He didn’t smile back. Walking over to her, he gingerly took the revolver from her hands.

“It’s loaded, Annie. You shouldn’t be fooling around with a loaded gun,” he said, placing the gun back in the shoulder harness.

“Sorry,” she shrugged. “Coffee’s ready.”

He sank into a brown chair, irked. Not only had she done something dumb, she’d violated his personal property.

Returning with a tray, she set it on the coffee table.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked.

“Black.”

“That’s right,” she said. Handing him a mug, she parked herself across the table.

“You use your gun a lot?” she asked.

“As little as possible.”

“It gives you a sense of power, doesn’t it?”

“Not really.” He forced a smile. “Can we change the subject?”

She frowned.

“Okay. What’s the weirdest case you ever were on?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Annie, but I don’t want to talk about my work. If you want to talk about dentistry-”

“God, no.”

“So you understand-”

“Yeah, but my work is so damn boring.”

“So’s mine. Believe me.”

“The bones case is boring?”

“The bones case is frustrating!” He lit a cigarette. “Do you have an ashtray handy?”

“Not really. I’m allergic to cigarette smoke.”

“You didn’t say anything at the restaurant.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

Decker stared at his smoke.

“Where can I throw this?”

“Toss it down the sink.”

He got up, did it, and came back.

“So what happened with your girlfriend?” she asked.

“I don’t want to talk about that either.” He sipped his coffee. “So you like to ski and play tennis.”

“We exhausted that over dinner, Pete.”

Decker smiled.

“Yeah, we did.”

“Come to think of it, I did most of the talking.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“So I’m getting a little tired of hearing myself blabbing.”

“I’m a little quiet tonight,” he said.

“True. And it makes it mighty hard to get some snappy banter going.” She chuckled. “Most of the men I date…you can’t shut them up. Always chewing your ear off about the latest hustle they have going. Trying to dress up their essentially lackluster lives. Now I get hold of a cop who works in the blood and guts of the city-who does something primal-and he doesn’t like to talk.”

He shrugged.

She shrugged.

“Wanna fuck?” she asked.

Decker burst into laughter.

“No, I don’t wanna fuck.”

“What kind of a girl do you think I am?” she mocked, crossing herself. “Jesus, it was just a thought. And not that unusual a question. Where have you been for the last fifteen years, Kiddo?”

“I like you,” Decker smiled. “You make me laugh.”

“I like you, too,” she answered. “You make me horny.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“Yes, thanks. Would you have preferred my ripping off your clothes in mad lust?”

“That sounds good.”

“You try to be a gentleman…” He laughed. “Famine to feast.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

“You’ve got your ex-friend on your mind, don’t you?”

“She’s left her watermark.”

“Then this was for nothing.” She seemed hurt.

“It wasn’t for nothing. I had a nice time with you. You’re great company and a lovely woman.”

“Sure. Let’s go out for a beer sometimes,” she said sarcastically.

“Not in the bars I frequent. You’d have ten guys on your tail the minute you walked in the door.”

She smiled.

“Trying to redeem yourself, Pete?”

“How am I doing so far?”

“Not bad. Keep going.”

He rubbed his eyes. “In all seriousness, tomorrow I’m going to kick myself for being such an ass tonight. I must be crazy to let you slide through my fingers.”

“So do something about it. Make the plunge.”

“I can’t. I’m too confused. Give me about a month or so.”

She folded her arms across her chest and looked him over.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks for the consideration,” he said. He hoped he was being disarming. Luckily, the awkward situation took care of itself. His beeper went off.

“Phone’s over in the kitchen,” she said.

It was Marge.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I found Clementine.”

“I’ll be right down,” he said eagerly.

“Hold on, Kiddo. He ain’t going anywhere. He’s in the county jail.”

21

On Monday morning Decker watched Clementine pick up his personal belongings at the grilled window of the county jail. Seen in the light, the clean-shaven, bespectacled man was the color of a paper bag, with blue eyes, a bald spot, a weak chin, and a close-cropped Afro. Thin, short, and slight, he could easily have been mistaken for a café au lait Mr. Peepers. Not very intimidating. No wonder he liked doing business in the shadows.

He eyed Decker, and the two of them walked out of the receiving area into a grassy courtyard. Clementine looked up at Decker’s face and then at the bulge in the detective’s jacket.

“Sergeant,” he said, acknowledging Decker.

“You beat the rap, huh?”

“The lady dropped the charges.”

“She was in a coma for two days.”

Clementine smiled. “The incident between the lady and me was purely a business matter, Sergeant. Nothing personal.”

“Have to keep ’em in line, right?” Decker pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and offered it to the pimp.

“The lady don’t mind,” Clementine said, taking the smoke. “She depends on my good will for her livelihood.”

Decker gave him an impassive stare and got a grin of porcelain caps in return. Teeth again. He noticed them all the time now.

“What do you want?” Clementine asked.

“Recognize this guy?” Decker showed him the picture of the painted man in the film.

Clementine took off his glasses, squinted, then replaced them on his nose.

“Dude’s got on a shitload of warpaint. How the hell should I know who he be?”

He’d dipped into his pimp persona.

“Take a good look,” Decker pressed. “Look at the build, at any distinguishing marks that might remind you of someone.”

The pimp shrugged.

“Clementine, is this the Blade?” asked Decker.

“Don’t know, Cop. Can’t tell with all the camouflage.”

“Look at these other stills. Could these be the Blade?”

Clementine quickly sorted through the photographs.

“Can’t help you, Decker.”

He handed back the pictures.

“What did the Blade look like?” Decker urged. “C’mon, you’ve seen the dude. Short, tall-”

“Everyone looks tall to me.”

“How was he built? What kind of threads did he wear?”

“Dude was skinny. I tole you that. I know I tole you that. Hey, I’m no fuckin’ fashion consultant. I’m a free man. I gotta go, so if you’ll excuse me-”

Decker grabbed his bony arm.

“I want you to come down to the station and do a composite for the police artist.”

The pimp swung out a hip and sneered at Decker.

“Now why would I wanna do that, Cop?”

“Community service. And if you don’t, I’m going hunting for you, Clementine. Your whores’ll be marked. Your ‘livelihood’ will wind up in jail and your spare cash’ll be pissed away for bail money. And if you don’t think I’m serious, you ask anyone I’ve ever worked with how determined I can be.”

The pimp snarled and spat a chunk of brown saliva on the ground. Mr. Peepers was trying to save face.

“Perhaps I could work it into my busy schedule.”

“Perhaps you could work it in right now.”

“Find anything in the crap we picked up from Pode’s studio?” Marge asked Decker.

He looked up from his desk, took a sip of lukewarm black coffee, and shook his head.

“No such luck. The films left behind were legit, the junk papers were random numbers or meaningless scribbles. Nothing illuminating or incriminating.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“How’d the interviews go this morning, Margie?”