there.”
Marge gave him a pat atop his bald head. “For that, I’ll serve you coffee.”
Hollander smiled, genuinely this time. “You can toss me that old doughnut, Margie. No one else seems to be eating it.”
“Righto.” She aimed and fired. Hollander caught it in his right hand.
MacPherson said, “You’re actually going to her recital.”
Hollander whispered back, “The sacrifices one makes for friendship.”
“You’re an asshole,” MacPherson said. “You listen to her produce squeaky noises and I ask, what’s the payoff?”
“It makes her happy,” Hollander said.
“Makes her happy?” MacPherson said. “I don’t believe you said that, Michael.”
“I heard that, Paul,” Marge said.
“Mea culpa, madam,” said MacPherson. “I apologize. I don’t pick fights with women who outweigh me by twenty-five pounds.”
“Twenty,” Marge said. “I lost some weight since I broke up with Carroll. God, what an appetite that man had. I never realized how much the two of us ate.” She went over to the urn and poured two rounds of coffee, one in her unadorned mug, another in Hollander’s—a ceramic cup fronted with two 3-D breasts, the nipples painted bright pink.
“Done with the paper work yet, Paulie?” Hollander asked. “Shit, that must have been bad.”
MacPherson said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the DBs. Both of the punks were subhuman. It’s the little sister that burns my butt.”
“She get in the way of cross fire?” Marge asked, handing Hollander his cup.
MacPherson shook his head. “Get this. She was trying to protect her older brother—the punk. Such a sweet little thing. What a waste!”
“Where’s Decker?” Hollander asked. “He’s late this morning.”
“He took the day off,” Marge said.
“Oh, that’s right,” Hollander said. “He mentioned he was meeting some old army buddy that got himself in a jam.”
MacPherson said. “Rabbi Pete’s upstairs committing an immoral act with a minor.”
Marge smiled and sipped.
“I shit you not,” MacPherson continued. “He’s in the dorm sleeping with a kid under two. As a matter of fact, Margie, you’d better wake him up. Some dumb social worker’s going to see him and the kid together, and poor Pete’ll be charged with sexual abuse.”
“What happened?” Marge asked.
“The rabbi found the kid wandering the streets in that new development about one this morning. Brought her into the station house.”
“Which development?” Hollander asked. “There’s been a bunch of them lately. Assholes gerrymander the district, and we’ve got all these rich boys coming in and building all over the place.”
“Manfred and Associates,” MacPherson said. “You know. The one where all the streets are trees or states.”
“The one above the old lime quarry,” Marge said.
“You got it,” MacPherson answered.
“Decker call IDC yet?” Hollander asked.
“Nah,” MacPherson said. “Too early for that. He just filled out the forms and placed her under protective custody. The kid probably climbed out of her crib and escaped through a doggy door. Pete’s hoping for a frantic call any moment.”
“I’ll go wake him,” Marge said. She placed her mug on her desktop. “Enjoy your coffee, Michael.”
Hollander said, “Thanks. It’s as close as I’ll get to tit this morning.”
She walked out of the squad room into the front reception area. A middle-aged Hispanic was gesticulating to the desk sergeant. He was beanpole-thin, his face etched with deep sun lines. The sergeant looked bored, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes looking over the head of the Hispanic to Marge.
“Yo, Detective Dunn.”
Marge waved and said, “Sergeant Collins.”
“Is Sergeant Decker around? I need someone who can speak Spanish.”
Marge said, “I’ll go find you someone bilingual, Sarge.”
“Thanks.” Collins turned to the Hispanic. “Down, boy. Over there.” He pointed to a bench against the wall. It was occupied by a biker with bulging arms blued by tattooing, and a diminutive girl with stringy hair. “There, there!”
Marge said, “Sientese aquí, por favor.”
The man began speaking to Marge in rapid Spanish.
“No hablo Español,” Marge said. “Wait. Un momento. Sientese. On the bench.”
The Hispanic nodded his head in comprehension and sat down between the woman and the biker.
Collins said, “These dingdongs speak more Spanish than English over here.”
Marge asked, “Where’d you transfer from, Sarge?”
“Southeast,” Collins answered. “Five years in that shithole. They don’t speak English over there, either. Only fluent jive.”
“Most of the people in this division are hardworking,” Marge said.
“Yeah,” Collins said. “Till they get their papers and apply for welfare. Seems like America is the land of opportunity as long as you aren’t American.”
Marge smiled, made a quick exit. Collins hadn’t been in the division more than a week, and the SOB was already bitching and moaning. He probably hated women, too. Marge shrugged him off, figuring a five-year stint at Southeast could do strange things to anyone.
She climbed up the metal staircase and opened the door to the dorm.
Decker wasn’t sleeping. He was wrestling with the kid on the floor, trying to change her diaper. From the looks of the struggle, the kid had the edge. The big redhead was so involved in the ordeal that he hadn’t even heard the door open.
“C’mon, kiddo,” Decker said. “Just onnnne more second—no. No, don’t do that. Hold still. Shit. Excuse my language. Just hold—”
The kid kicked her legs with all her might.
“Happy? You just ripped the diaper again.”
Decker tickled her ribs. The toddler broke into peals of laughter.
“Ticklish, huh?” Decker tickled her again. She spasmed with guffaws. “Now
