The first candidate was the Empire Liquor House, a small storefront no more than six hundred feet square. There was a Doberman guarding the door, the dog’s head as big as a toaster oven. It appeared to be sleeping, but Decker noticed its ears perk up when he crossed the threshold.

The store was a little larger than a cubicle, the area on his immediate right crammed with gondolas full of cheap wine and whiskey. On the left was a counter manned by a black in his mid-forties. He was as thin as a drinking straw, had a face sprinkled with salt-and-pepper stubble, and had a circle of shiny mocha skin on the crown of his head. Behind the counter were the expensive potables. If someone wanted to steal some class he’d have to jump the barrier to get to it. Tucked into a corner was the cash register.

The thin man said, “What do you want?”

His voice was high. The question had not been posed as a true inquiry. Rather, it asked: Why the hell are you hassling me?

“I’m not with the NYPD,” Decker said.

Thin Man didn’t answer.

Decker said, “Did you ever sell some hooch to a boy named Hersh—”

“Don’t know no Hersh.”

“Let me describe him—”

“Don’t know no Hersh.”

Decker smoothed his mustache, then pulled out his wallet. He flipped a ten onto the counter. The thin man eyed the money, then Decker, but didn’t say a word. Decker described Hersh. This time Thin listened. He shook his head.

“I get a million baby Rambos walkin’ in and out of this place—Eyetalians thinkin’ they’re tough meat. I told you before, I don’t know no Hersh.”

“Hersh is Jewish, not Italian,” Decker said.

“Jews, Eyetalians—all the white boys look alike to me.”

Decker pulled out another ten, then the photograph of Noam Levine. “Ever seen him?”

Thin said, “If you’re looking for that kind of Hymie, you’re on the wrong side of Empire.”

“You never get Jews crossing over to your side?”

Thin became mute again. Decker pulled out a third ten. Thin broke into a wicked smile. He had wide spaces between his teeth. He said, “I get a few that come in here.”

“Why?”

Thin shrugged, feigned innocence.

Decker said, “Look, buddy, the kid in this photograph is missing and I’ve just spent two days beating my meat for nothing. I’m tired, I’ve laid out a few bucks for you, so do something for me before I get pissed off and take it out on you.”

Thin said, “You ain’t with NYPD, but you’re some kinda fuzz. You talk like fuzz and you’re packing.”

“You’re very astute. Wanna answer my question?”

“Yeah, a few hymies come in here.”

“Why?”