Flesh and Blood by Thomas H. Cook Page B

it jumped to life again. “Well, Imalia wants you to be given full cooperation,” he said. “And around here, Imalia Covallo makes the rules.” He did not seem to resent that fact so much as fully comprehend it. “Well, let’s go back into my office,” he added immediately, “and we’ll look into how I can help you.”
    Frank followed Riviera through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached a spacious office near the rear of the building. The grayish-purple light of late afternoon flooded through a tall line of windows behind Riviera’s desk. Down below, Frank could see the enormous black roof of Macy’s. It looked like an immense parking lot which someone had built above the city.
    â€œNow,” Riviera said as he sat down behind his desk, “what can I do for you?”
    Frank eased himself into one of the two chairs which sat in front of the desk and took out his notebook. “How well did you know Hannah Karlsberg?” he asked.
    â€œI gave all this sort of information to the police,” Riviera said. “At first, they were thinking that someone she worked with might have done it, some disgruntled employee.” He looked at Frank quizzically. “I guess that’s the usual theory.”
    Frank said nothing.
    â€œBut Hannah got along with everyone,” Riviera added. “That’s what I told them. She was aloof, but she was well liked.”
    â€œHow well did you know her, Mr. Riviera?” Frank asked.
    â€œRelatively well,” Riviera said.
    â€œHow long had you known her?”
    â€œWell, I really didn’t get to know her until she came to work for Imalia,” Riviera said. “But I’d seen her once or twice when I used to do a job or two on the Lower East Side.”
    â€œSo you knew her before she came to work for Ms. Covallo?” Frank asked.
    â€œSort of. When I was a little boy, I’d see her around Orchard Street,” Riviera explained. “But this was years before she came to work here. I hadn’t really known who she was in those days.” He smiled. “I don’t know if you could really tell much from recent pictures, but when Hannah was a girl, she was a real shayna maidel .”
    Frank glanced up from his notebook. “A what?”
    â€œ Shayna maidel ,”Riviera repeated. “It’s Yiddish. It means ‘pretty girl.’” He laughed softly. “Despite my name,” he said, “I’m Jewish.” He leaned forward slightly. “I am a Sephardic Jew, Mr. Clemons, a Spanish Jew.” He waited for Frank to respond in some way, and when he didn’t, Riviera continued. “I always like to clear that misunderstanding up.”
    â€œWhat misunderstanding?”
    â€œThat because my name is Riviera, that I’m a Puerto Rican or a Mexican or something like that,” Riviera said. “The fact is, people have a tendency to treat Hispanics as if they’re ignorant menials.” His eyes narrowed sternly. “I long ago learned that in this country, you can’t allow people to think that.” He flattened his hands on the polished wooden surface of the desk and pushed them toward Frank. “Do you see those knuckles? Do they look a little strange to you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI broke them quite a few times when I was growing up on the Lower East Side,” Riviera said. “Antonio Riviera, that was me. The blacks didn’t like me because I was a Jew.” He shrugged. “And as for the Jews, they were mostly Ashkenazi, Eastern European Jews. They didn’t like me because I was Sephardic, and Sephardim are supposed to think of themselves as superior.” He smiled cunningly. “Usually they do think of themselves as superior,” he said. “And usually, if I might add this, they’re right.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, now that the record’s straight, go on to your next