Decker said to Marge. “Someone gets head while cleaning a fish…” Marge rubbed her arms. “Somehow that has to be significant.” She wore a white cotton blouse, a pair of Levi’s, and a yellow windbreaker. But the zipper on the jacket was broken and every time the wind kicked up, she felt tiny electric shocks prick her skin. “You want my jacket?” Decker asked. “You’re not cold?” “No.” Decker handed her his denim jacket. It would have swallowed up any ordinary woman. Marge filled it nicely. “It goes beyond the sexual perversity,” Decker said. “There’s a connection and I can’t bring it up.” “Don’t fight it. It’ll come to you.” Marge scanned the crowds. “Besides, if you’re concentrating on fish, you’re going to miss what’s around you. And that’s why we came to Westwood.” She was right. There were just too many people cluttering the street. He needed all his energy for observation. They were walking north on Westwood heading toward the skyline of UCLA.
