Prayers for the Dead

15

Decameron said, “This man is Lieutenant Decker, Liz. He’s in charge of Azor’s investigation. Lieutenant, Dr. Elizabeth Fulton.”

Decker shook her hand, noticing long, slender fingers. Her face was grave, but childlike-waifish with big brown eyes. Her hair was auburn and bushy. Little Orphan Annie had grown up to be a doctor. She wore a trim black wool suit, the short skirt showing long, shapely legs.

“I don’t suppose you’ve found out anything,” Liz said.

Decameron said, “Darling, even Sherlock needed a couple of days before he pronounced.”

Liz said, “Don’t they say most homicides are solved within forty-eight hours?”

“Then the man still has thirty to go,” Decameron stated. “No smoking gun?”

“Wish it were so.”

“Keep digging, Lieutenant. Everyone has a past.” Decameron smiled. “Would you like to hear about mine?”

“I’m listening, Doctor.”

“Reggie, don’t be tasteless.”

“Two charges of solicitation, both over eighteen,” Decameron said. “I’m not a baby raper, I detest NAM-BLA and its perverts, disavow anything that harms children. I’m simply queer-”

“Reggie-”

“One charge was thrown out, the other stuck. Azor just about boxed me when he found out. But I ate shit and he relented.” Decameron looked away. “For all his rigidity and fanaticism, Azor was a soft touch.”

“Court put you on probation, Dr. Decameron?”

“Six months plus one hundred hours of community service.” Decameron grinned. “I worked in Boys Town.” He grew serious. “It wasn’t bad actually. The critters grew fond of me. This was back…maybe two and a half years ago. I still pop in about once a month. How’s that for being Joe Q Citizen?”

“You read them alternative bedtime stories, Reggie?” Liz said.

“Hansel and Hans.” Decameron cocked his hip. “Actually, I do bona fide patient care. You’d be proud of me, Liz. I’m very doctorly.”

She looked at him. “That’s nice, Reg.”

“What do you do?” Decker asked.

“Not much. Most runaways are in deplorable health. Their bodies are battered from drug abuse, sexual abuse, physical abuse, malnutrition plus adolescent hormones. Basically, I put Band-Aids on surgical wounds. Give them medicine for the obvious infections and dispense words of Welbyan advice. Tell them there’s a better way, tell them there’s a life out there, tell them to be more cautious. It’s like telling me to be straight. One ear and out the other. C’est la vie. You can’t save the world. Speaking of miscreants, how’s your husband, Elizabeth?” He turned to Decker. “Have you met Drew?”

Liz glared at Decameron. “Thank God you’re back to normal. For a moment, I almost liked you.”

“Where is the little puppy?”

“Reggie, knock it off.”

“What about Myron Berger, Lieutenant?” Decameron asked. “Have you met the last of Azor’s three stooges?”

“This morning.”

“I suppose he brought up my tiff with Azor.”

“I brought it up, Reg,” Liz said.

Decameron’s eyes widened. “Et tu, Judas?”

“You’re mixing your metaphors.” Liz paused. “As a matter of fact, the police brought it up to me. They said you told them about it.”

“I did indeed…to head Myron off.” To Decker, Decameron said, “And what did Dr. Berger tell you? I was spouting smoke through my nostrils, ready to kill Azor for dressing me down in public?”

Decker said, “Actually, he spoke temperately.”

“That’s not temperance, Lieutenant, that’s fear of an opinion. But don’t take my word for it about Myron. Just ask around. Ah, the word of God cometh…and in such a pretty package.” Decameron waited a beat, then stuck out his hand. “Hello, Father Bram. How’s your mother holding up? I’d ask her myself, but she doesn’t like me.”

Bram shook Decameron’s hand. “Coping. Thanks for asking. How’s the hospital?”

“Myron’s doing a superb job calming the patients,” Liz said. “But your father is…missed. I sure miss him.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, grabbed Bram’s hand. “You spoke wonderfully today.”

“Not a dry eye in the house, Padre,” Decameron commented. “You’re quite the orator. Maybe I’ll show up one Sunday Mass.”

“You’d always be welcome.”

“Isn’t he wonderful!” Decameron said. “How’s the rest of the family doing?”

“Managing.”

“What can we do for you, Bram?” Liz said.

“Nothing at the moment.” Skillfully, the priest liberated his hand from Liz’s grip. “But if I need anything, I won’t hesitate. You’ve all been introduced?”

