“Deal.” Decker paused, then added, “I’ll just back it out of the garage for you.”

Rina broke into laughter.

9

MacPherson looked at Decker and said, “I hate fanatics.”

Decker didn’t respond. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the squad room’s urn.

“Though I suppose it’s not entirely your fault,” MacPherson continued. “You’re heavily under the influence of pussy.”

Decker sipped coffee and said, “Some itty-bitty thought is germinating in that feeble brain of yours, Paulie. Want to tell me what it is?” He added, “Are you able to articulate what it is?”

Hollander said, “I think he’s referring to your beany cap, Rabbi.”

Decker’s hand went to the crown of his head. He’d forgotten to take off his yarmulke. This morning, he’d recited all of Shacharit before he went to work. He’d even put on phylacteries for the first time in a month. Rina had seemed pleased, but Decker had wondered if he hadn’t acted hypocritically. On the drive over to the station, he’d decided that there was nothing wrong with keeping the peace in the home front—shalom bayis. Besides, after the incidents with her brother-in-law, Rina needed a little restoration of faith. Decker pocketed the skullcap.

“Converts are the worst fanatics,” MacPherson said. “Like reformed drunks, they have something to prove to themselves, so they have to prove it to everyone else.”

“Stow it, Paul,” Decker said. “I’m not in the mood for your dimestore philosophy.”

“Marge’ll be back in a minute,” Hollander said.

“Do you know if the bee commissioner called her back?”

“I think she spoke to someone about bees,” Hollander said.

“Pete,” MacPherson said, with a sigh, “one day, when the nookie’s worn off, you’ll rediscover your balls, look in the mirror, and come to grips with yourself. No matter who you fuck, what you do, what you eat, or what you wear, you can’t get away from the fact that you’re a six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-pound, gun-toting, mean-assed cop. You’re about as Jewish as ham and cheese. You’re a shiska, Decker. Admit it and be at peace with your soul.”

Decker said, “You mean shiksa, Paul, and that’s used for Gentile girls. The word you’re looking for is shaigetz. Or just plain goy will do.”

Technically, he wasn’t either, but MacPherson didn’t know that. None of them did.

“You know what I’m talking about,” MacPherson said.

“Paulie, if you weren’t so full of shit, you’d be white,” Decker said.

“Touché,” Hollander said.

MacPherson growled.