Tears marked paths down his cheek.

“You and me both, buddy.” Decker slumped in the seat. “You and me both.”

More seconds passed, then a minute. Finally, Jonathan started the van and put it into reverse. “Where to?”

“While you were signing papers, I got hold of Micky Novack. I’m supposed to meet him at a restaurant at…” Decker looked at the paper. “Broadway between One hundred fourteenth and One hundred fifteenth… or maybe One fifteenth and One sixteenth.” He gave him the exact address. “It shouldn’t take longer than an hour. Then I was supposed to meet Rina and Hannah at your apartment and take them to the airport.”

“When’s the flight?”

“Nine… something. It’s a commuter flight. It leaves out of La Guardia.” Decker’s watch read six. “Am I cutting it close?”

“Say you’re done at seven. At least forty-five minutes to get to La Guardia if traffic isn’t heavy.” A sigh. “Yes, you are cutting it close.”

“Give me a half hour with the guy.”

“Tell you what,” Jonathan said. “I’ll drop you off, run down to my shul, pick up my messages and mail, then come back and fetch you. That should eat up the thirty minutes.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Yes, things always sound perfect in the abstract.”

Novack stood up when Decker walked into the deli. The place was as small as a kiosk, crammed with a half-dozen linoleum-topped tables and chairs with cracked Naugahyde cushions. There was also a counter and stools, the seats filled to capacity. It was after work hours, so the detective had donned a flannel shirt and jeans instead of a suit. His fingers were greasy from the homemade French fries that he was munching. A half-eaten corned-beef sandwich was on the plate, as were two pickles. Decker sat opposite him, squeezing his body into nonexistent space. A wash of warmth swept through him and he began to sweat. He loosened his tie and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt.

Novack continued to stare, even after he sat down. “You’re sweatin’. You feeling okay?”

“I think my blood sugar’s low.” He eyed Novack’s remaining half sandwich. “This isn’t a kosher place, is it?”

“Kosher style. That don’t count, I know. They got some vegetarian stuff. I think the mushroom barley soup is vegetarian.”

“That’ll do.”

“Coffee?”

“Great.”

Novack hailed a waitress—a geriatric, bony woman whose name was Alma. Five minutes later, a steaming bowl of thick soup was placed in front of his nose. Even with his swollen membranes, the mixture smelled good. It tasted even better. Served with fresh rye bread surrounded by a thick seed crust, Decker was in heaven, though he had to eat slowly.

Novack had finished his sandwich and decided to top off his meal by ordering a cup of coffee and a healthy wedge of apple pie. “What the hell happened to your face?”

Decker gave him the standard line about being punched. Novack looked dubious. “You report this guy?”