Flesh and Blood

by Thomas H. Cook

  “What?”

  Silverman nodded toward the screen. “Somebody filed a death-benefit application.”

  “Is that like insurance?”

  “It can be, but mostly it’s just for some assistance in getting the person buried. You know, some help with the expenses. In this case, she wasn’t entitled. Application was denied.”

  “Why?”

  “She hadn’t been a member long enough,” Silverman said. “Only a few years. That would kill any application for funeral benefits.”

  Frank’s eyes darted instantly toward the screen. “Who filed for the benefit?”

  Silverman hit the keys, and a name popped onto the screen: JOSEPH FISCHELSON.

  Silverman ran his name through the computer, but nothing came up. “Well, one thing’s for sure, whoever he is, he was never a member of the American Garment Workers.” He drew in a long, weary breath. “Well, Frank, that’s about as far as we can get with the computer.”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah.”

  “But we have other ways,” Silverman said with a wink.

  He stood up immediately and walked into the small cramped room behind his desk. “This ethics problem,” he said as he strolled over to yet another line of metal filing cabinets. “That would have been when, exactly?”

  “She was kicked out of the union in March of 1936,” Frank said.

  Silverman pulled out one of the file drawers, riffled through scores of faintly dusty envelopes, then pulled one out and brought it over to the small wooden table that rested near the center of the room.

  “This should tell us something,” he said as he sat down and opened it.

  Frank took the chair beside him, and watched as Silverman’s stubby fingers went through the papers.

  “It was a disciplinary hearing,” Silverman said finally, as he withdrew a single white envelope. He held it up to Frank. Someone had written Hannah’s name across it in thick black ink. Under it, in blue ink and somewhat smaller script, someone else had written, Confidential.

  “What’s a disciplinary hearing?” Frank asked immediately.

  “A charge must have been brought against her,” Silverman said casually.

  “What kind of charge?”

  “Could be anything,” Silverman said. He turned the envelope over. A dark red X had been drawn over it. “That means secret,” he said. “I mean, to outsiders.”

  “But you can look inside?”

  “No problem,” Silverman said lightly. He opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper it contained.

  “This isn’t going to help you all that much, Frank,” he said as he began to scan it. “It just says that a disciplinary hearing was held concerning Hannah Kovatnik on March 25, 1936. She was charged with a number seven violation, which has to do with union ethics. Like you already knew.” His eyes continued to move down the page. “It indicates that Hannah defended herself. Which means she didn’t have any kind of attorney. The bottom line is, she lost. She was expelled from the membership.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

  “It doesn’t say what the violation was?” Frank asked quickly.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Silverman smiled. “That’s the interesting part,” he said. “Usually it does.”

  “Then why wouldn’t it in Hannah’s case?”

  “Probably because it would be embarrassing to the union.”

  “In what way?”

  Silverman shrugged. “Who knows? But one thing’s for sure. Back in 1936, they wanted to keep it strictly secret. That explains the red X, but it also explains why the report leaves everything out.” He handed the paper to Frank. “See? Nothing but the bare bones.”

  Frank glanced at the paper.

  “She was accused of something,” Silverman said. “And she was found guilty of it.”

  Frank’s eyes continued to move down the page.

  “The only other little detail is the name of the guy who brought the charge,” Silverman added.

  Frank looked at him. “Who was that?”

  Silverman took the paper from his hand. “The name in the bottom left hand corner,” he said. “That’s where it always is.” He tapped the paper with his finger. “There it is. Philip Stern.”

  Frank stared at the name.

  “You recognize him?” Silverman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “There was an article written about Hannah in the union paper,” Frank said. “Sort of a profile. It was full of praise.”

  “And he’s mentioned in the article?”

  “No,” Frank said. “He wrote it.”

  “He wrote an article praising her?” Silverman asked unbelieving.

  “Yes,” Frank told him, and even as he said it, his mind recalled the portrait which had emerged from Stern’s words. He saw Hannah in the fury of her youth, the glory of her commitment, the sheer unbending force of her energy.

  “Well, something must have changed his mind,” Silverman said offhandedly.

  “Do you have his address?”

  “I can check it,” Silverman said. He tapped the keys, and Stern’s name flashed onto the screen.

  “Well, look at that,” Silverman said as he read the details which appeared under Stern’s name.

  Frank copied the address into his notebook. “When did Stern leave the union?” he asked when he’d finished.

  Silverman’s eyes remained on the screen. “He never did,” he said admiringly. He looked at Frank. “Now that’s what you call an old warrior, Frank, a man who never lost what he had at the beginning.”

  20

  Imalia Covallo had left a message on Frank’s answering machine, and as he stood in the dark office, silently listening to it, her voice struck him as oddly vulnerable, as if she could sense that only a thin, almost invisible line separated her from the more desperate world that surrounded her. It was the sort of tone Karen had once had, but had slowly, subtly lost, and for a moment Frank tried to figure out exactly what had been lost along with it.

