Flesh and Blood

by Thomas H. Cook

  “What are you thinking, Frank?” Karen asked suddenly.

  He turned toward her. She was sitting across the small glass table which rested between them. She was wrapped in a thick sweater, her long, slender fingers tucked beneath its ample sleeves. “Nothing,” he said.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Nothing important,” he added.

  “I don’t believe that, either,” Karen said. She drew her arms around her sides, hugging herself tightly. “A cold night,” she added. Then she smiled. “We could warm it up a little.” She drew out one of her hands and offered it to him. “Want to?”

  He took her hand and followed her into the bedroom, and for the next few minutes, they moved into each other with the sort of wordless, sweeping tenderness that had once touched him inexpressibly, which had altered the atmosphere around him, softened the hard corners of the world, made life for one electrifying instant worth every dime you paid.

  She was sleeping soundly, as she always did, by the time the last small waves of his contentment had ebbed away. He got up silently, his feet pressing into the lush carpet, as he dressed quickly and went out.

  It was a little past four in the morning by the time he got to Tenth Avenue. He made his way up to the second floor and knocked on the door. A large man with beefy red hands opened it immediately, recognized Frank, and stepped aside.

  “Delivery fucked up today,” he said. “Got nothing but some rotgut shit from over to Killarney.”

  “That’ll do,” Frank told him as he walked into the room.

  The room was nearly empty, but Frank knew it would begin to fill up steadily as people made their way from the legal bars to the after-hours ones. Some people would go home, of course, take the closing of the bars as a signal to call it a night. But the serious souls would wander on, up this street, up these stairs, or others like them, and sit down behind their small square tables and order a few more rounds. It was not a place for Tequila Sunrises, of course, or Banana Daiquiris, or anything with a little pink umbrella stuck in it. But for a stiff jolt, it was as good a place as any.

  Frank took a small table near the back of the room and ordered a shot of Irish. He took it down quickly to rub off the chill of the walk, then ordered another and sipped it more slowly, carefully controlling his own strange uncontrol.

  The standing bar was to the left, and the owner was behind it. She looked Puerto Rican, but Frank had heard she was from Ecuador. She was close to sixty, and her hair fell over her shoulders in a ragged silver tangle. She spoke in quick, broken sentences. Everybody called her Toby, but no one knew why. It was said that the gin mill had put her two sons through college, and that one of them now worked downtown in the district attorney’s office, but that was the sort of ironic tosspot fantasy that Frank had often heard in such places but had never once believed. During all the months he’d sat at his table, she had never said a single word to him, but from time to time he would catch her eyes as they shifted toward him with a distant, odd affection, as if, through long experience, her heart had learned to trust the lonesome drinker best.

  Frank took a long pull on the glass, then tapped it lightly on the table and called for another. A tall thin man in dark glasses accommodated him immediately, and Frank leaned back in his chair and let his eyes wander from table to table. They wandered for a long time, as the minutes stretched one by one into the early morning hours, and the people came and went, singly or in couples, the tone of the bar changing by small, almost imperceptible degrees with each arrival and departure.

  It was nearly seven in the morning when the last of them had left, and the first grayish light seemed sadly stranded outside the front windows. At last, it seemed to sweep in suddenly, like something pushed through a door, and short black shadows thrust their way toward him from across the room.

  The bar was entirely empty now, except for Toby, who was wiping the last of the glasses, and a large man who sat near the front window, his hat on his lap, a single glass still poised in his hand. For a time, Frank watched him silently, then suddenly the man turned directly toward him, his large black eyes staring straight into Frank’s.

  “You are leaving soon?” he asked.

  Frank nodded.

  “Good,” the man said. “I like to be the last.”

  He had some sort of accent, faintly English, with its soft a’s. He had pronounced last “lahst,” but he did not look English. Even in the gray light, Frank could make out the darkness of his skin, the thick black eyebrows and full purplish lips. He sat very erect, his head held up so that his chin remained parallel to the surface of the table. He wore a large double-breasted suit which he had carefully buttoned over an even larger stomach. “The last to leave this place,” he added, by way of explanation. Then he eased himself from his seat and walked ponderously over to Frank’s table, his immense frame shifting left and right like an old tanker.

  “My name is Farouk,” he said as he stopped beside the table. He smiled tentatively, but he did not put out his hand.

  “Frank Clemons.”

  “You come here often,” Farouk said. It was a statement of fact, not a question, although there was something quizzical about it, a distant curiosity. It was as if he had been studying Frank for some time, as he no doubt studied other regulars at the bar. “I have seen you here,” he said. “In such a place, it is good to be observant.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. He nodded toward the empty chair at the opposite side of the table. “Care to sit down?”

  Farouk nodded heavily, his great bald head like a smooth dark orb in the still shadowy light. “I have seen you here many times,” he said as he sat down, his speech still determinedly formal, as if learned from rules rather than from listening to the usage of the street. “You’re often the last to leave.”

