Flesh and Blood (20 page)

“What do you mean?”

“It's like a formal ceremony,” Burke went on. “And when it's over, you're cast out of the community forever. Your name can't be spoken. You are one of the living dead.”

“And they felt that way—the workers—about Hannah?”

“Yes, they did.”

“All of them?”

Burke did not answer right away. Instead, he thought about it for a moment. “Well, maybe not all of them. Maybe all but one.”

Frank felt his breath draw in quickly. “Who?”

“Molly Gold,” Burke said immediately. “She would talk to Hannah. She took a lot of heat for it. From the others, I mean. But any time Hannah would come into the main shop, the one in Manhattan, the two of them would chat for a while.”

“Do you have any idea where she is?”

“No,” Burke said. “But she shouldn't be hard to find.” He chuckled. “She's got a record as long as your arm.”

“Record?”

“Police record,” Burke said. His face took on a look of wry amusement. “Molly is one of those people who decided to go her own damn way in the world.” The amusement faded abruptly. “And of course, when you do that, life can take some pretty sharp turns.”

Frank closed his notebook, glanced about the greenhouse for a moment, then turned back to Burke.

“Why did you tell Miss Covallo that Hannah would work cheap?” he asked.

Burke smiled. “Imalia told you that?”

“Yes.”

“She has a good memory.”

Frank continued to gaze at him silently. “Hannah had a lot of experience in the business, didn't she?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And she was older by then,” Frank added. He did a quick calculation. “Her mid-fifties.”

“That's right.”

“So why would you think that you could get her cheap?”

“Because no one else would hire her,” Burke answered finally. “At least, nobody in New York.”

“Why?”

“Because she'd worked for Constanza.”

“And he'd been sent to jail.”

Burke laughed. “Jail? Christ, that had nothing to do with it. I don't think it even mattered much that he was probably some sort of low-level mobster.” He shook his head. “No, the problem with Constanza is that he was a wildcatter, a guy who didn't play by the rules.”

“What rules?”

“The rules of the trade,” Burke said. “You know, like maybe going with a certain style once in a while, so that everybody has to buy it. Maybe cozying up to a sweetheart union.”

“Constanza wouldn't do that sort of thing?”

“No, he wouldn't,” Burke said. “And not because he wasn't as corrupt as the next guy. It was just that he was all for himself. He never thought of the interests of the trade as a whole. He didn't grasp the big picture, you might say.”

Frank nodded.

“And Hannah fit into that,” Burke added quietly.

“Into what?”

“Into that … What would you call it? … That way of seeing the world,” Burke said. “Constanza's way.” He shivered slightly, as if in response to a sudden chilling wind. “You could see it in him. In his eyes. Hers, too. I don't know how to say it … this icy solitude.” He thought a moment, then smiled. “The only person I ever saw cut through it was Molly Gold.”

16

It hadn't taken Tannenbaum very long to get back to Frank with Molly Gold's last known address, but even so, night had already fallen by the time he made it down to the Lower East Side, and with the darkness, the whole mood of the neighborhood had profoundly changed. The teeming street life of the day had given way to a sullen world of dark, empty streets. Pools of grayish light gathered beneath the street lamps or hazily illuminated deserted stretches of the small, untended parks. The shops which had been so busy the day before were now closed. Thick metal sheets had been drawn down over their fronts and locked in place, and the graffiti which had been scrawled across them gave the entire area a lost and desolate look.

Molly Gold's building was a low brick tenement off Hester Street. A few squares of yellow light shone from its windows, but the single bulb in the foyer was dim, and because of that Frank had to light a match to find her name: Gold M.—Apt. 1-C.

The door of the apartment was scarred and unpainted, and Frank half-expected that there'd be no answer to his knock. He tapped lightly, then a little harder, and a voice, old and faintly irritated, sounded behind the door.

“Nothing. I don't need nothing.”

“I'm not selling anything,” Frank said hurriedly.

“What do you want?”

“I'm looking for Molly Gold.”