  “I would like to make our afternoon meeting at three P.M.,” Imalia said over the soft purr of the machine. “The floor above my shop on Madison. Ask for the private elevator.”

  He had just begun to rewind the machine when Farouk walked through the door.

  “Nice to find you here,” Farouk said.

  “I was about to head over to see Miss Covallo,” Frank told him.

  “It is good I came, then,” Farouk said. He lumbered over to the chair in front of Frank’s desk and sat down. “I have a few discoveries which you might wish to tell her.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “That the dead woman spoke in Spanish,” Farouk said, determinedly moving at his own pace, “this interested me.”

  “You found something about that?”

  “I did, yes,” Farouk told him.

  Frank slowly lowered himself onto the corner of his desk. “What do you have?”

  Farouk took out a single piece of lined white paper. “I have sources in the government,” he said.

  Frank said nothing.

  “I am speaking now of the national government,” Farouk added after a dramatic pause.

  “Go ahead,” Frank said, a little impatiently.

  “Well, this business of the blank space in the woman’s life, this is troubling.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Such a large space,” Farouk added thoughtfully. “Much time which could have been put to use. Perhaps, during so many years, one might even learn to speak a foreign language.”

  Frank nodded quickly.

  “It occurred to me that if the dead woman had remained in this country, such a blank would be impossible,” Farouk continued.

  Again Frank nodded impatiently.

  “The trail, it is long,” Farouk added authoritatively. “There is, of course, the question of taxes which must be paid. Papers must be filed to do this. There is the question of employment. These things ca
nnot be kept secret.”

  “No, they can’t.”

  “But if the dead woman had gone away,” Farouk said, “this is another matter.”

  “Is that what she did?” Frank asked.

  “It is, yes,” Farouk said. “And there is a record of it. A passport.”

  Frank took out a cigarette and lit it. “Go on.”

  “This is of value?” Farouk asked.

  “It might be.”

  Farouk’s eyes returned to the page. “This passport was issued to the dead woman—”

  “Hannah.”

  “Yes, Hannah,” Farouk said, his eyes still on the paper. “This passport was issued to Hannah in May of 1936. It was not renewed for many years.”

  “Where did she use it?”

  “South America.”

  “Colombia,” Frank said immediately.

  Farouk looked surprised. “You knew of this?”

  “Her sister Gilda died there in 1954,” Frank said. “Her body was brought back here.”

  “And buried where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can discover this,” Farouk assured him. “And, as well …”

  Frank eased himself to his feet. “I have to meet Miss Covallo,” he said.

  Farouk did not move. “There is something else,” he said. “Of record, I mean.”

  “What?”

  “A license for marriage,” Farouk said. “For Hannah.”

  Frank crushed the cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. “Hannah was married?”

  “Yes,” Farouk told him.

  “When?”

  “1954. September.”

  “What date?”

  “September fifteenth.”

  Frank took out his notebook and flipped through the pages of his interview with Silverman. Then he looked up. “That’s only two days after her sister Gilda died,” he said. “Where was she married?”

  “In Bogotá,” Farouk said. “Is that not where Gilda died?”

  “No.”

  Farouk’s eyes narrowed curiously. “Where then?”

  “In a little village,” Frank said. “A place called San Jorge.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Union records.”

  Farouk nodded thoughtfully. “I see,” he said softly.

  “See what?”

  “That she was full of contradiction,” Farouk said with a slight shrug. Then he smiled quickly. “As are we all, of course,” he added.

  Frank let his mind drift back to what Farouk had told him. “So she married just before she came back to the United States.”

  Farouk nodded. “Only a few days before.”

  “Did the husband come with her?”

  “He did, yes,” Farouk said. “But it was not a proper marriage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They did not ever share the same place.”

  “They never lived together?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Immigration Records,” Farouk said. “According to them the husband lived in Brooklyn. Hannah lived in Manhattan.”

  “Did they ever divorce?”

  “No. At least, there is no record of it.”

  Frank took out his notebook. “What was his name, the husband?”

  “Pérez. Emilio Pérez.”

  “He was Spanish?”

  “South American,” Farouk said. “From Colombia.”

  “That’s the man who was with her,” Frank said. “With Hannah.”

  “With her? Where?”

  “When she talked to Constanza,” Frank told him. “This woman I talked to, Molly Gold, she said that Hannah brought a man with her to see Constanza, and that the two of them—Hannah and the man—spoke Spanish.”

  Farouk nodded slowly. “Yes, that could be.”

  Frank pressed his pencil onto the notebook. “Where is the husband now?”

  “He returned to Colombia,” Farouk said. “I do not know why.” He shook his head. “And he did not return to this country.”

  “Do the police know about all this?”

  Farouk shook his head. “They do now.”

  “You told them?”

  “It is not good in my profession to conceal things from the authorities,” Farouk said. “But they see no reason for looking into it.”

