Milk and Honey

“Abel—”

“Yeah, cards can be forged,” Abel broke in. “I’m well aware of that, Doc. But we believe what we want to believe. And condoms don’t fit my fantasies.”

“You’re a first-class ass.”

“Tell me something we both don’t already know.”

“Where’d you find this babe?” Decker asked.

“Strutting up the boulevard. My nest isn’t too far from the garden spot.”

“Go on.”

“We made arrangements, and she took me up to her place. Jesus, what a sty! Place was redolent with foot odor and other rancid—”

“Get to the point, Abe.”

“Okay, okay. We fucked. She was good, and I wanted more. So I paid for another round.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on bringing back the memory. “I was feeling really virile. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time, Pete. This one … I don’t know … she was really good. I paid for a third time—”

“Where’d you get all this bread?”

“From good old red, white, and blue Uncle Sam. I’m part of the national debt, Pete. Sammy owes me forever for my leg.” He wiped his forehead with his napkin. “Also, I pick up spare change from odd jobs. My needs are simple, and sex is cheap.”

“All right. Go on.”

“By the end of the third time, I was pretty wasted.”

“Were you doping?”

“No. She was, but I wasn’t. By wasted, I meant tired. I asked her if I could crash out at her place, and she agreed.”

“For a fee.”

“It’s America,” Abel said. “Everything has a price.”

“Around what time was that?” Decker asked.

“About one, two in the morning. She told me she was through for the evening anyway. She’d made her quota, and her main man would be happy.”

The waitress brought the sandwiches.

“I’ll be right back,” Decker said.

He got up and walked back toward the restaurant’s kitchen, over to an industrial sink. Hanging over the lave was a two-handled brass stein and a roll of paper towels. Decker took the chalice off the hook, filled it with water, and poured it over his hands twice. Shaking off the excess water, he dried his hands and said the blessing for the ritual washing. He walked back to the table, mumbled another blessing over bread, then chomped on his pastrami on rye.

Abel stared at him. “You’re real serious about this.”

Decker chewed, swallowed, and gulped down half his orange juice. He said, “My woman is religious.”

“Your wife?”

“Not yet,” Decker said. “But I hope to change that very soon.”

“We’re talking about marriage number two, right? Or is it more?”

“Only two.”

“When did you divorce the first one? What was her name? Jean … no, Jan.”

“Yeah. Jan. I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Didn’t you two have a kid?”

“Still do. A daughter—”

“Cynthia.”

Decker nodded. “She’s going to be a freshman at Columbia this fall. The marriage was worth it for her.”

“So she’s what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“About the same age we were when we met,” Abel said.

“Frightening,” Decker said.

“Damn frightening,” Abel said. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”

“No.”

“I did. About seven years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. We’re still married, so far as I know. We don’t live together. No one can live with me.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine,” Abel said. “She’s got three from previous liaisons, none of them married her. I took pity—seventeen-year-old girl and three kids. Nice chicklet, cute, but stupid as shit. Just can’t say no. So I got her fixed up with an IUD. I send her a little cash, see her when I go back home for Christmas. She’s happy, I’m happy.”

“It’s great to be happy.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “Let’s get back to the rape.”

“Where was I?”

“You paid to sleep over at her house.”

Abel nodded. “That was the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew, I woke up—handcuffed. My skull is cracked open, and the bitch is screaming bloody murder …”