Flesh and Blood (24 page)

“Naomi Kovatnik,” Frank said.

“Okay, just a second,” Silverman said as he began to type.

Frank stepped behind him and watched the monitor.

For an instant, it went blank, then a message appeared.

NO RECORD FOR NAME. CHECK SPELLING.

Silverman looked at Frank. “Got any other names for her?” he asked.

“No.”

“Was she ever married?”

“I think she was,” Frank said. “But I haven't been able to run it down.”

“Okay,” Silverman said with a quick shrug. “How about the other sister?”

“Gilda Kovatnik,” Frank said.

“G-I-L-D-A,” Silverman repeated quietly as he typed in the name.

Again the screen sputtered for a moment, then her name appeared in small amber letters.

“There it is,” Silverman said. He leaned forward. “Says she was a member in good standing until 1936.” He looked at Frank. “That's when she left.”

“Left what?”

“The union.”

“That's the same year as Hannah,” Frank said. “Did she leave voluntarily?”

“Yes,” Silverman told him. “She probably went into another line.” He hit a single key, and the screen sputtered once again. “Never joined the union again.” He pointed to the lower righthand corner of the screen. “There's one other thing,” he said.

Frank leaned toward the screen. “What?”

“She's dead.”

Frank stared at the small
D
at the edge of the screen, then the date which had been written beside it:
SEPTEMBER
12, 1954. Just beneath it, there was a final entry,
PD: SAN JORGE COLOMBIA
.

“What does that ‘PD' mean?” Frank asked immediately.

“Place of death,” Silverman told him.

Frank took out his notebook and quickly wrote it down. “How do you know she died?”

Silverman hit another key. “Yeah, that's what I figured,” he said, almost to himself.

“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 cannot 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?”