Flesh and Blood (22 page)

Frank nodded.

“She remained in the union for three years,” Pacheco continued, “and she was severed from it in September of 1936.” He turned back to Frank. “That's about it.”

“Severed?” Frank asked immediately. “You mean she quit?”

“No, I mean she was severed. She was dropped from the rolls.”

Frank looked at him quizzically.

“A union is like anything else,” Pacheco explained. “It has its rules. Apparently Miss Kovatnik broke a few of them.”

“What rules are you talking about?”

“Well, the big one is dues,” Pacheco said. “You don't pay your dues, you don't stay in the union.”

“Is that what happened to her?”

“No,” Pacheco said as his eyes drifted back to the screen.

“What was it then?” Frank asked immediately.

Pacheco's eyes darted over to the lower left-hand corner of the screen. “She was severed for failure to conform to union ethics,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Failure to what?” Frank asked as he took out his notebook.

“Failure to conform with union ethics,” Pacheco repeated. He looked at Frank. “That could mean anything,” he explained. “It's sort of a catchall. It allows the union to get rid of people it can't deal with for some reason. They could drop you for, say, being a drunk, or for being too violent, too radical, for being a generally abusive person. Hell, it could be just about anything.”

“Well, what exactly did it mean in Hannah's case?” Frank asked.

“We don't have that sort of information on computer,” Pacheco said. “This is really a status program. Who's in, who's out. Complaints. Medical stuff. That sort of thing.” He glanced at Frank. “There's a number code, though, which tells us things in general. Miss Kovatnik's severance, for example, is listed as number seven—which means that it was an ethics violation.”

Frank took the union paper from his jacket pocket and opened it to the photograph of Hannah in Union Square.

“I brought this with me,” he said. “You mind taking a look?”

Pacheco glanced at the photograph. “Is that her?”

“Yes,” Frank said emphatically. “She spoke at that rally. She published in your paper. Somebody wrote an article about her.”

“None of that would be on the computer,” Pacheco told him. “Unless she received some sort of compensation for it.”

“I see.”

“But that doesn't mean we don't have other records,” Pacheco added quickly. “We have plenty of stuff. It's just that most of it is in the archives.”

“Where are they?”

“In the Research Department,” Pacheco said. “You want to try it out?”

“Yes.”

Pacheco reached for the phone and dialed two digits. “Hello, Harry. You got a minute? Yeah. Yeah. I have a Mr. Clemons. He's a private investigator looking into the records of one of our former members. I don't know. Yes. Hannah Kovatnik.” He snapped the phone back to its cradle. “He'll be right down,” he said.

Only a moment later, Frank turned toward the door of Pacheco's office and saw a tall, elderly man in a light blue suit. He was muscular and barrel chested, and as Frank looked at him, he realized just what a formidable presence he must have been in his youth. Even now, with silvery hair and slightly crumpled posture, he looked like the sort of man who only said things once.

“Harry Silverman,” he said as he offered Frank his hand.

“Harry's sort of the historian of the union,” Pacheco said brightly. “Isn't that what you'd say, Harry?”

Harry smiled. “It depends on how much vodka I've had, what I'll say.” He looked at Frank. “What's your name?”

“Frank Clemons.”

“And what are you looking for?”

“Like Mr. Pacheco told you,” Frank said, “I'm trying to trace one of your former members.”

“That's usually no problem,” Silverman said lightly. “But today's a little different. We got a tip that a certain person is incapacitated for the moment, and I got to cash in on mat information right away.” He glanced at his watch. “Listen, you don't mind going for a little ride, do you?”

Frank shook his head. “Okay with me.”

“The things is, it's way out in Brooklyn. Around Coney Island. Be back in a couple hours. Is that too much time?”

“No.”

“Good,” Silverman said brightly. “Let's go.”

Frank followed Silverman down the back stairs, out the door, then around the corner to a dark green late-model Ford.

