Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

His glass was empty and he ordered another.

He’d joined the LAPD after his brief fling as a lawyer, and they’d sent him straight to East L.A. A goddam mistake. Latinos didn’t trust a white boy who understood their tongue. He’d always be a spy, and try as he would, he could never ingratiate himself. The hell with ’em.

He drank the booze and set down the empty glass.

Ed Fordebrand materialized. He was wearing a red-and-green plaid sports shirt, brown slacks, polished oxfords, and a tan leather jacket.

“What the hell are you doing here, Deck?”

“What the fuck does it look like?”

“You and Rina had a-”

“No.” Decker ordered a third scotch.

“The bones in the mountains turned out messy, huh, Rabbi?”

“I’m not a fucking rabbi,” Decker snapped. He took a gulp of whiskey and finally began to feel a glow. He slapped Fordebrand on the back. “Let me buy you one, Ed.”

“Won’t turn it down.”

“How’s Annette?”

“Getting old and crotchety. On my ass, day and night.” Fordebrand ordered a bourbon and Seven. “But we’re used to each other. I’m not saying divorce hasn’t crossed my mind. Or hers for that matter. Seems we just never got around to it. Linda’s almost out of the house. She’s the last of them. We’ll see what happens then.”

Pat wiped the counter and placed the bourbon in front of Fordebrand.

“Drink up,” Decker said. “I’ll buy you another.”

“One a day is my ration. I run into problems if I don’t stick to it.” Fordebrand eyed Decker. “You never were much of a boozer, were you, Pete?”

Decker shook his head and ordered another. “Usually I work instead. Now I’m here to avoid work. And nothing waiting for me at home except piles of horseshit.”

“What about Rina?”

“What about her?” Decker’s expression soured. “Why bother talking to them, you know? All they do is get all worried and start praying, and pretty soon you’re telling things they can’t handle, and then all you’ve got is a hysterical woman on your hands.”

Fordebrand paused a moment, then said, “I only met her a couple of times, but Rina never seemed to be the hysterical type.”

“They’re all hysterical, Ed. Just give ’ em time. Jan wasn’t that hysterical at first either, but later…” He laughed. “A fucking Camille! Everything was such a big goddam deal.”

He drank up and ordered a Dos Equis chaser. Fordebrand watched him down the suds.

“Let me drive you home,” he said.

“I’m not drunk,” Decker protested. “Not nearly drunk enough. You gonna drink with me or you gonna be my mother?”

“I’m not going to do either one. I’ve got to go.”

Decker nodded. “Regards to Annette.”

Fordebrand left. And then the girls started to filter in. Decker drank a fourth, fifth, and sixth double as he watched them play their mating rituals with the uniform boys. He liked to observe, watch the boobs fall out of the loosely draped tops, see the nipples jutting against the fabric, the long shapely legs poking out from the miniskirts, the tight asses scrunched into jeans, hair loose, free and brassy-all of them heavily made-up and smelling of too much perfume.

Through a boozy haze, he saw a babe approach him. A tall one with a full head of platinum curls. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and her eyes were painted purple. She wore a gray, deliberately torn T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, and sprayed-on jeans that outlined her ass and crotch. Smiling, she took a seat next to him.

“Buy me a drink?”

He signaled Pat over.

“What’s your pleasure?” Decker asked.

“Gin and tonic.”

Pat nodded.

“Give me another scotch, will ya?”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” she started out.

Decker lit a cigarette.

“I haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Are you a cop?”

He laughed.

“Sometimes they call me that.”

“Don’t tell me,” the woman said cocking her head to one side. “You look like a detective.”

Decker smiled.

She gently bit her lower lip. “And I’d say you work in Robbery or maybe GTA.”

“Juvey and Sex Crimes,” he corrected her.

The girl wrinkled her nose. “Sex Crimes! I hear it’s the worst! All those disgusting rapists.”

“Rapists are disgusting…What’s your name?”

“Nadine. What’s yours?”

“Pete.”

“Nice to meet you, Pete.” She stuck out her hand and he took it. It was warm and soft. She pulled it away and took a sip of her tonic.

“So what brings you here, Pete?”

“Atmosphere.”

“Are you married?”

He hesitated a moment.

“No.”

Nadine laughed.

“Oh yes you are. I can spot ’em.”

He chuckled.

“All right, I am.”

“S’okay,” she said. “I’m just interested in a fun night anyway.”

His eyes scanned her body. One word and he had company for the evening. A warm woman in his bed. He felt hot. What did he owe to Rina anyway? What did he owe to anyone? Man, he was roasting. He could feel the smoke rising, enveloping him. It was fucking burning him!

“Shit!” The girl jumped up. “Your jacket’s on fire.”

He bolted off the stool and pounded on his right jacket pocket. A cigarette ember had spat fire onto his threads.

“Holy fucking shit!” he yelled, smothering the flames with his bare palm. It left a blackened hole in the tweed and had burnt the first pages of his pocket siddur. Decker stuffed the ruined prayer book in his other pocket. The girl was giggling.

“You okay?” she said, holding her hand over her mouth.

“Yeah.”

“C’mon,” she chirped. “Let’s get outta here before you burn the place down.”

“I’m going home,” he said disgustedly. “Maybe some other time, okay?”

The girl stopped laughing.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. He jerked away violently, and she stepped backward, frightened. Without a word, he slapped some bills on the countertop, turned around, and left.

As he drove home, the images grew stronger. The smoky stench of his jacket polluted the car, made it stifling. He threw open the windows and allowed a blast of cold air to hit his face, but still he sweated profusely. The images became real-fire, the stink of rotting flesh. Long-buried memories surfaced. Nam. Tracers lighting up the sky. Blood and bursts of rocket fire. Dismembered bodies. Stopthebleedingtreatemforshockgetemtoachopper. He shook his head fiercely. His mind segued to the ravaged young faces at Hotel Hell. And to Lindsey, her flesh darkening, oozing, cooking in the flames. He closed his eyes for a moment, but the nightmare stayed.

A horn honked, reminding him that the car was drifting into oncoming traffic. He jerked the wheel around and nearly sideswiped the vehicle on his right. Flooring the gas pedal, he raced over to the yeshiva, managing to get there unharmed.

It was nearly midnight, the place calm and peaceful. He banged loudly on her door, the knocks echoing in the quiet.

“Who’s there?” he heard her say, startled.

He had scared her.

“Peter,” he whispered. But she didn’t hear him and repeated her question, her voice small and frightened.

“It’s Peter,” he said again.

She unbolted the door.

“You scared-What’s wrong?”

He stepped inside and began to pace.

“I burned it,” he said, wiping off sweat with a jacket sleeve.

“It’s all right,” she soothed him. “Calm down and tell me what happened.”

He grabbed at his hair and pulled it.

“You don’t understand. I burned it with my goddam cigarette.” He took out the siddur and threw it on the floor.

She bent down and picked it up. An angel, he thought. Under her open robe he could see a diaphanous white nightgown. He could make out the outline of her body, but nothing more.