Flesh and Blood (37 page)

Frank reached for his notebook.

“No need,” Farouk told him. He tapped his finger against the side of his head. “It is safe in here.”

It was almost midnight before Frank saw him again. He leaned forward quickly and nudged Farouk from his sleep.

“He's leaving,” Frank whispered.

Farouk straightened himself immediately, his eyes searching the gray interior of the garage for Riviera's silver hair.

“Ah yes,” he said when he saw him.

From behind the dusty windshield, Farouk could see Riviera as he made his way briskly to the station wagon, then got in and quickly drove out of the garage.

They followed him as he turned left and headed east, then took another right on Park Avenue, moving southward between the office buildings that lined the avenue on both sides.

“Perhaps he is going home,” Farouk said, as he speeded up slightly to remain just close enough to keep Riviera's car in sight.

Frank did not speak. He kept his eyes on the blue station wagon, watching closely as it moved into the East Village, then through it, the car heading easily past the brightly lit restaurants of Little Italy and then into dense tenement blocks of Chinatown.

“He's going to the bridge,” Frank said, as the station wagon curved easily around the jutting gray wall of the Municipal Building and then gently nosed up the entry ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge.

Farouk pressed the accelerator slightly and the old car sputtered wearily, but jerked forward, its faded yellow headlights beaming onto the ramparts of the bridge.

Once across the river, the station wagon exited immediately, then veered to the right and headed out toward a dark, secluded area of abandoned warehouses.

Farouk glanced at Frank and smiled. “I don't think he's going home,” he said.

The smooth pavement gave way to bricks and cobblestones as the station wagon made a quick left and moved out toward the river.

Farouk eased his foot off the accelerator, slowing down immediately. “We should not get too close. In traffic, it would not be so bad. But here, it is too obvious.”

Frank nodded. “Don't burn it,” he said. “Don't burn the tail.”

Riviera's car continued toward the river, then abruptly turned right and headed down a dark, unlit road.

“We can't follow him in the car, Farouk,” Frank said. “It's too deserted. He'd pick up the tail right away.”

“Yes,” Farouk agreed reluctantly. He wheeled the car over to the side of one of the buildings and stopped. “We'll have to try to keep up with him on foot.”

They got out immediately and began trotting toward the corner. The air was cold, and as they ran, jets of condensed air shot out in front of them. The smell of the river was deep and musty, and it reminded Frank of the lazily flowing southern streams in which he swam away his childhood, then of that other river, deep in the Colombian jungle, where the bodies had been stacked like cords of wood along the muddy banks.

As they rounded the corner, Frank could see the taillights of Riviera's car like two tiny red eyes. They moved to the right, then stopped.

Farouk stopped too, gasping noisily as he tried to get his breath. “I cannot run like this,” he said, puffing wildly, his huge hands plucking at his coat. “I am not a deer.”

“He's stopped,” Frank said, his eyes fixed on the taillights.

Farouk dropped his fists to his sides and stared out into the darkness.

The taillights flashed off, and it was as if an impenetrable black wall had suddenly thrust itself toward them. For a moment, the two of them stood in the darkness, still trying to regain their breath.

“Ready?” Frank finally asked.

“Yes,” Farouk said.

They moved over toward the building and walked quietly alongside it. Frank could feel the rough texture of the brick and mortar with his fingertips, and as he continued forward, he took a strange, inexpressible comfort in that single bleak sensation.

Suddenly, in the distance, a square of light shot toward them, and Frank could see that Riviera had opened up the tailgate of the station wagon, throwing on the light inside the car. He could see Riviera's hair gleaming, almost magically, in that light. His large brown hands were wrapped around a small metal drum, and he leaned forward carefully and slid the drum into the back of the car, then turned quickly and disappeared into the building, leaving the tailgate open, the single light still glowing hazily in the cold winter air.

“The drug,” Farouk whispered. “Do you think it is the drug?”

