took him a half hour to realize he’d been assuming “L.A. Driving Time” instead of “New York Driving Time.” The streets were narrow and potholed, crowded by rows of double-parked cars and pedestrians who didn’t believe in red lights. At least Jonathan’s car had ample stretching room because Jonathan—like him—had stilts for legs. Kid had been kind enough to let Decker borrow the car again.

A full hour later, after battling several traffic jam-ups, taking three trips around Prospect Park, and overshooting himself to Eastern Parkway, Decker managed to find the elusive Empire Boulevard. It didn’t appear to be a thoroughfare by L.A. standards, but it stretched about two miles. It was also a line of transition. The street gave occupancy to several Jewish storefronts but many more secular establishments—a doughnut luncheonette, a pizza parlor, a small mart called the L.A. Special which didn’t typify L.A. or seem special. But it did sell candy and cold beer and soda and felt these items were noteworthy enough to advertise. Empire Boulevard also had several video sales and repair centers—places not meant for the Crown Heights Jews because they—like the Boro Parkers—didn’t own TV sets. And as in Boro Park, many of these discount setups were run by ultra-Orthodox Jews.

At nine P.M., with most of the commercial stores closed, the sidewalks didn’t harbor a large population. The pedestrians he did see were black. After cruising the street twice, he wrote down the names and addresses of the liquor stores—three—and the places that served alcohol—eighteen, counting all the restaurants and bars. Though Decker was sure that Yossie Weinstein hadn’t met Hersh in a bar, it was possible that Hersh had frequented saloons alone or with others.

Decker consulted his list.