“That’s ’cause you’re acting like a broad, Margie.”

Marge grinned. “No, Decker, you’re acting like a civilian.”

Decker said, “I’m going home. Beep me if something comes up with Sally. I’m going down to Hollywood Division tonight and review the case files. Try to get a handle on this hooker. You can call me there if anything comes up.”

Marge leaned back in her chair. “Colonel Dunn says that the attachments he made with his war buddies ran deeper than blood. That true with you?”

“Nope.”

“Yeah, Colonel Dunn has been known to spout a lot of shit.”

Decker smiled.

“You didn’t get together with any of your buddies when you came back to civilian life?” Marge asked.

“Only once,” Decker said. “Somewhere between the second and third hour, after we rehashed all the old nightmares, I discovered I didn’t have a thing in common with any of them.”

“And that was it?”

“That was it. You know, Margie, I worked damn hard at putting it all behind me. And it’s especially hard because America has had a sudden change of heart and decided we weren’t all baby-killers. Nam vets have become the darlings of Hollywood. Indochina has great box-office appeal—all those shirtless sweaty bodies crawling through the jungle. Leeches! Gooks! Grunts going nuts! Makes for exotic drama. And the producers? They’re former hippies who now drive Mercedes instead of VW bugs. They want to talk to us, make nice. Except I remember how they treated me when I came back to the world. It don’t wash, babe.”

“Colonel Dunn was once asked to be a consultant on a Nam film.”

“What did your dad do?”

Marge blushed.

Decker said, “That bad?”

“Let’s put it this way. The screenplay was long, and Mom didn’t have to buy toilet paper for a month.”

Decker burst into laughter.

Marge asked, “So who’s this guy who you’re going the distance for?”

“Abel Atwater,” Decker said. “A hillbilly boy from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Kentucky.” Decker’s voice had taken on a nasal twang. “One of eleven chillun. His father could barely read and write, his mother was completely illiterate. Abel learned to read by sifting through mail-order catalogs. He used to entertain us by reciting Sears, Roebuck copy. Bright guy. The war messed him up.”

“A lot of rape-os are intelligent.”

“He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not manipulative, he’s got great impulse control. He’s not the kind of person who goes around beating up hookers.”

Marge didn’t answer him.