Hollander checked his watch and grunted.

“It’s not even midnight,” Decker said. “Mary’ll still be up by the time you come home.”

“I dunno. She’s going to bed earlier and earlier these days.”

Marge’s voice came through the radio.

“Someone is following me, guys.”

Hollander started up the motor.

“Stay with it, baby,” Decker said. “We’re on our way!”

The attack came suddenly.

They could hear the fighting over the radio.

“Hold him!” Hollander yelled into the mike.

They got there just in time to see Marge lose her grip on the bastard. Hollander zoomed the Plymouth into the alley and caught sight of him running into the back entrance of Jose’s Hacienda Mexican Restaurant. The car squealed to a stop, and Decker flew out after him.

Seeing the fleeing figure run out the front door, Decker tore through the restaurant shouting his location into his radio. The assailant dashed across the street, turned right, then ducked into an alley between a toy store and a Chinese take-out place. Decker followed, pivoted, and stopped. The alley dead-ended.

Barely winded but drenched with sweat, he scanned the layout. The walkway was deserted and stank of garbage but was well lit. Barrels, empty cartons, and dumpsters lined the narrow strip of uneven asphalt scarred with potholes. He heard hissing from the Chinese restaurant’s kitchen fan, the distant rumble of a car’s ignition kicking in, mosquitoes buzzing. Asshole could be anywhere or nowhere. Sight was deceptive, sound everything.

The alley was still, but not lifeless. Decker could sense the bastard’s presence. Unhitching his revolver, he slowly began to walk forward, footsteps echoing against the pavement, eyes searching for the giveaway.

He peered into the first dumpster and a swarm of flies swirled across his face. Decker shooed them off and poked at the trash with the butt of his gun. Nothing but stench.

On to the next set of trash cans. The hissing grew louder.

Nothing.

The next bin contained plastic bags full of rotten food. A few of them had ripped open, spilling out congealed chow mein vegetables and gray strips of foul-smelling meat. The maggots were having a feast. Aside from them, the bin was inert.

The hissing became rhythmic: a goddam percussion section. Decker finally identified it: not the fan, but labored breathing emanating from a clump of barrels and crates in back of the toy store. Empty boxes of G. I. Joe army toys. The same war scene was splashed across all the cartons: helicopters zooming over exploding bombs, machine guns bursting with fire, men in camouflage parachuting from jets.

Decker stepped toward the combat, toward the breathing.

Suddenly the boxes shot up, came flying at him; the army men had charged. A figure leaped up, popping out like a jack-in-the-box, wide-eyed, terrified. Too big for a toy…

“Police! Freeze!” Decker shouted, pointing his.38.

The figure took off, but Decker knew he had him. His long legs sprinted in huge strides, and he quickly overtook his quarry and wrestled him to the ground. The man kicked, bit, and managed to claw a deep gouge in Decker’s forearm. The detective swore, flipped him on his stomach, twisted his arms, and tightly clamped on the cuffs behind his back.

“Hey, man, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You have the right to remain silent-”

“I wasn’t doin’ nothin. I didn’t do nothin’.”

Decker groaned. Goddam same old shit. Same old excuses. Not me. I didn’t do nothin’. You’ve got the wrong man. She wanted it. She let me do it. He finished reciting Miranda and radioed the car. As soon as the Plymouth pulled up, Decker brought him to his feet and studied the face. It was lean and young, the sallow skin pocked with acne pits and sprinkled with light stubble. The eyes were a muddy green, small and quivering convulsively. The mouth was two tight rims of pale flesh that drew back to expose brown protruding teeth.

Anthony Macko.

God bless the poodle.

“I tell you I wasn’t doin’ a fuckin’ thing,” Macko protested, spraying Decker with sour spittle.

“How’d you get your clothes all torn up, buddy?” Decker asked, pushing him toward the unmarked.

“Hey, I like torn clothes!”

“You like jumping a police officer?”

“I didn’t know who you was.”

“I said who I was.”

“I didn’t hear you good. I just saw some dude come chargin’ at me. I thought you was a mugger.”

Hollander and Marge stepped out. She looked at Macko.

“Yeah, it’s him,” she said.

“Hey, I never saw this broad in my life!”

“Sure. Your eyesight is very poor.” Decker pushed Macko’s body against the hood of the car, kicked his heels apart, and began to shake him down. Finding nothing, he shoved the punk into the backseat, then slid in next to him.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, man!” Macko protested.

“What are we talking about, Macko?” Marge asked, flanking his other side.

“Hey, I’m not sayin’ a fuckin’ thing until I got a lawyer. I know my rights.”

“Your rights won’t save you now, Macko,” Hollander said as he started the car. “You screwed up.”

“Hey, man, I never saw this broad in my fuckin’ life.”

“Yeah, just like you never saw Brenda Crowthers,” Marge said. “You remember her, the little blond nurse who worked at Mission Presbyterian Hospital?”

“Man, I didn’t do nothin’ to her.”

“She tells it different, Macko,” Marge said.

“She spent three weeks in the hospital, and I bet you’re the one who put her there.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I seen a lawyer.”

“We got your girlfriend, Macko,” Marge pushed.

“Lyin’ little cunt! I ain’t done nothin’!”

“What really happened with the nurse?” Decker prodded.

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You saw her one day after work, didn’t you, Macko?” Marge said. “She was all alone, and her car didn’t start. You offered to help, and she thought that was nice of you. But you got distracted. You forced her into the backseat of her car, locked the door-”

“You got the wrong guy!”

“Hey, Macko, you attacked me,” Marge said, angrily. “I don’t think I got the wrong guy.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

“Bitch turn you on?” Decker whispered.

Macko was silent.

“She had big knockers, didn’t she?”

“I’m tellin’ you, you got the wrong guy.”

“And those fuckin’ sexy little pumps, right?” Decker nodded eagerly. “Ooo, I love those little backless, fuck-me shoes.”

Macko started to sweat. His eyelashes fluttered.

“In black, man,” Decker continued. “Has to be black, right?”

“She let me do it, man,” Macko said. “I’m telling you, she begged me to do it to her. She liked it rough, man. I didn’t want to get rough, but she wanted it that way.”

“Who else wanted it that way?” Decker asked.

The thin lips clamped shut.

“Ain’t saying nothin’ till I see my lawyer.”

“You’ll get a lawyer,” Marge said, taking off one patent leather black pump and passing it to Decker across Macko’s field of vision.

Decker stroked the shoe. “Who else wanted it rough, Macko?”

The rapist eyed the shiny leather and began to breathe audibly. He squirmed against the cuffs and his pants bulged.

“They all did.”

“That little hostess from Benito’s?” Marge asked.

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Decker caressed Macko’s cheek with the shoe.

“How ’bout the brunette from the library?” Decker asked.

“Don’t know no brunette from no library.”

“Funny, Rayana knew all about her,” said Marge.

“I tol’ you. Rayana’s a lyin’ cunt!”

“C’mon, Macko. You remember who we’re talking about. She had on those spiked heels, and her shoes were two-toned with pointy toes. Oh, you liked those shoes, didn’t you?”

A sick smile tightened the drawstring mouth.