The private offices and exchange floor were for the trade only, so Decker knew he’d have to check in with the front desk. After a bit of a grilling, one of the gray guards consented to call up Schnitman. A minute later, Decker held a temporary pass to the eleventh floor only, with the name Classic Gems and the suite number handwritten in the spot where the badge had asked for Place of Business. He stepped into an elevator and was taken up to the eleventh floor by an operator with a gun.

Schnitman was waiting for him, a few doors away from the Classic Gems entrance, leaning against one of the walls that made up a narrow hallway. Guards were posted on either side of the foyer, in front of the emergency stairwell exits. In traditional Chasidic garb of a black coat, white shirt, and black hat, he looked older but even smaller. He was stroking his beard, eyes small behind the windows of his glasses. His expression was grave, bordering on hostile. It seemed that Decker made friends wherever he went.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Decker tried out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple more—”

“I do mind!” he spat out. “I cooperated with the police. I told you all I know. Now you come and bother me at my place of business. Do you know what would happen to me if my problems got back to my boss?”

Decker’s expression was flat. “Why would he assume that I was anyone other than a customer? Calm down and let’s go find a place to talk.”

Schnitman checked his watch. “I have a lunch meeting in twenty minutes. I was about to leave.”

“No problem. We can talk while we walk.”

He exhaled loudly. “Wait here. Let me get my coat.”

It took less than a minute for Schnitman to return. They rode the elevator down in silence, Decker following the young Chasid as he speed-walked out of the building, turning left, hands clasped behind his back, his coat and payot flapping in the wind. Schnitman continued to race-walk until he got to Forty-eighth; then he hooked a right.

Decker said, “If you don’t slow down, we can’t talk. Then you can’t get rid of me.”

Schnitman stopped at the green-lettered Fleet building, leaning against the glass, his eyes on his polished black shoes. In front of him was a table overloaded with baubles and clothing festooned with the American flag. The vendor was sitting next to the trinkets, his face hidden by dreadlocks and a copy of yesterday’s Post. The air rapped out horn honks and engine rumbles.

“Where are you meeting this client?” Decker asked.

“Clients. Fifty-third and Second. They’re from Japan, so my brilliant boss figured that I should take them to this Japanese kosher restaurant. It’s a good place, but it’s kind of like bringing coals to Newcastle. I’m sure they would have preferred a deli.”