Flesh and Blood by Thomas H. Cook

who’d manned the sewing machines and fabric cutters of the industry. It was the bronze figure of a man at a sewing machine, his fingers holding to a bit of fabric while his feet pumped at the wide steel pedal. He looked oddly content, happy in his work, and as Frank gazed at the figure from a few yards away, he could not see the raw competitiveness and volatility which Imalia Covallo had described. The man seemed buoyant and unwearied, and because of that, it was easy to picture him rising happily at the end of the day and walking briskly home to a full dinner and a joyous family.
    He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. It was nearly four in the afternoon, and the crowds were swirling about the courtyard in a chaos of moving bodies. Young men pushed bulky racks of clothing through them, waving their arms as they lumbered forward. Frank took a deep draw on the cigarette, leaned his head back slightly and closed his eyes.
    He opened them again only a few seconds later, and allowed them to settle on the building across the street. Over the shoulder of the statue, he could see the building’s revolving door as it turned ceaselessly, emitting a steady stream of well-dressed men and women. They looked oddly similar, all freshly washed and stylishly dressed, so similar that for an instant he did not even recognize Karen as she stepped quickly out of the building, then paused a moment and waited until Lancaster joined her on the street. They laughed lightly, then turned to cross the wide, bustling avenue, moving directly toward him across Seventh. She was only a few yards away before she suddenly caught sight of him, and for an instant, her face seemed to darken. Then, just as suddenly, it regained its light, and after a moment of hesitation she rushed up to him, with Lancaster following somewhat sheepishly behind.
    â€œHi, Frank,” she said brightly.
    Frank nodded.
    â€œWhat are you doing around here?”
    â€œWorking a case.”
    She touched Lancaster’s shoulder. “You know Jeffrey.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHello,” Jeffrey said.
    Again Frank nodded.
    â€œJeffrey is thinking about doing some designs,” Karen said. “I was just introducing him around Fashion Avenue a little. I thought some of the designers might be interested in his work. It would do very well for clothing.”
    Frank dropped his cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. “Good luck,” he said to Lancaster with a quick smile.
    â€œIt’s a real decision for me,” Jeffrey said. “The old prostitution question.”
    â€œEvery artist has to face it,” Karen explained. She shrugged. “It’s just something that goes with the territory.”
    Frank said nothing. For a moment his eyes were drawn back to the bronze statue, to its idealized portrait of a man at home in his work, at one with his labor, happy with how his hands served his heart.
    â€œWe’ve been making the rounds in the building across the street,” Karen said.
    Frank turned toward her. “Any luck?”
    Karen and Jeffrey exchanged glances, as if trying to decide who should answer.
    â€œI’d say so,” Karen said finally.”I think we made some progress today.” She looked at Jeffrey. “Don’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Jeffrey said. He wore gray pleated trousers and a dark blue jacket and white, open-collared shirt. His manner was quiet, calm, diplomatic, and in their short acquaintanceship, Frank had never seen him play the tormented, desolate artist, which, it seemed to him, was also something that too often went with the territory.
    â€œYes, I think we made some progress,” Karen said, a little nervously.
    â€œThe fact is,” Jeffrey said with a slight, self-conscious laugh, “I need money, and doing fashion designs might be a way of getting it.”
    â€œNot to exclude your other work, though,” Karen said quickly.
    Jeffrey looked