“More or less.” Decameron looked at his watch. “As interesting as it’s been, I should be getting back to the hospital. Do you need anything specific from me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, I do need something if you don’t mind.”

“What?”

Decker looked around, dropped his voice. “I believe you met Detectives Dunn and Oliver last night.”

“That I did.”

“They went out to Fisher/Tyne this morning, interviewed a Dr. Gordon Shockley-”

“Oh God!” Decameron clucked his tongue. “Forgive me, Father. Sin number three of the Decalogue. Am I absolved?”

“Absolutely, as long as you refrain from doing it again.” Bram smiled. “At least in my presence.”

To Decker, Decameron said, “Gordon’s a toad. Did he give them a hard time?”

“Well, let’s say he played it pretty close to the bone.”

“What do you need?”

“They were wondering if you have the data from the Fisher/Tyne-FDA trials of Curedon?”

“Yes, of course. Why do they want it?”

“Because Shockley refused to divulge it.”

“Some people are very anal retentive.” Decameron thought a moment. “Tell them to call my secretary. We’ll do lunch tomorrow. I think I know where Azor kept the Curedon data. I’m assuming you just want the latest printouts. Otherwise, I’d need a truck to carry all the computer paper.”

“The latest figures would be fine.”

“I’ll go through Azor’s files, look for the data. Which won’t mean drek to them. But if they’re willing to slosh through the statistical muck, I’d be happy to explain what I can to them.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that.”

“Unless you want to do it, Liz.”

“It’s more your baby, Reg.” To Decker, she said, “Dr. Decameron is our liaison between Dr. Sparks’s lab, Fisher/Tyne, and the FDA. Mostly, I do all the internal lab work.”

“Dr. Fulton worked extensively with Dr. Sparks in formulating Curedon’s animal trials,” Decameron said. “She was in charge of research design.”

“Don’t I sound impressive.”

“It was impressive.”

Liz was quiet.

Decameron said, “You’re supposed to say thank you.”

Liz smiled. “Thank you.”

Decameron looked at his watch again. His eyes went to the priest. He embraced him. “From the heart, I’m very sorry, Abram. Honestly, I am.”

“I know you are, Reggie.”

“Your father will be sorely missed. I’m not sure we can go on without him. But for now, we have no choice.”

“That’s what he’d want you to do.”

“You take care of yourself.” Decameron pulled away. To Liz, he said, “Do you need a ride back to New Chris?”

“No, Drew will drive me back.” Liz looked around the room. “Where is Drew?”

Decameron said, “Last I saw, he was playing jacks with the children. He was up to threesies.”

“Reg, stop it!”

“I believe he’s in the dining room, Liz.”

“Thank you, Bram.” She clasped him tightly to her breast. “Call if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Decker saw Bram stiffen as she hugged him. Second time today he noticed how uncomfortable the priest became when touched by a woman.

Liz touched his cheek. “Take care of your family. They need you now more than ever.”

“Elizabeth, that is a cursed thing to say!” Decameron chided. “Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll do both. How’s that for a compromise?”

The two doctors waved, then walked off. Bram laughed softly when they were out of earshot. “What a pair.”

“You seem to get along with them.”

“In a very limited scope.”

“Both of them seem quite fond of you.”

Bram eyed Decker. “Everyone loves a priest. Rina took a cab back home. Would you like to meet Grease Pit?”

“Yes, I would.” Decker paused. “He wasn’t at all what I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you said your father was a weekend warrior, I thought you meant a doctor/lawyer dress-up club.”

“No, these guys are the real thing.” Bram pushed hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know why my father hooked up with such a motley crew. Unless he was trying to reform them.”

“Did your father try to reform people?”

“My family is Fundamentalist, Lieutenant. Saving souls is an integral part of the doctrine. All we kids have done missionary work as teenagers. My mother chose to act out her life’s mission through her church, and my father saved souls through his work. But even with all the medical miracles he performed, he was still vocal about being a personal missionary as well as a professional one. He used to pray with his patients before the surgeries.”

Decker paused. “It didn’t create a conflict with non-Fundamentalist patients?”

“He showed sensitivity if the patient wasn’t Christian. Spoke exclusively of God instead of Jesus. Sometimes, he’d even use the common parlance of a Higher Being.”

“What if the patient was an atheist?”

The priest shrugged. “I would imagine everyone recognizes his or her own mortality before major transplant surgery. I don’t think Dad’s invocation caused a problem. If it did, I never heard about it.”