“Get in,” Silverman said loudly as he unlocked the passenger door. “It's an American car. One of the few left in New York.”

Frank pulled himself into the front seat, then waited as Silverman walked briskly to the driver's side, got in, and pulled away.

“American car,” Silverman repeated with a sigh. “We buy American in mis union.” He smiled wistfully. “We still got a few old ideas hanging around us.” He turned east not far from Union Square and headed toward FDR Drive. “Things change, of course,” he added. “Used to be, it was strictly a Jewish thing, the garment trade.” He shook his head. “Now you got Mexicans, Haitians, Orientals, some legal, some not. Old kikes like me get to feeling isolated.” He smiled impishly. “But what the hell, that's the way it works, history. We adjust to it. And we keep one thing in mind. Solidarity. As long as we hold to that, there's a chance for everybody.”

“She believed in that,” Frank said. “She made a speech about it. Hannah did, I mean.”

“Hannah Kovatnik,” Silverman repeated thoughtfully. “It rings a bell, that name.” He shrugged. “Of course, that calling me the historian of the union is a crock of shit. Historian, that's what they call old punch-drunk organizers who can't cut it anymore.” He shook his head. “I'm not quite that bad off yet.”

“She was in the 1935 strike,” Frank told him.

Silverman's face darkened. “That was a rough one,” he said. “Winter and snow and all those bastards freezing their asses off trying to get a living wage. Almost three-fourths of the garment factories had closed by then. So you can imagine the problem.” He grinned. “And the police? Jesus. We'd of been better off dealing with Pinkertons than those fucking micks.”

Frank said nothing.

Silverman's eyes swept over to him. “If you're Irish, no offense.”

“She worked at one of the sweatshops on Orchard Street,” Frank added.

“Like a lot of people.”

“She was sort of the leader of it, I think.”

“That right?” Silverman said. “What's your interest in her? That'd help me check out the archives.”

“She was murdered two weeks ago,” Frank said. “The police won't release her body. It takes a relative to make them. I'm trying to find one.”

“That doesn't sound hard.”

“It wouldn't be, usually,” Frank said, “but it is with Hannah.”

“Why?”

“The only link is her two sisters,” Frank said. “But I can't find them.”

“Were they in the union?”

“I don't know.”

“You have their names?”

“Naomi and Gilda.”

“Last name Kovatnik?”

“At least until they got married it was,” Frank said.

“Well, it's a start anyway,” Silverman said. “I can have Benny do a routine computer check, and the rest I can handle with my files.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Frank said.

Silverman laughed. “You a Southerner, or what?”

“From Atlanta.”

Silverman shook his head wearily. “You got some hard-headed people down there. You say ‘union,' they hear ‘atheist Commie bastard.'”

“Yeah.”

“We're making some progress, though,” Silverman added. “But it's an uphill struggle all the way.” He shrugged. “Of course, there's nothing new in that.”

Frank nodded.

Silverman returned to the subject. “So,” he said, “besides tracking down the sisters, what's the rest of your plan?”

“To sort of work my way through Hannah's own life,” Frank said. “See what I can find.”

“How far have you gotten?”

“Up to the spring of 1936 in one direction, and back to 1954 in the other.”

“Which leaves almost twenty years,” Silverman said. “That's a long time.”

“For blank space it is,” Frank admitted.

Silverman nosed the car into the quickly moving traffic of FDR Drive. “So how can I help you?” he asked.

Frank took out his notebook and began flipping through the pages. “I need to know what she did after the strike,” he said. “Who she went to work for, that sort of thing.”

“We may not be much help there,” Silverman admitted. “When they leave us, they're pretty much on their own.”

“Any friends she might have had that she stayed in contact with,” Frank added. “Anybody who could fill in the years, maybe know something about the sisters.”

Silverman nodded silently as he headed up the ramp and then onto the towering bulwark of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“The thing is,” Frank said as his eyes drifted out across the harbor toward the Statue of Liberty and, just behind it, the crumbling ruin of Ellis Island. “The thing is, I don't really know what happened to her. I don't even know what her work was like or why she left it.”