  “I don’t sleep very well,” Frank explained.

  Farouk’s dark eyes studied his face solemnly for a moment, then a small, thin smile broke over his lips. “Sleep is not worth much. It is dull.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Better to be out and on your feet,” Farouk said with a slight, dismissive shrug. “You have a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a bed?”

  “That, too.”

  “With a woman in it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And children?”

  Frank shook his head. “No.”

  Once again Farouk nodded silently. “What is your work?”

  Frank hesitated instinctively. “You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

  “I am a curious person,” Farouk told him. “But so, I think, are you.”

  Frank stared at him silently.

  “That is my guess, that you are a curious person,” Farouk added. “Shall I tell you why?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It is a matter of color,” Farouk said. “You are often here. Which means not simply that you cannot sleep, but that you prefer the night.”

  Frank nodded.

  “The night is dark, full of shadow,” Farouk went on. “Those who prefer it, they are in love with the mysteries of the world.” He smiled cunningly. “It is the obvious which they cannot stand. They hate what is clear, what is too easily revealed.” He sat back, eyeing Frank proudly. “I am right, yes?” he asked as he folded his large arms over his chest.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Farouk leaned forward slightly. “So, now I ask again. What is your work?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Frank told him.

  Farouk nodded, as if confirming something, but did not seem impressed. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Frank.

  “No, thanks,” Frank said. Instead, he lit one of his own and sat back slightly. “What do you do?”

  Farouk placed a cigarette in an ivory cigarette holder, then lit it. “I put myself at the service of others,” he said as he blew a column of smoke across the table. “I lend assistance in difficult mat
ters.”

  “For a fee?”

  “One does not live on air.”

  “Of course,” Frank said. He took a sip of whiskey.

  Farouk cocked his head slightly. “You’re not from New York.” Again, it was a statement. “Your accent. Southern?”

  “Atlanta,” Frank said. “But I live here now.”

  “In this part of the city?”

  “My office is on Forty-ninth Street.”

  “Hell’s Kitchen. Not a place for everyone.”

  “The rent’s low,” Frank said. He drained the last of the whiskey from his glass.

  “May I offer you another?” Farouk asked immediately.

  Frank looked at him with suspicion.

  “It is always in my interest to know a person in your profession,” Farouk said, “as it is probably in your interest to know a person in mine.”

  Frank said nothing.

  “It would be my pleasure to buy a final drink,” Farouk told him. “If you wish, you may think of it as a business expense.”

  “I think I’ve had too many already,” Frank said. He glanced toward the window, his eyes squinting against the morning light.

  “Coffee, then?”

  “All right.”

  “Excellent,” Farouk said. He motioned to Toby. “Traenos dos cafés turcos.” Then he turned back to Frank. “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “No.”

  “I am a student of languages,” Farouk said quite casually. “It is important in my profession. Especially in New York. An international city, yes? One should know different languages.”

  Frank nodded.

  “Different coffees, too,” he added with the same casualness. “Have you ever had Turkish?”

  “Not that I know of,” Frank admitted.

  The thin smile once again broke over Farouk’s face. “Then you will be pleased to try it,” he said.

  Toby brought over the coffees a moment later, set them down firmly, gave Farouk a quizzical look, then retreated back to the bar.

  “My wife,” Farouk said, as if in explanation.

  “Toby?”

  “From time past, my wife,” Farouk added. “As they say, ‘to keep her from oppression.’” He took a quick sip of the coffee. “For a time, we lived together. But for many years now, we have not. I prefer a place of my own. It suits my nature.” One thick black eyebrow arched slowly upward. “You are married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Farouk nodded toward the cup. “Try it.”

  Frank took a slow sip. “Strong.”

  Farouk smiled cheerfully. “Which is the point of it, I think.” He leaned forward lightly, folding his thick arms over the table. “I suppose you have a case?”

  “A few,” Frank said, then suddenly realized that the others did not engage him anymore, that for the immediate future, lawyers could meet whomever they wished in the motels of New Jersey, that clerks could steal jewelry, and painters forge paintings, that all humanity could spread queer and bounce paper throughout the vast green land without any fear of him.

  “Up on Central Park West,” he added. “A murder.”

  Farouk’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “A dead woman, I think. It was in the Post. About two weeks ago?”

  “How did you know which murder?” Frank asked immediately.

  “You are a private investigator,” Farouk said. “Which means your fee is … what … thirty-five, forty dollars an hour?”

  “Something like that.”

  “At any rate, substantial,” Farouk said. “The average person cannot employ you. It must be a person of means. The woman you speak of, she alone in recent days could have known people of such wealth.”

  “Well, you’re right,” Frank said. “It was the case in the newspapers.”

  “I presume you are familiar with Midtown North?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I might have been of some assistance in an introduction.”

