Sacred and Profane by Faye Kellerman

as you do from scratch. I don’t think I could. I envy your strength of character.”
    She gave him a bear hug.
    “I’m a little choked up,” Decker said.
    “You’re entitled.”
    He began to feel physically amorous. He suspected Rina was feeling the same way, because she broke away abruptly. He said, “Can you keep this for me until tomorrow? I’m not going straight home and I don’t want to take it with me.”
    “Where’re you going?” she asked.
    “To find out about a possible runaway. To glamorous Hollyweird.”

7
    He parked on a side street off Sunset, east of the Strip, took off his yarmulke and tie, and unfastened the top three buttons on his white shirt. Slipping on a couple of gold chains, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. He needed a shave and that was good, but he was still not satisfied. Mussing his hair, he pulled a lock over his forehead down to his brow, then took off his brown suit jacket and donned a cheap baggy windbreaker that didn’t show the swell of his .38. He placed a pack of Marlboros and a penlight in a front pocket, opened the door of the Plymouth, and stepped outside.
    The underbelly of Hollywood was a vampire leeching out the blood of the city, he thought, the sidewalk teeming with action that thrives in the shadows. He found a spot that looked good—a fine vantage point from where he could see the pimps, hookers, addicts, dealers, and everyday desperados and degenerates. But the best part about the location was the number of independent streetwalkers. He needed a sucker not shackled to a pimp.
    It didn’t take long. The one he picked out was a skinny black girl in an electric blue tank top, denim cut-offs, and a knee-length black boots. Her hair had been cornrowed, her eyelids painted blue and pink. Two red slashes highlighted her cheekbones. He gave her the eye, then quickly averted his gaze.
    He’d always felt that the key to being a good undercover vice cop was thinking like a woman. You had to be coy and flirtatious. Most bona fide johns were pretty damn shy when approaching a hooker. There was usually some resistance, and it was the whore who made the moves. Any guy who came on too strong smelled of weirdo or cop.
    He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and flashed a quick glance at Hot Pants. She cocked her head and gave him an open smile. He smiled back and returned to his smoke. He didn’t turn around, but he could hear her approaching.
    “Got a light?” she asked. Her voice was sultry.
    Decker slipped out his matches and lit her cigarette.
    “Thank you, Honey,” she said.
    “You’re welcome.”
    “What are you doing out here all alone, Sugar?”
    He paused, then said, “Enjoying the air.”
    “Nature lover, huh?”
    He let his eyes drift slowly over her body. Her tight nylon top offered little support for her sagging breasts. Her crotch was bisected by sprayed-on shorts—cunt-cutters.
    “I love what nature has given us,” he answered trying to look hungry.
    “How much do you love nature, Sugar?”
    “How much does it cost to love nature?”
    “I think fifty dollars will give you an awful lot of raw beauty.”
    “What are we talking about here?” he said exhaling a plume of smoke.
    “What do you want, Honey?”
    “What are my choices?”
    “You tell me what you want,” she said.
    He wasn’t about to entrap her, so he changed course abruptly.
    “Listen, bitch, if you’re gonna fuck with my mind, forget the whole thing. I don’t need this shit.”
    He started to walk away, but she caught his arm.
    “Sugar, Sugar, don’t get so hot. Save it for when it counts.” She studied his face and decided to go for it. “Suck or fuck, take your pick.”
    “If I want both?”
    “Cost you twenty-five more.”
    “Let me see if I’ve got the bread.” He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out his badge, and grabbed her arm.
    “Aw Jesus,” she groaned.
    “C’mon, Hot Pants, just behave yourself.” He turned her around, leaned her against a