Silverman's face darkened suddenly as he stared out across the grim rows of warehouses that lined the harbor. “Well, I can help you with that last one,” he said quietly. “At least I can give you a taste of it.”

18

Silverman pulled the car into the rear parking lot of a small brick building not far from the whirling rides of Coney Island.

“This is a hotshop,” he said as he got out of the car and closed the door. “You know what that is?”

“One with a lot of complaints,” Frank said.

Silverman smiled. “How'd you know that?”

“It's come up a few times in connection with Hannah.”

“I guess her shop was plenty hot in 1935.”

“Yes.”

“Most of them were in those days,” Silverman said. “But back then about the worst that could happen to you would be you'd lose your job, maybe get cracked over the head by some fucking gun-thug.” He shook his head despairingly. “That was bad enough. But it's worse now. With the illegals, I mean. With them, it can be life or death. They start any union trouble, the owners can pretty much hand them over to Naturalization. After that, they can be shipped back to some banana republic where they have to sleep in the streets, beg for water. For a few, it means prison, torture, a bullet in the back of the head.”

Frank nodded.

“So in a situation like that,” Silverman added, “we're not really talking about complaints, because the people who work here are too scared to go to anybody.”

“What are you doing then?” Frank asked.

“Like you, investigating,” Silverman told him. “We know a little bit about what's going on around here, but we'd like to know a little more.”

Silverman nodded quickly, then headed toward the single metal door at the back of the building. “This shithole is owned by some douchebag out on Long Island. It's packed with illegals, but we don't really give a shit about that. The way they're being treated, now that's another question.” He stopped at the door, then glanced quickly at Frank. “Anybody asks you, you're a sewing-machine salesman, okay?”

“Okay.”

Silverman rapped noisily at the door, then stepped back as it creaked open.

A large black man stepped out onto the small concrete porch. “Yeah?”

Silverman smiled cheerfully and handed the man a card. “My name's Gianelli,” he said. “I'm a sales rep with Dothan Garment Machines.”

“We're pretty busy right now,” the man said suspiciously.

“Yeah, well, that's part of the trade, right?” Silverman said happily. “Not to mention the American way, if you know what I mean.”

The black man said nothing.

“You manage this place?” Silverman asked.

“No.”

“A guy named Bowler does, right?”

“Mr. Bowler, yes.”

“He here?”

“No.”

Silverman looked surprised. “No shit? Well, that's funny, because Mr. Cavanaugh—he owns this shop, right? Mr. Luther Cavanaugh? I mean, I may be at the wrong place.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh owns it.”

“Yeah, that's what the boss said,” Silverman told him. “Anyway, Mr. Cavanaugh has expressed an interest in upgrading the equipment here. He asked for a rep to be sent over.”

“I don't know nothing about that.”

“You don't? Well, Mr. Bowler does. Why don't you give him a call?”

“He's in Florida,” the man said. “He had a heart attack down there.”

“Really? A heart attack. That's too bad.”

“He's in intensive care down there.”

“No kidding,” Silverman said mournfully. “An older man, is he?”

“Around sixty, I guess.”

“Well, my best wishes, you know,” Silverman said. “But, like they say, life goes on, and Mr. Cavanaugh asked me to come over and take a look at this place, maybe give an estimate on upgrading the whole thing.” He smiled quietly. “I'm surprised Mr. Bowler didn't mention it to you before he left.”

“He had a lot on his mind, I guess,” the man said.

“Don't we all,” Silverman told him. “So, what do you think? Could I take a look around?”

The man stared at him cautiously.

“Just a minute or two,” Silverman assured him. “I'm an old pro at this. You won't have to shut a thing down. You won't lose a second of production. I guarantee it.”

The man glanced down at the card. “Well, okay,” he said hesitantly. “I guess so.”

“Thanks a lot,” Silverman said as he walked briskly into the building.