Decker looked around. Again, he spoke softly. “Obviously, his Fundamentalist beliefs didn’t influence his choice of colleagues.”

“You mean Dr. Decameron? Reggie’s a brilliant man. My father wouldn’t have kept him on if he wasn’t.”

“He didn’t find his overt homosexuality a slap in the face of his religion?”

The priest’s eyes darted about. “You don’t turn your back on sinners.”

“But you don’t have to hire them on. Nor do you have to keep them on once they’ve been convicted of morals charges.”

Bram said, “Take a walk with me.”

Decker followed the priest back into the kitchen. To his surprise, it was empty, leaving Decker to wonder where Bram had stowed his twin, Luke. The priest leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes on Decker’s face. “Did Dr. Decameron tell you about the arrest or did you dig that up?”

“Decameron told me.”

“It made the local throwaway papers here in a big way. You can picture the byline: RENOWNED HEART DOCTOR BUSTED CRUISING SANTA MONICA. It caused a mini-scandal not only in the hospital, but in Father’s church. Dad got a lot of flak. Not to his face of course, but there were whisperings that were painful for my mother. Even so, Dad was a man of integrity. He stood behind Decameron and eventually everything died down. I called you in here because I’m asking you to please refrain from mentioning the incident around my mother.”

“She doesn’t like Dr. Decameron.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Because of the scandal or because he’s gay?”

“Because of the scandal and because he’s overtly gay.” The priest fingered his cross. “She’s old-fashioned. Thinks that if gays really wanted to change, they could. To her, homosexuality isn’t an innate, hardwired sexual preference. To her, it’s being stubborn.”

“And it’s being a sinner.”

“That, too.” Bram waited a beat. “Actually, it’s the homosexual act that’s the sin, not the homosexual. Though the distinction makes little difference to a woman like my mother or to a man like Reginald, it would make a great difference to someone like my father who took the Bible literally.”

“Meaning?”

“He’d have nothing against homosexuals as long as they abstained from engaging in homosexuality.”

Decker paused. “So your father wouldn’t discriminate against gays as long as they remained celibate.”

“Exactly.”

“Hard to do.”

“It can be done.”

Decker said nothing. The priest’s face was neutral.

Bram said, “Either celibate or sublimated in a legitimate heterosexual union.”

“But neither is the case with Decameron.”

“No.”

“And yet your father kept him on.”

“Yes.”

“Ever get an indication that your father was trying to save Decameron’s soul?”

A small smile played upon Bram’s lips. As if the thought was too absurd for words. “No, I never did see any indication of that. But perhaps it was an agenda of my father’s.” He looked around. “I’ve got to get back to the crowd.”

“Of course,” Decker said. “Out of curiosity, is punishing the act but not the desire how the Catholic Church views gays?”

“Our philosophy is to deal compassionately with everyone. Anybody-and I do mean anybody-is welcome in my church. Theologically speaking, confession and penance are required for all immoral thoughts regardless toward whom they’re directed.”

“Although personally you think immoral thoughts could be construed as healthy outlets for tension.”

Bram stared at him. “Ah, our discussion last night. I should be more temperate in my speech. I didn’t quite mean that, Lieutenant. As an agent of the Roman Catholic faith, I feel it’s not only commendable but very wise to keep the mind as spiritually focused as possible. I had just been musing for my father’s benefit. He expected theological interchange whenever I was around. I tried not to disappoint.”

Decker nodded, wondering what kind of fantasies had ever danced in the priest’s mind.

Bram said, “By the way, Lieutenant, I want to apologize for my sister’s comments yesterday. Eva isn’t anti-Semitic. But she is having a hard time with her Jewish husband. She’s another one who has trouble making distinctions.”

“How’d your parents feel about Eva marrying a Jew?”

The priest’s voice leaked exhaustion. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t bring that up with my mother either.”

“I’m not bringing it up with her. I’m bringing it up with you.”

“We’ve all made peace with our differences.” He looked up, engaged Decker’s eyes. “We’ve run far afield.”

“I’ll take that introduction to Grease Pit, Father. Sorry to have monopolized your time.”

“Actually, you did a mitzvah…distracted me from these unreal circumstances for a short time. Isn’t that what shivah is all about?”

Decker said, “You know Hebrew.”

“Yes, I do.”

Guy was probably more fluent than he was. Seems the world was more fluent than he.

Decker pushed aside his jealousy and thought about what the priest was saying. There were some similarities between this gathering and shivah, the required seven days of Jewish mourning. The grieving family of course, the somber dress, visitors offering words of comfort to the bereaved, even the ample supply of finger food.