“What for?”

“I understand she was a friend of Hannah Karlsberg's,” Frank said.

There was a long silence, and from out in the hall, Frank could hear the woman's thin, quick breaths.

“She's dead,” Frank added. “Someone murdered her.”

A series of locks and chains rattled behind the door. Then it creaked open, and through a thin slant of light, Frank could make out an old woman's face. Her skin was wrinkled and yellowish, a crumpled sack for her head. A stubby unfiltered cigarette dangled from her unpainted lips, and wreathed her head in a pallid ring of smoke.

“Are you Molly Gold?” Frank asked immediately.

“Molly Gold, that's right,” the woman answered. She plucked the half-chewed cigarette from her mouth and stared evenly into Frank's eyes. “Who are you?”

He handed her one of his cards.

She squinted intently as she looked at it. “What's this?”

“My identification,” Frank explained. “I'm a private investigator.”

The old woman cackled lightly. “You think I can read this little thing?” She thrust the card back to him. “It's all a blur to me.” She laughed again, then stepped back from the door. “Come in.”

The living room was cramped, but neatly arranged. There were no cans or bottles strewn about, and the small white tablecloth that had been spread over the little table by the window looked as if it had been recently washed. And yet, despite the cleanliness and order, the room gave off a sense of something moving through the last stages of a long decay.

“Sit down,” the old woman said, “unless you'd rather stand. Me, I don't care.”

Frank took a seat and waited for her to move uneasily to the table and sit down.

“I'm checking on a few things about Miss Karlsberg,” he said.

The old woman wiped a strand of gray hair from her eyes and peered at him suspiciously. “That little card,” she said, “I don't believe that. Whatever it said, I don't believe it.” She smiled cunningly. “What are you, local? Local heat? State? Federal? What?”

“None of them,” Frank said.

The old woman's eyes narrowed in concentration. “I don't fence nothing. Not one thing. And as far as anything else—no matter what it is—I'm too old for it.”

Frank took out his notebook. “Did you read anything in the paper about Hannah Karlsberg?” he asked.

The old woman said nothing. She turned slightly toward the window, parted the shades, and stared out. “You got backup?”

“I'm alone.”

“Cops don't come alone,” the woman said. She whirled around to face him. “They come in packs,” she hissed. “Like wolves. Like hyenas, that's the way they come.”

Frank drew in a long, slow breath and returned his eyes to his notebook. “The police are holding her body until a relative comes forward to claim it. That's what I'm looking for, a relative.”

Molly stared at him quizzically. “How'd you find me?”

“A man named Burke mentioned you. Stanley Burke.”

“He don't know where I live.”

“The police do,” Frank said bluntly.

“They gave you my address?”

“That's right.”

“What for?” the old woman asked tauntingly. “You going to give them something back, right? For their trouble. What are you going to give them? Me?”

“I'm not sure they're interested in you right now,” Frank said.

Molly's face soured. “Oh, they're still interested in Molly Gold,” she said bitterly. Then she laughed. “You know why? ‘Cause they want to know about Nico. Nico and his drugs, how he got them into the country.”

“Nico?”

“Constanza. Nico Constanza.”

“They may be interested in that,” Frank said. “But I'm not.”

Molly peered at him doubtfully.

“I'm only interested in Hannah Karlsberg,” Frank assured her. Once again he glanced back down at his notebook. “Mr. Burke said that you and Hannah were friends.”

Molly snuffed out her cigarette. “He said that?”

“Yes.”

“We talked a little, Hannah and me,” Molly said. “But I don't know if you could call us friends.” She shook her head. “She was shy. She kept to herself. She'd changed from the old days.”

“You knew her before you worked together?”

“Yes,” Molly said. “In the old neighborhood. She was named Kovatnik then.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She changed her name some time,” the old woman went on. “Wanted a more fancy name. Karlsberg's more fancy.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But it didn't fool anybody,” Molly said. “A lot of people remembered her from the old neighborhood. A new name don't mean a thing to them.”