  “I already know the guy who’s in charge of the case.”

  “And who is that, if you do not mind my asking.”

  “Leo Tannenbaum.”

  Farouk nodded. “Ah, yes.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I do,” Farouk said. He finished his coffee in one sip, then took out a small notebook. “Who was the woman?”

  Frank said nothing.

  Farouk looked at him evenly. “Unless I am of assistance, there will be no charge.”

  “I don’t think I need any assistance,” Frank said firmly.

  “That is not true, I assure you,” Farouk said, just as firmly. “Shall I tell you why?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Because of your nature,” Farouk said. “You are always moving. Your fingers on the table, your feet, your eyes, always moving.” He smiled knowingly. “This tells me that there are certain things which you do not do well. Things which involve stuffy rooms, papers, files, too much reading, too much sitting down. You do not bother with these things, and yet, they can be of great assistance.”

  “What makes you think that kind of work would be helpful in this case?” Frank asked.

  “If memory serves,” Farouk said, “this woman was in the garment trade, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know much about this business?”

  “No,” Frank admitted.

  “I could find out about all her business dealings,” Farouk said. “I could find out what she owned, what she recently acquired. It is quite possible that such information would be of assistance. But if it is not, I can assure you that there will be no charge for my services.”

  Frank continued to watch him, not entirely convinced.

  Farouk eyed him piercingly. “For you, it is a human thing, murder. You want to deal with it face to face, one person to another. You like to hear the voice, see the eyes.” He smiled. “I admire this.” Then he shook his head. “But it is naive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because much is hidden in words and pages. In such things, for example, even the dead still speak.”

  Frank looked at him intently. “You mean the victim?”

  “Yes,” Farouk said. “And I might be of some assistance in finding what is hidden.”

  Frank considered it for a moment, but remained unconvinced. “There’s another problem,” he said.

  “And what is that?”

  “I don’t know you,” Frank said. “For all I know, you could leave here and boost a few cars on the way home.”

  Farouk frowned. “Such a petty crime,” he said contemptuously. “Surely you already think better of me than that.”

  Frank looked at him evenly. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then what would raise your estimation?”

  “A reference might help.”

  “Would one from the police do?”

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “If I knew the cop.”

  “Perhaps Detective Tannenbaum?”

  “Would he stand up for you?”

  Farouk smiled. “He would say that I do not boost cars.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That I do not run cons, or play the Murphy man on the Avenue,” Farouk added. “He would say that I am competent, and that I am honest.” The faint smile which had been lingering on his lips disappeared suddenly. “He would say that I can be ruthless, but he would add that I usually discover the thing I’m looking for.” He leaned forward and eyed Frank intently. “Are you ruthless?”

  “Some people think so.”

  “And are they ever right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then you know that it cannot be an act,” Farouk said. “When you tell a man that you will harm him, he must know that you will do it.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “They are not so smart, the ones who work the streets, but there is one thing they can recognize very quickly, a coward in their midst, a man who will not act as he speaks.”

  For a moment, Frank watched Farouk’s face
silently. He knew that he had been disturbingly right about a few things, especially one of them, the most critical at the moment, his disinclination to follow paper trails. It was a problem that had plagued him in the past, causing him to overlook obvious motives and connections while pursuing more obscure and darkly passionate ones. He had never liked cases where money was involved, insurance claims or business dealings, and throughout his career, he had avoided as many such cases as he could. But as he sat in the dark bar, he realized that to find a lost or distant relative might require exactly the sort of work he did not want to do. And yet, something in the case drew him irresistibly toward it, and he knew that he wanted to do it right, to overlook nothing, no trail that might lead him further in.

  He took a quick drink, then returned the cup to the table. “Do you have any more questions about me?” he asked.

  Farouk shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You work in Hell’s Kitchen, but it is not the low rent that draws you there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You come to this bar, even though the drinks cost the same as any other bar,” Farouk said. “And you work in Hell’s Kitchen even though you don’t have to.” He smiled. “That is all I need to know about you.”

  For a moment, the two men looked at each other silently.

  In his mind, Frank searched for some final reason to work alone, as he preferred, but the nature of the case argued for an assistant, one who knew the ins and outs of the vast bureaucracies that kept track of births and deaths, money, travel, property, the cleaner lines of life.

  “All right,” he said finally. “I could probably use a little help here and there.”

  Farouk smiled broadly. “You will not regret it.”

  “What do you need to begin?”

  “The woman’s name,” Farouk replied immediately. “I do not remember it from the papers.”

  “Hannah Karlsberg,” Frank said.

  “And her address?” Farouk asked.

  “Three fifty-seven Central Park West.”

  “And the apartment number?”

  “Fourteen-A.”

  “Yes, yes,” Farouk said, “that would be on the front, facing the park.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Farouk looked at him pointedly. “So you have been to the apartment?”