The Ritual Bath

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“Do that.”

7 (#ulink_a7861504-f0b0-506d-8290-26ea2a2da63b)

Michael Hollander was fiftyish, bald, florid, and the proper weight for a man six inches taller. He, Marge, and Decker made up the juvey and sex detail for the division. They were referred to jokingly as The Three Musketeers—a title that Hollander had redubbed The Three Mouseketeers. He smoked a pipe, which was an inexcusable offense in such close quarters, but laughed off the complaints by demanding to know who’d be the squadroom’s scapegoat if he became civilized. Discussion closed.

He entered the detectives’ quarters, poured himself his ninth cup of coffee of the day, and placed a meaty hand on Decker’s shoulder.

Peter looked up from the phone, excused himself, and covered the mouthpiece with his palm.

“What?”

“A lady from Jewtown is outside.”

Decker finished his call quickly and checked his watch. They were right on time. Then he remembered that Hollander had said a lady not ladies. Damn it! The other one must have chickened out.

He got up from his desk, went out to the reception area, and saw Rina standing in the hallway behind the half door. She looked as good as he remembered, even better. Even though her hair was covered, tucked into a white knitted tam she’d taken a little time to put on some makeup and jewelry. He liked that.

“Come on in,” he said, opening the latch and leading her to his desk.

Headquarters were not as she’d imagined.

She expected the place to be busy and crowded, but not so small. Metal utility desks and chairs were squashed against one another, taking up most of the floor space. What furniture wasn’t metal was scarred, unfinished wood. A lone rust-bitten table in the corner housed a small computer. On the rear wall were wanted posters and floor-to-ceiling prefab shelves full of blue notebooks marked with various colored dots. To her left were two small rooms with the doors open and a map of the division taped carelessly on the wall. To her right were the coffee urn and its accompanying paraphernalia, more desks, and another map studded with multicolored pins. The place was minimally cooled by fans placed at strategic spots and blowing full force.

All the detectives were dressed in light-colored short-sleeved shirts, loosened ties, drab slacks, and scuffed shoes. Only their shoulder holsters suggested they were cops. Some of them were on the phone or doing desk work, others were conferring with one another; all of them looked preoccupied.

“Like the decor?” one of them shouted, a fat man smoking a pipe.

“Lovely,” she said, smiling.

“Take a seat,” Decker said, pulling up a chair that obstructed the aisle. His desktop was covered by piles of papers, a manual typewriter, and a black phone sporting a panel of flashing lights. “What happened to Mrs. Adler?”

Rina lowered her voice. “She refused to come down.”

“I can barely hear you.”

“Can we use one of those rooms over there?”

“They’re as hot as blazes. Great for sweating out confessions.”

Rina said nothing and squirmed.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll take my lunch break early. That way we can get a little privacy.”

They got up to leave. The fat detective whistled.

“You have any food preferences?” Decker asked, starting the Plymouth.

“Detective Decker,” she hesitated, “I can’t eat in a restaurant because the food’s not kosher. I brought my own lunch.” She held up a paper bag.

Shit, he thought. Another Big Mac for lunch. “No problem. I’ll just run by McDonald’s and pick something up.”

“I prepared lunch for Mrs. Adler, so I have extra,” she said timidly.

Decker smiled. “Okay.”

“Is there someplace we can eat other than a car?” she asked uncomfortably.

“I think that can be arranged.”

He drove to a bedraggled park. The grass had been burned yellow and the sandbox was nothing more than a pile of gray pebbles, but to one side was a large shade tree with umbrella-like branches and some warped wooden benches. A couple of naked Latino tots ran through a sprinkler jet that was attempting—without visible success—to revive a bed of dead marigolds. The toddlers’ grandmother sat a few feet away, knitting as she watched them from the corner of one eye. Although there was plenty of empty seating in the shade, the old woman had elected to sit in the open sun with a bandana over her head, seemingly impervious to the heat. The temperature was well over a hundred, the air heavy with smog, but a slight breeze filtered through the lacy branches, providing some refuge.

Rina knew it wasn’t right for her to be alone with this man, but she felt compelled to help. She wanted justice to be done and the monster locked up—for society’s welfare and her own peace of mind.

They sat down and the old woman waved to Decker. He returned her greeting, and Rina opened the sack.

“I was in the mood for hamburgers,” she said.

“Great. I love hamburgers.”

“I made some cole slaw also.”

“Great. I love cole slaw.”

Rina laughed. “You’re very agreeable.”

“On certain occasions.”

“I’m glad this is one of them.” She unwrapped an oversized onion roll stuffed with a thick hunk of ground meat and gave it to him.

Decker regarded the sandwich. “This is a hamburger. It’s amazing how quickly you forget what a real one looks like after eating fast foods for years.” He took a chomp. The juices spilled out onto his mustache and chin.

“I brought extra napkins.” She handed him a wad.

“It looks like I’ll need ’em.”

Rina unwrapped several beige cubes. “This is potato kugel.”

“I like potatoes.”

“It’s best described as gelatinous hash browns—”

Decker laughed. “That sounds horrible.”

“It tastes better than it sounds.”

He bit into one of the squares and contemplated.