"He's my friend, man."

"He's a crook," said the Chinaman in English, and when the boy continued to look hostile, showed him his police badge. The backpackers stared at it, then at each other.

"Tell them," the Chinaman commanded Little Hook, who was grimacing as if in agony, doing a little dance, calling the Scandinavians "my friends, my friends," playing the part of victim, outrageously overacting.

"Hey, man," said the backpacker. "We were seeking a place for the night. This fellow was helping us."

"This fellow is a crook. Tell them, Hook."

Ibn Hamdeh hesitated. The Chinaman squeezed his arm and the little thief started crowing: "I'm crook. Yes." He laughed, displaying toothless upper gums, lower incisors jacketed with steel. "I'm nice guy, but crook, ha ha."

"What did he tell you?" the Chainaman asked the backpackers. "That his sister has a nice place, warm bed, running water, and free breakfast-you give him a finder's fee and he'd take you there?"

The girl nodded.

"He has no sister. If he did, she'd be a pickpocket. How much did he ask for?"

The Scandinavians looked away in embarrassment.

"Five American dollars," said the girl.

"Together, or each?"

"Each."

The Chinaman shook his head and kicked Ibn Hamdeh in the seat of the pants. "How much money can you spend on a room?" he asked the backpackers.

"Not much," said the boy, looking at the bills in his hands and putting them back in his pocket.

"Try the YMCAs. There's one in East Jerusalem and one in West Jerusalem."

"Which one's cheaper?" asked the girl.

"I think they're the same. The east one's smaller, but closer."

He gave them directions, the boy said, "Thanks, man," and they loped off. Stupid babies.

"Now," he said, dragging Ibn Hamdeh up David Street and pushing him against the grate of a souvenir shop. He flipped the little rascal around, frisked him for weapons, and came up with a cheap knife with a fake pearl handle that he pulverized under his heel. Spinning Ibn Hamdeh around so that they were face to face, he looked down on greasy hair, fishy features, the hump covered by a flowered shirt that reeked of stale sweat.

"Now, Gadallah, do you know who I am?"

"Yes, sir. The…police."

"Go on, say what you were going to say." The Chinaman smiled.

Little Hook trembled.

"Slant Eye, right?" said the Chinaman. He took hold of Ibn Hamdeh's belt, lifted him several inches in the air-the shmuck weighed less than his concrete-can barbell. "Everything you've heard about me is true."

"Most certainly, sir."

The Chinaman held him that way for a while, then lowered him and told him what he'd heard on the street, got ready for resistance, the need to exert a little pressure. But rather than harden the hunchback's defenses, the inquiry seemed to cheer him. He opened up immediately. Laying on the sirs and talking fast in that same choppy voice about a man who had scared one of his girls the previous Thursday night, on the Jericho Road just before it hooked east, just above Silwan. An American with crazy eyes who'd seemed to materialize out of nowhere, on foot-the girl had seen no car, figured he'd been hiding somewhere off the road.

Eight days ago, thought the Chinaman. Exactly a week after Juliet's murder.

"Why'd you take so long to report it, asshole?"

Little Hook began an obsequious dance of shuffles and shrugs. "Sir, sir, I didn't realize-"

"Never mind. Tell me what happened exactly?"

"The American asked her for sex, showed her a roll of American dollars. But his eyes scared her and she refused."

"Is she in the habit of being picky?"

"Everyone's scared now, sir. The Butcher walks the streets." Ibn Hamdeh looked grave, putting on what the Chinaman thought was a reproachful look, as if to say: You've not done your job well, policeman. The Chinaman stared him down until the shmuck resumed looking servile.

"How'd she know he was an American?"

"I don't know," said Little Hook. "That's what she told me."

The Chinaman gripped his arm. "Come on. You can do better than that."

"By the prophet! She said he was American." Little Hook winked and smiled. "Maybe he carried an American flag-"

"Shut your mouth. What kind of sex did he ask for?"

"'Just sex, is all she told me."

"Is she in the habit of doing kinky stuff?"

"No, no, she's a good girl."

"A real virgin. What did he do then? After she refused?"

"Nothing, sir."

"He didn't try to force her?"

"No."

"Didn't try to persuade her?"

"He just walked away, smiling."

" Which way did he walk?"

"She didn't say." She didn't look?"

"She may have-she didn't tell me."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes, sir. If I knew, I would certainly tell you."

"What was wrong with his eyes?"

Little Hook painted in the air, again, caressed his hump. 'She said they were flat eyes, very flat. Mad. And a strange smile. very wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer."

"What made it a killer's grin."

The hunchback's head pushed forward and bobbed, like that of a turkey pecking at corn. "Not a happy grin, very crazy."

"She told you that."

"Yes."

"But she didn't tell you which way he walked?"