  “So Hannah’s husband is not a suspect?”

  “Not a suspect, no,” Farouk said. “As my source put it, ‘such a trail is too cold for a crime of such hot blood.’”

  “That may be true,” Frank said, “but if he were alive, he could get the body released.”

  Farouk nodded. “It would be a long way for him to come.”

  “I’m sure Miss Covallo would make it worth his while.”

  Farouk smiled quietly. “I will try to find him.”

  “Good,” Frank said. Again, he eased himself off the desk and headed toward the door.

  Farouk joined him there. “You have found things, too?” he asked as he stepped into the narrow corridor.

  “Yes.”

  “May I know them?”

  Frank locked the door of the office and walked up the stairs to the street.

  “She had some problems with the union,” he said. “Some sort of dispute. She was charged with something. It’s still not clear what.”

  “You are pursuing this?”

  “Yes,” Frank told him. “But your lead is a lot better.” He smiled. “I’ll have to settle up with you, Farouk—about money, I mean—when we’ve finally got the picture.”

  “We shall do that at the proper time,” Farouk told him.

  “I just wanted you to know that I owe you,” Frank said.

  “Owe me, yes,” Farouk said. “That is true.” Then he smiled quietly, his dark eyes almost black in the late afternoon light. “She is a strange woman, yes?”

  “Hannah?”

  “Truth,” Farouk said softly as he turned very slowly and walked the other way.

  The private elevator was in the rear of the building, and it was manned by a single uniformed guard, a tall, bulky man who had a forty-five automatic strapped to his waist.

  “My name is Clemons,” Frank told him as he stepped up to the bronze-colored elevator doors.

  The guard glanced at a notepad, checking for his name.

  “Do you have some sort of identification?” he asked when he had finished.

  Frank showed him his card.

  “Thank you,” the guard said politely. “Please step in.”

  The elevator doors opened onto a luxuriously decorated room, its walls festooned with large photographs of lean, beautiful women wrapped in an assortment of oddly gleaming fabrics. The words beneath the photographs proclaimed “The Imalia Covallo Look.” A large mahogany table sat in the middle of the room bearing a bottle of champagne tilted slightly in an ice-filled cooler. Trays of hors d’oeuvres surrounded the champagne, along with an assortment of wines.

  “Hello, Frank,” Imalia said as she stepped up to him. She turned toward the room. “Like it?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  “This is the exclusive shop,” Imalia explained. “It’s different from the one downstairs.”

  “I see.”

  “Some people prefer to shop in private.”

  “Is that right?” Frank asked dully.

  “Sometimes I go to their homes,” Imalia added. “But sometimes they come here.” She stepped over to the table. “Would you like something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Her hand gently grasped the neck of the champagne bottle. “It’s a lovely champagne,” she said coaxingly. “I always have it around. It’s part of the price of doing business. The people who come here expect the best.”

  “No, thanks,” Frank repeated.

  “Fine,” Imalia said. She walked over to a large velvet chair and sat down. “Well, have you made any progress?”

  “Yes,” Frank told her.

  Imalia smiled. “
Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  Frank took out his notebook and began to flip through the pages.

  “You may sit down, if you like,” Imalia told him.

  Frank remained standing. “I’ve found out a few things,” he said, “and so has an associate of mine.”

  Imalia’s eyes tensed. “Associate?”

  “A guy who’s working with me on the case.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you had an associate.”

  “He’s very helpful,” Frank assured her. “He knows how to research things, and he’s come in with a few important details.”

  Imalia did not look convinced. “Like what?” she demanded.

  “Like the fact that Hannah spent some time in Colombia,” Frank said. “And that she was married there.”

  Imalia sat up slightly. “Married? Hannah?”

  “She never mentioned it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it was over before she came to work for you,” Frank said. “The husband went back to Colombia. But technically, they may still be married. And if they are, then he has the authority to get the body released.”

  “So you’re trying to find him, I presume,” Imalia said.

  “My partner’s doing that right now.”

  “Good,” Imalia said. She seemed to relax a bit. “You’ll let me know when you find him, of course.”

  “Yes,” Frank said.

  “And of course, if he has to come to New York to get the body released, I’ll be happy to pay all his expenses.”

  Frank nodded. “That might be necessary. But I really don’t know.” His eyes dropped back toward his notebook. “I’ve also made some progress on Hannah’s sisters,” he said.

  “Really? What?”

  “One of them, Gilda, is dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “She died in Colombia in 1954,” Frank added. “The body was brought back here. I assume Hannah brought it.” He looked up from the notebook. “Someone applied for a death benefit to offset the cost of the funeral. A man named Fischelson, Joseph Fischelson.”

  Imalia stared at him expressionlessly.

  “You never heard that name?” Frank asked.

  “No.”

  “Did Hannah ever mention living in South America?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How about the name Emilio Pérez?”

  “No,” Imalia said. “Who’s that?”

  “Her husband.”