“These people,” Frank said, “they knew her from her days on Fifth Street?”

The old woman looked puzzled. “Fifth Street? No. Orchard Street.”

“You mean, from her shop?”

“She worked in Feig's place,” Molly explained. “My shop was a few blocks down. We were both at the sewing machines in those days.” She lifted her hands, her fingers bent with arthritis. “See what it does to you? My hands have been this way for almost twenty years.” She smiled sneeringly. “But the cops, they don't want to know nothing about that. They just want to know about Constanza, what I did for him.” She cackled to herself. “Which was nothing. I told Hannah that. I said, ‘I don't do nothing for that pig.'” She stared at Frank intently. “What you do in this world, you do it for yourself,” she said vehemently. “Because nobody does nothing for the next guy. Nobody. You understand what I'm saying? Nobody does a fucking thing.”

Frank nodded quickly. “When did you first meet Hannah?”

“At this little park,” Molly said. For a moment she grew silent, as if trying to recall everything in minute detail. “Where the girls used to go after their shifts,” she added finally. “There was a little park, you see, and we'd stand around awhile, sort of breathe the air, loosen up a little from stooping.” She smiled. “Hannah had a way about her in the old days, a friendly way. She liked people, I think.” She shrugged. “I was just one of the people she liked. There were a lot of us. She liked groups, joining things, being together. That was Hannah, always around people, talking to them.”

Frank saw the pictures on her wall again, a middle-aged woman, alone in Paris, London, Rome. He heard Riviera's voice:
She always kept to herself.
Then Burke's:
She had her own operation.
Then Imalia's:
I
didn't know her personally. I'm not sure anybody did.

“Who was she?” he heard himself whisper.

The old woman leaned forward, cupping her ear with her hand. “What was that?”

“Liking people,” Frank said. “Being liked. That must have helped with the union.”

Molly nodded firmly. “Oh yeah, it helped. It helped plenty. And Hannah, she could take control of things, too. She liked to take control, and people trusted her.” She smiled with a certain carefully controlled pride. “We had a big strike, you know.”

“In 1936.”

“Lasted for months,” the old woman said triumphantly. “But we won it.”

“And Hannah was one of the leaders,” Frank said, urging her on.

“She stuck it to Feig, that's what,” Molly said. “She fucked him good. He never recovered. He had to sell his shop, the bastard. Nobody would work for him, not after that business with the girl.” She glanced toward the small kitchen to the right. “Want a whiskey?”

“No, thanks.”

She got to her feet. “Me, I'd like one,” she said emphatically. Then she walked to the kitchen, poured the drink, and returned to her seat. “I like it by itself,” she said. She took a long drink, then wiped her mouth neatly with the paper napkin she'd brought along with the glass. “It's not a Jewish thing, drinking. That's what my mother used to say. ‘Go ahead,' she'd say, ‘Go drink like the
goyim.
'” She laughed derisively. “I was always a party girl, you know. My mother used to say, ‘Molly, you're a party girl, and that's your trouble.'” She shook her head. “We had such fights, my mother and me. That's why I moved out. Went on my own.” She took another sip. “Mama was right, you know. She was right about me.” She glared at the nearly empty glass for a moment, then lifted her eyes toward Frank. “But what's worth more than a party, huh? What the fuck is worth more than a goddamn good time?” She laughed heartily. “Mama never could answer that one. Worked all day, waited on Papa for the rest of the time. What's the point of that, huh? You tell me.”

“Miss Karlsberg had two sisters,” Frank said, gently coaxing her mind ahead to the thirties.

The old woman nodded slowly, reluctantly returning to the subject. “Naomi and Gilda,” she said dully, her eyes dropping back toward the glass.

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“I heard that Naomi got married,” Molly said. “I don't remember hearing much about the other one.”

“Do you remember who she married?”

“No.”

“After the strike, Hannah sort of disappeared,” Frank told her. “Do you have any idea where she went?”

The old woman shook her head. “Unless she went to work for the union people. You could check with them.”