But there were also distinct differences. Namely the lack of religious rituals. Jewish law requires that the mourners wear torn clothing, sit on low stools or the floor instead of chairs, and refrain from greeting visitors. They were not permitted to leave the house-even to pray at synagogue. Which meant a minyan-ten adult men needed for public prayer-was usually brought to the mourners’ house. Bathing was prohibited during shivah. So was shaving. All mirrors were covered, usually with taped-to-the-wall sheets. And of course, the official mourning period was intense for seven days, followed by thirty lesser days, followed by eleven months of reciting the mourner’s Kaddish in a minyan.

Bram said, “Actually, the one thing I wished we would have incorporated into our memorial service was a recitation of Kaddish. It’s a very beautiful prayer.”

“I didn’t realize that priests studied Jewish liturgy.”

“In general, we don’t give it more than a superficial glance.”

Decker met the priest’s eyes. “Perhaps you learned it at the shivah of an old friend.”

“Perhaps.” Bram cleared his throat. “From the sublime to the ridiculous. Let’s go find Grease Pit.”

The man was pushing three hundred pounds with an enormous gut and a face as large and round as a globe. Tanned skin with noticeable pores and a sweeping black mustache that topped his lip like a boa. His hair was straight and black, and fell halfway down his back. Tall sucker, too. Almost Decker’s height. He had on a black shirt, too-tight black jeans that exposed a crescent of hairy belly, and scuffed riding boots. He held a spangled leather jacket. He pumped Decker’s hand.

“Manny Sanchez, Lieutenant. Call me Grease Pit. Or call me Manny. I don’ care. Good to meet you, good to meet you. I wanna tell you somethin’ right off the bat, right off the bat, know what I’m sayin’?”

“I know what you’re saying.”

Bram said, “If you two would please excuse me, my attention is needed elsewhere.”

“You bet, Father.” Sanchez grabbed the priest’s hand and shook it vigorously. “You take care of your family, take care of your mother, you know what I’m sayin’.”

“Yes. Thanks for coming down and giving us your support.”

“For Granddaddy, you bet I came. That was one hell of a man, your daddy. Now you go and take care of your mamma. ’Cause that’s what family’s for, know what I’m sayin’. To take care of each other.”

“Absolutely.” Bram extricated his hand. “Lieutenant.”

“Father.”

After Bram left, Sanchez hitched up his pants and said, “One hell of a guy, that Father Bram. Granddaddy loved him, I can tell you that. Loved his boy, loved his kids. But it’s good that he left. ’Cause what I gotta say isn’t for God’s ears, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Tell me.”

Sanchez jabbed the air with his index finger as he spoke. “Because I’m talkin’ to you right now. Man to man. Know what I’m sayin’? Man to man, not pussy to pussy. And I’m tellin’ you this. Asshole who did this to Granddaddy should be stringed up by the cojones, you know what I’m sayin’.”

“I know what you’re saying, Mr. Sanchez. But that isn’t how we operate under American law.”

“Fuck American law.” Sanchez realized he was talking too loud. “Fuck American law,” he repeated softer. “I mean not fuck it…but you know, like…fuck it. I mean like you gotta job to do. And I can unnerstan’ that. And I don’t want to fuck you up-”

“That’s very wise, sir.”

“But sometimes it just don’t work the way it should. You know what I’m sayin’.” Again his finger started poking air. “Now, I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna break the law or anything-”

“That’s very good thinking. Because breaking the law can get you into serious trouble.”

“I’m just sayin’ that if you can’t get it done, then I can get it done. Now I’m talkin’ man to man, unnerstan’. You get it done. Or I get it done.”

Decker said, “Mr. Sanchez, do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“An asshole.” Sanchez tugged up on his waistband. “That’s what you gotta look for. An asshole. A punk. Someone who rips for the fun of rippin’. And that means an asshole. Probably one of these gang-bangers. Did you look at the gang-bangers?”

“We’re looking into everything and everybody.”

“That’s good. Hey, Sidewinder!” Sanchez shouted out. “Sidewinder, come on over here.”

Sidewinder was slightly smaller than Sanchez-less gut but more bottom heavy. His face, eroded by acne, held a weak chin and a mouth of crooked front teeth. He had dishwater hair tied up into a ponytail. His garb was almost identical to Grease Pit’s-black T-shirt over black jeans. His boots held tips and spurs-great accoutrements for kicking recalcitrant motorcycles.

