Free Flesh and Blood by Thomas H. Cook Page A

cigarettes and offered one to Frank.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Frank said. Instead, he lit one of his own and sat back slightly. “What do you do?”
    Farouk placed a cigarette in an ivory cigarette holder, then lit it. “I put myself at the service of others,” he said as he blew a column of smoke across the table. “I lend assistance in difficult matters.”
    â€œFor a fee?”
    â€œOne does not live on air.”
    â€œOf course,” Frank said. He took a sip of whiskey.
    Farouk cocked his head slightly. “You’re not from New York.” Again, it was a statement. “Your accent. Southern?”
    â€œAtlanta,” Frank said. “But I live here now.”
    â€œIn this part of the city?”
    â€œMy office is on Forty-ninth Street.”
    â€œHell’s Kitchen. Not a place for everyone.”
    â€œThe rent’s low,” Frank said. He drained the last of the whiskey from his glass.
    â€œMay I offer you another?” Farouk asked immediately.
    Frank looked at him with suspicion.
    â€œIt is always in my interest to know a person in your profession,” Farouk said, “as it is probably in your interest to know a person in mine.”
    Frank said nothing.
    â€œIt would be my pleasure to buy a final drink,” Farouk told him. “If you wish, you may think of it as a business expense.”
    â€œI think I’ve had too many already,” Frank said. He glanced toward the window, his eyes squinting against the morning light.
    â€œCoffee, then?”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œExcellent,” Farouk said. He motioned to Toby. “ Traenos dos cafés turcos. ” Then he turned back to Frank. “Do you speak Spanish?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI am a student of languages,” Farouk said quite casually. “It is important in my profession. Especially in New York. An international city, yes? One should know different languages.”
    Frank nodded.
    â€œDifferent coffees, too,” he added with the same casualness. “Have you ever had Turkish?”
    â€œNot that I know of,” Frank admitted.
    The thin smile once again broke over Farouk’s face. “Then you will be pleased to try it,” he said.
    Toby brought over the coffees a moment later, set them down firmly, gave Farouk a quizzical look, then retreated back to the bar.
    â€œMy wife,” Farouk said, as if in explanation.
    â€œToby?”
    â€œFrom time past, my wife,” Farouk added. “As they say, ‘to keep her from oppression.’” He took a quick sip of the coffee. “For a time, we lived together. But for many years now, we have not. I prefer a place of my own. It suits my nature.” One thick black eyebrow arched slowly upward. “You are married?”
    â€œNot anymore.”
    Farouk nodded toward the cup. “Try it.”
    Frank took a slow sip. “Strong.”
    Farouk smiled cheerfully. “Which is the point of it, I think.” He leaned forward lightly, folding his thick arms over the table. “I suppose you have a case?”
    â€œA few,” Frank said, then suddenly realized that the others did not engage him anymore, that for the immediate future, lawyers could meet whomever they wished in the motels of New Jersey, that clerks could steal jewelry, and painters forge paintings, that all humanity could spread queer and bounce paper throughout the vast green land without any fear of him.
    â€œUp on Central Park West,” he added. “A murder.”
    Farouk’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “A dead woman, I think. It was in the Post. About two weeks ago?”
    â€œHow did you know which murder?” Frank asked immediately.
    â€œYou are a private investigator,” Farouk said. “Which means your fee is … what … thirty-five, forty dollars an hour?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œAt any rate, substantial,” Farouk said. “The