Frank did not answer. He pressed his shoulders against the side of the building, scraping it softly as he continued forward. One step at a time, he inched his way toward the light, until he was almost at the door of the building. It was then that he glanced back and realized that Farouk had disappeared into the thick harbor darkness. For an instant, he wanted to call him, and as he stopped himself, he realized that he wanted Farouk at his side, not because he wanted help, but because he didn't want to die the old scriptural death of the lost, alone save for the presence of his enemies.

He started to step forward, then heard a long, slow breath behind him.

“I am fine now,” Farouk whispered vehemently. “But my breath, I had to get it back.”

Frank turned back toward the car, took two steps, then drew back at once.

Riviera stepped quickly out of the building once again, walked over to the station wagon, and slid in a second small green drum.

Frank stepped out of the darkness, and as Riviera turned and saw him, he noticed that the old man's face was oddly beautiful in its deep lines and full, unparted lips, and that there was something about him that seemed to tower over the car, the street, the buildings, rise up and over all these things, until it stood in its own dreadful solitude, cold, bloodless, beyond the call of human needs.

“Did you follow me?” Riviera asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To check out a few things.”

Farouk stepped into the light, his shoulder almost touching Frank's.

“I see you brought your partner,” Riviera said to Frank.

Frank said nothing.

Riviera lifted his head slightly and took in a deep breath. The whistle of a tugboat broke the air around him, but he did not seem to hear it. “I didn't know that you were still working on the case,” he said. “After that man died, I thought it was over. Are there still some other things Miss Covallo is interested in?”

“A few that we are,” Frank said.

“What things?” Riviera asked immediately.

“They have to do with Hannah,” Frank said.

Riviera smiled. “In one way or another, everything does.”

Frank stared at Riviera expressionlessly. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Her death calls things into question,” Riviera said.

“What things?”

“What her life was worth,” Riviera told him. He glanced at Farouk. “What anything is worth.” He smiled slightly, then turned back to Frank, his eyes moving slowly up and down Frank's body. “You could use a new overcoat, Mr. Clemons. Would you like to have one?”

“Some of what I found out about Hannah has to do with you,” Frank told him.

“That doesn't surprise me,” Riviera said matter-of-factly. “The world is very interconnected, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't.”

Riviera's body stiffened. “What are you after, Mr. Clemons?” he demanded impatiently. “I'm a busy man, as you can see.”

Frank glanced toward the small green containers. “What's in those cans?” he asked.

“Solvent,” Riviera answered. He nodded toward the building to his left. “This is a refinishing plant. We're closing it down. Certain materials have to be removed.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“This is a difficult trade,” Riviera said. “We don't always play by the rules.” He glanced toward Farouk, then back to Frank. “The government has very strict regulations about disposing of certain chemicals. The procedures are very expensive.” He smiled. “We sometimes try to avert the cost.”

“By dumping things at night?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you're doing, dumping it?”

“Transferring it,” Riviera said. “You know, to a safer place.” He smiled thinly. “At least for a while.”

“You seem a little high in the chain of command to be doing that kind of work,” Frank said.

Riviera laughed. “Just the opposite,” he said. “Only someone very high could be trusted to do it.” There was a strange distance in his voice, a sense of falling away, as if something in him had suddenly plunged over a cliff.

“You go to Colombia pretty often,” Frank said. “You go in April and October.”

Riviera said nothing.

“Twice a year for the last twenty years,” Frank added.

Riviera stared expressionlessly into Frank's eyes.

“Hannah was in Colombia for a while,” Frank said. “A village called San Jorge.”

Riviera remained silent, but Frank could see something building like a fire behind his eyes.

“That's near the slopes of the Andes,” Frank added. “Drug country.”

Riviera's face relaxed slightly. “Drug country?”

“That's right,” Frank said. “Marijuana, Cocaine. A mixture called
bazuco.
” He looked at Riviera pointedly. “Maybe something else. Something new.”

Riviera smiled mockingly. “You think I'm a drug dealer?”

Frank did not reply.

Riviera laughed lightly. “Well, if I'm a drug dealer, how do I get this whatever-it-is into the country?”