“Sidewinder Polinski, this is…”

“Lieutenant Decker.” He proffered his hand. Polinski turned it into a high-five handshake.

Sanchez said, “Sidewinder, this guy here, he’s in charge of Granddaddy’s bump. We gotta cooperate with him. Find the asshole who did this.”

“Absolutely,” Polinski said. “Anything we can do to help. Not just me, any one of us. We all loved Granddaddy.”

Sanchez said, “One hell of a guy. I was just tellin’…tellin’…”

“Decker.”

“Yeah, the lieutenant here that either he finds the asshole. Or we find the asshole. Don’t make no difference to me. Just so long as someone finds the asshole.”

“Sir, it does make a difference to the law.”

“Aw, fuck the law-”

“I know, Mr. Sanchez. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Grease Pit’s just frustrated,” Polinski said. “We all are. I mean look at it from our point of view. The tax dollars wasted on OJ’s trial. And then the Menendez mistrial…more tax dollars wasted. Then the retrial. More tax dollars. That’s a lot of money. So you see what he’s saying about taking the law into his own hands. I mean it’s wrong. But it’s efficient.”

“It will land you in jail.”

“More tax dollars wasted,” Polinski said. “But that’s what this society has come to. Lots of waste.”

Decker stared at the biker, took out his notepad. “Any idea who might have bumped Granddaddy, Sidewinder?”

“Me?” Polinski scratched his head. “No. No ideas.”

“Nah, we don’t know assholes who do this shit,” Sanchez said. “We don’t believe in random violence.”

Decker managed to keep his face expressionless.

Sanchez said, “You shoulda seen Granddaddy on a bike, Lieutenant. Man, he was somethin’. Burnin’ the tar, smokin’ dirt through his tailpipes. And he put his money where his mouth was. Came through when it counted.”

“How so?”

“In the cause, man.”

“What cause?”

“He means,” Polinski said, “that Granddaddy came through when you needed him.”

“Fucking-A right!”

“What cause?” Decker repeated.

“Like when Benny got wrecked.” Polinski scratched his head again. Flakes snowed from his scalp. “Man, did he get wrecked!”

Sanchez said, “Yeah, man, that was somethin’. He really got wrecked, man.”

Decker said, “What happened to Benny?”

“Asshole was skunk drunk.” Sanchez adjusted his pants. “Went flyin’ head first into the ground. Blood squirtin’ all over the fuckin’ place. Granddaddy sprung into action. Man, it was somethin’ to see that guy in action when Benny got wrecked. Old guy like him.” He snapped his fingers. “Moved like that.”

Polinski said, “He had him bandaged up and ready to go way before the medics came tooling by. It was something to watch him. We were all in awe.”

“What happened to Benny?” Decker asked.

Sanchez said, “He died, stupid fuck. Massive brain injuries.”

“Not that he had much brains to start with.”

Decker said, “He wasn’t wearing a helmet?”

Sanchez sneered. “We was playin’ around in the desert. You don’t expect to get wrecked playin’ around in the desert. Besides, helmets are for pussies.”

Too bad Benny wasn’t around to offer a rebuttal. Decker said, “How did Dr. Sparks come to join your group and ride with you?”

“I asked him,” Sanchez said. “I fell in love with the old guy, know what I’m sayin’. He comes into the lot with his sons, I thought, Shit, another stupid fuck. Turns out the guy wasn’t a stupid fuck. Knew what he wanted, knew what he was talkin’ about. I asked him…I said…hey, Granddaddy, want to ride with us on Saturday. I kinda threw it out like a joke. But he said, Yeah, I’ll come ride with you on Saturday. And you know what? He came and rode with us.”

“He was good.” Polinski ran his tongue over equine frontal incisors. “Could have used a little polishing when taking the curves. But for an old guy, he had great balance.”

Decker said, “Either of you have any theories about his murder?”

“Yeah,” Sanchez said. “It was some asshole.”

Polinski said, “It’s absurd. Someone murdering Granddaddy. For what reason? Grease Pit’s right. It had to be some hyped asshole.”

Sanchez hit Polinski’s shoulder, pointed to someone in the crowd. “Who’s that guy, Sidewinder? Don’t he look familler?”

Decker looked to where Sanchez was pointing. Muscular build, curly black hair, blue eyes. “That’s Paul Sparks. One of the doctor’s sons.”

Sanchez pulled up his pants. “Who’s he talking to?”

