“What time do you get off work?” Decker asked.

“Usually around six, sometimes six-thirty.”

“Ever have any extracurricular activities with the boys?”

“Not in a formal sense, like the computer club. The boys aren’t as interested in literature as they are in science and religion. Sometimes I shoot the shit with the kids about sports. But I’m usually gone by seven. I don’t like to hang around more than I have to. ’Course, for Rina, I’m happy to help out by patrolling.”

“You like her?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

Decker didn’t answer. Instead he looked at Hawthorne’s forearms. They, too, were clear.

“I think that about does it.”

“Well, that was painless. I expected a lot worse.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know…Maybe tarring and feathering.”

Decker didn’t smile.

“I’ll need the phone number of your friend Mr. Oates.”

“Certainly.” He wrote it on a piece of paper. “Take care of Rina. I care about that little gal.”

He sounded earnest, as if he meant it.

21

Marge Dunn showed up as a green blip dancing on the grid of the Plymouth’s computer screen. The dot moved slowly to the left, stopped, then reversed back to the right. Decker stared at the monitor while sipping black coffee from a large styrofoam cup, and readjusted his legs. His muscles were beginning to cramp. Three hours and nothing.

Hollander had his nose buried in a New York Times Book of Crossword Puzzles. Occasionally his eyes would glance at the screen, but why bother watching if Decker was there? It was hot as blazes in the car, and he couldn’t understand how Pete could drink that swill. Hollander slurped the last of his Coke and tossed the paper cup onto the backseat.

“Anything?” he asked Decker.

“Same old shit.”

“Maybe we should check in with her?” Hollander suggested.

“No,” Decker replied. “I don’t want to catch her at the wrong time. If she’s with a suspect, he’ll get scared away as soon as he hears us buzz in. If it’s anything, she’ll check in with us.”

“What’s a five letter word for a raccoon?” Hollander asked.

“C-o-a-t-i.”

“Yeah, it fits. Thanks.”

Decker’s expression soured. He hated crosswords because they reminded him of loneliness. He’d gone through a slew of them after his divorce. A few minutes later Hollander asked:

“How long are we going to keep this up?”

“Let’s wait until we hear from Marge.”

“How reliable do you think this Rayana is?”

“Well,” Decker said, eyes still fixed on the screen, “from what she described, Macko sounds like our man. Now, whether she had second thoughts and warned him off is another story.”

“She was pretty pissed at him.”

“Goddam fucking people,” Decker muttered. “Stupid bitch. She looks the other way while he’s out raping and beating up other women, but he kicks her precious poodle, and all of a sudden she decides he’s a menace to society.”

“No way to get her as an accomplice?”

“Nah, she really didn’t do anything.”

“She withheld evidence,” said Hollander.

“We gave her complete immunity to get her to talk,” Decker reminded him. “All part of the game. But at least she talked. Man, did she talk. You couldn’t shut her up once she got going.”

“She was worried we’d pin something on her. She wanted to clear the air.”

“I think so. I think that was the main reason for her coming forward. She thought we were close to finding Macko and didn’t want to drown in his shit. The dog was just the catalyst.”

The radio buzzed, and Marge’s voice came through the speaker.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Getting plenty of fresh air?” Hollander asked.

“My arches are killing me,” she said.

“Hang in there, sweetheart.”

He passed the microphone to Decker.

“Hey, Margie.”

“You know where I’m located?”

“Right in the back alley of Sid’s Pizza and Beer Stop. This new gadget is wonderful.”

“I’ll never eat pepperoni again. The smell has permeated my clothes.”

“How’s the lighting, Margie?”

“Backlighting from the street lamp, plus a bulb over the rear door of the restaurant. I’m beginning to wonder about Rayana’s credibility.”

“She never said definitely. You want to call it quits?”

“No. I’ve still got about an hour’s worth left in me.”

Hollander groaned, and Marge heard it.

“What the fuck is he bitching about? I’m the one who’s walking my ass off.”

“He does it to keep in practice,” Decker answered.

“I’m signing off. I see someone.”

The dot was still. Decker and Hollander watched the monitor for a few tense moments, but soon the spot was marching along like the bouncing ball used in the old TV sing-alongs.

“What did you think of Margie’s latest?” Hollander asked, putting aside the crossword book.

“Ernst? He seemed nice enough.”

“Faggy, don’t you think?”

“She likes ’em soft,” Decker said.

“Macho Woman meets Superwimp, eh?”

“He’s a good musician. That’s a step up from her last.”

“Yeah,” Hollander agreed, “but how can he stand playing with her?”

“Guess love is deaf as well as blind.”

“I can’t picture the two of them in bed.”

Decker shrugged.

“Bet she’s always on top,” snickered the fat detective.

“Hope not always. She’d crush him.”

“Think he’s Jewish?” Hollander asked.

Decker’s eyes darted from the screen to Hollander, then back to the screen.

“If he is Marge never mentioned it.”

“I think he’s a Jew. He looks Jewish. And with a last name like Katzenbach?”

“That could be German. Like the attorney general.”

“He looks Jewish to me, Pete.”

“You can’t tell from looks,” Decker said sharply.

“Take it easy. I’m not putting down your little honey.”

Decker felt his ire rising.

“Why don’t you go back to your puzzle?”

“Shit,” Hollander said, tamping his pipe. “Stop gettin’ so touchy. I can’t even mention Jewto-the yeshiva-without you blowing up.”

Decker pulled out a cigarette.

“Give me a light,” he said.

Hollander pulled out a match book.

“You gotta admit, Deck, Jews, in general, look like Jews.”

“Does Rina look Jewish?” Decker asked.

“She’s dark.”

“She’s got a nose smaller than a button.”

“Yeah,” Hollander admitted, “and you’ve got a Jewish nose. But still, I can tell that she’s Jewish and you’re not.”

“Fine, Michael. You’re an anthropologist.”

“’Course, maybe if you dressed her up in some normal clothes…” Hollander mused. “A low-cut blouse and a pair of jeans…”

There was a pause.

“Tight jeans,” Decker added.

“Real tight jeans.”

Both men laughed.

Marge buzzed through.

“As void as a black hole,” she said.

“How poetic,” said Hollander.

Decker picked up the portable radio.

“Are you getting tired?”

“The walking isn’t so bad. It’s these goddam pumps I have to wear.”

“Macko’s got a love affair with pumps,” Decker said. “Look, if you want to call it a night…”

“Another fifteen minutes.”

“Think you could adequately muscle an attacker?”

“To be honest, I have a few blisters. I couldn’t give him much chase.”

“We’re coming to get you.”

“Wait five minutes, Pete.”

“Will do.”

Decker clicked off the radio.

“Why don’t we just go in and arrest the son of a bitch?” Hollander said, shifting his bulk in the seat.

“Because we don’t exactly know where he is, Mike. He split from his former residence a week ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Rayana just thinks he’s around this area. He’s been known to drink at Sid’s.”

“For whatever that’s worth. What a flake!” Hollander lit his pipe and exhaled a cloud of acrid-smelling smoke. “What about a door-to-door?”

“And warn him we’re onto his whereabouts? Might as well put a full-page ad in the Times.”