“Through a building you own,” Frank told him. “The Brandon Street Settlement.”

Riviera laughed again, a hard, dry laugh, mocking and ironic, which seemed to slash at the thick darkness which surrounded him.

“Well, you have found enough,” he said, at last. “You have stumbled upon enough in your stupid way.”

Frank glared at him. “Enough what?”

“Enough to die a fool,” Riviera said, as he pulled the pistol from his jacket. “Do you think I haven't killed before?”

Frank felt his heart like a cold stone in his chest. He glanced at Farouk, who stood motionless beside him, his face paling as he glared at the pistol.

“Hannah,” Frank said.

“Before that, too,” Riviera said. He lifted one of his large gnarled hands. “With this.” He laughed again. “Do you know how to make it in this world?” he asked. “Not by hard work. That's bullshit. Everyone works hard. No. You make it by being willing to do anything you have to do.” His face grew flushed in the cold air. “If you live in a sewer, you eat the sewer rats.” He glanced at the small green cans. “Drugs? Ridiculous.”

“What is it?” Frank asked.

Riviera looked at him almost admiringly. “You really want to know, don't you? Well, it can't hurt now.” His eyes softened. “Something amazing,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “Not a drug, but something amazing.” He pulled a plain white handkerchief from his back pocket. “Something that you take from a little yellow seed, and you refine it, and you put it on this handkerchief, and, you know, it will seem to glow.”

Frank's lips parted. “‘The Imalia Covallo Look,'” he breathed.

Riviera smiled. “It was discovered years ago by a chemist in Colombia. A genius. His name should be famous.”

“Emilio Pérez,” Frank said.

“That's right. He found that a little pod from a very common herb could make ordinary cloth more beautiful than you could imagine. It's all in the sheen it gives to the material. It wraps you in light. When you wear a dress, it illuminates you. You are clothed in stars. You look like a goddess.” Riviera looked mournfully at the two small cannisters. “And that's the last of it,” he said. “There'll probably never be any more. Kincaid saw to that.” His eyes shifted back to Frank. “He was there when Bornstein sent Hannah down to refine and produce it.” He smiled almost wistfully. “We called it the “
magia de la selva
.'”

“The jungle magic,” Farouk whispered.

Riviera glanced at him, then turned back to Frank. “It was magical, all right,” he said. “But it was also poisonous. At least at one stage, the processing. It had no color, no taste, no odor. But during that time, it could be absorbed in almost any way. From the air, through the skin. There was no way to stop it.”

“And Kincaid knew that,” Frank said.

“Yes,” Riviera said. “He killed Emilio because of it. Cut off his hand and simply disappeared into the jungle.” He shook his head. “Hannah always thought he must have died there.” He smiled. “You can imagine how she must have felt when he showed up at her door.”

“He found her?”

“He ended up at Brandon Street,” Riviera said. “That's where he saw the seed. Probably only one of them, clinging to some
campesino's
shirt. That was all he needed. He went to Hannah, thinking that she knew about it.”

“She didn't?” Frank asked.

Riviera shook his head. “Of course not. She thought we had found a way to process it safely. She would never have used the extract, not after what happened in San Jorge.” He smiled. “I told her that we'd found a way to control it, that we were always changing the workers who worked with it, just to make sure that no one would be harmed.” He cocked the pistol. “She wanted to believe that, and so she did.”

“Until Kincaid came to her apartment,” Frank said.

“That's right.”

“But he didn't kill her.”

“No,” Riviera said coldly. The barrel of the pistol inched out slightly. “I did.”

“Kincaid told her about how the whole operation worked,” Frank said quickly.

“You're stalling, Clemons,” Riviera said.

“I want to know what happened.”

“Well, you're right, of course,” Riviera said. “Kincaid told Hannah how whole batches of workers arrived at Brandon Street every six months. How they came from everywhere, so that when they went back home, got sick and died, no one would ever be able to Figure out that the one thing they all had in common was a short stay at Brandon Street.” He smiled. “We figured it all out very well.”