Decker regarded Paul’s companion. A ruddy man who appeared to be in his sixties, around six feet with a sizable spread about his middle. Soft features-thick lips and a thick, veiny nose. White hair cut short and blunt. Dressed in a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, red tie.

From Decker’s viewpoint, the old guy seemed to be lecturing about something important. Because Paul was listening carefully, nodding at frequent intervals, his eyelids calm and steady.

“Don’t he look familler?” Sanchez repeated.

“Yes, he does,” Polinski agreed. “He’s obviously a friend of Granddaddy’s. But I don’t remember him ever riding with us.”

“No, he didn’t ride with us.”

The two bikers continued to stare.

“Didn’t Granddaddy brought him into the store once?” Sanchez said. “When he looked at the Harley Bagger.”

“Granddaddy bought a Bagger?”

“I knowed he looked at one,” Sanchez said. “A thirtieth anniversary Ultra Bagger. But I don’t think he buyed it.” To Decker, he said, “That is one mean mother bike-1340 ccs at 5000 rpm, 78 pounds of torque, and fuel-injected. Tops out ’bout ninety which ain’t bad considering all the shit it got on it. I remember Granddaddy was looking at a Victory Red.”

“Cool,” Decker said.

Polinski continued staring at the man.

Sanchez said, “Think we should go over and say somethin’ to him?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” Sanchez said. “Like hi or somethin’.”

Again, Polinski tongued his front teeth. “I don’t even remember his name.”

“I don’t, either.”

Polinski said, “Nah, I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Me, neither,” Sanchez said. “I was just thinkin’ that we should be…you know…like payin’ our respects.”

“We showed up and signed into the book,” Polinski said. “That’s enough. You know what? I’ve had enough. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Sanchez turned back to Decker. “You remember what I told you, right?”

“If you remember what I told you.”

“What did I miss?” Polinski said.

“I was just informing Mr. Sanchez that lynch mobs are against the law.”

Polinski waved Decker off. “He’s just frustrated. We all are. Too much tax dollars wasted on psychos. Too many laws restricting freedom of choice. The government should be catching criminals…real criminals. Not passing meaningless shit that the cops can’t enforce. I mean the drug czar, for instance. What a waste of tax dollars. I’m not saying drugs are good. I’m just saying the drug czar was a waste of money. No wonder people get mad and blow things up.”

“Because it’s meaningless,” Sanchez said.

“Exactly.”

Decker said, “You’re entitled to think a law is meaningless. Just as long as you obey it.”

Polinski said, “If the law told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?”

“You’re speaking in absurdities, Mr. Polinski,” Decker said.

“That’s the point,” Polinski said. “The law’s absurd.”

Decker said, “Let’s talk bottom line, gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble with you, I don’t want you getting in my face. Do we have an understanding?”

“Hey, you do your job,” Sanchez said. “You get no trouble from us.”

Polinski hit Sanchez’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Before you two go, can I get your full names and addresses?”

Polinski said, “Stanislav Polinski, aka Sidewinder. He’s Emmanuel Sanchez, aka Grease Pit.”

“Addresses?”

“Right now we got a trailer in Canyon Country,” Sanchez said. “But that don’t mean nothin’. ’Cause we’re always on the move.”

“Where in Canyon Country?”

“Somewhere,” Sanchez answered.

Sidewinder said, “No sense giving you a place ’cause we move around a lot.”

“What about the shop?” Sanchez said.

“What about it?” Decker asked.

“I work at a used-bike dealership Thursday through Saturday. You can call me anytime.” Sanchez moved in and smiled. “Give you a great deal on the bike of your choice. Specially if you got trade-in.”

“I’ll bet,” Decker said. “What’s the address of the dealership?”

Sanchez gave it to him. “Good meetin’ you.” Sanchez grabbed Decker’s hand with a leathery palm, shook it hard. “You’re gonna find this asshole, right?”

“I’m going to do my best.”

“Come on.” Polinski gave Sanchez a slight nudge. To Decker, he said, “Ciao.”

“Ciao.” Decker watched them go, swaggering and jingling, with Sanchez tugging his pants upward to hide his butt crack. Grease Pit talked a good case of avenging Granddaddy, but he was probably more smoke than fire. Still, one never knew. They both merited further investigation.

Decker made some final scratches in his pad, notes reminding him to check out certain things. He finished his scribblings, tucked the pad into his jacket. Then he looked up and scanned the crowd. Paul was conversing with a bunch of white-haired church ladies. And the man with the thick lips and veiny nose had disappeared from sight.