“I see you learning in the beis hamidresh, Peter. You don’t even know I’m there, but I see you, poring over the alef beis, reading, studying. You say it all that way…I knew this boy, once. He was a ba’al t’shuvah—a nonreligious Jew who decided to live the Torah life. It lasted maybe six months. He said it was too emasculating for him. He knew too little and couldn’t stand it. It takes an extremely big person to do what you’re doing—learning as you do from scratch. I don’t think I could. I envy your strength of character.”

She gave him a bear hug.

“I’m a little choked up,” Decker said.

“You’re entitled.”

He began to feel physically amorous. He suspected Rina was feeling the same way, because she broke away abruptly. He said, “Can you keep this for me until tomorrow? I’m not going straight home and I don’t want to take it with me.”

“Where’re you going?” she asked.

“To find out about a possible runaway. To glamorous Hollyweird.”

7

He parked on a side street off Sunset, east of the Strip, took off his yarmulke and tie, and unfastened the top three buttons on his white shirt. Slipping on a couple of gold chains, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. He needed a shave and that was good, but he was still not satisfied. Mussing his hair, he pulled a lock over his forehead down to his brow, then took off his brown suit jacket and donned a cheap baggy windbreaker that didn’t show the swell of his .38. He placed a pack of Marlboros and a penlight in a front pocket, opened the door of the Plymouth, and stepped outside.

The underbelly of Hollywood was a vampire leeching out the blood of the city, he thought, the sidewalk teeming with action that thrives in the shadows. He found a spot that looked good—a fine vantage point from where he could see the pimps, hookers, addicts, dealers, and everyday desperados and degenerates. But the best part about the location was the number of independent streetwalkers. He needed a sucker not shackled to a pimp.

It didn’t take long. The one he picked out was a skinny black girl in an electric blue tank top, denim cut-offs, and a knee-length black boots. Her hair had been cornrowed, her eyelids painted blue and pink. Two red slashes highlighted her cheekbones. He gave her the eye, then quickly averted his gaze.

He’d always felt that the key to being a good undercover vice cop was thinking like a woman. You had to be coy and flirtatious. Most bona fide johns were pretty damn shy when approaching a hooker. There was usually some resistance, and it was the whore who made the moves. Any guy who came on too strong smelled of weirdo or cop.