Night Secrets (15 page)

Frank inhaled deeply. “Yes.”

Farouk smiled wistfully. “That is raki. It is a drink, a liqueur made of raisins. It is a Turkish drink, not common in this country.”

“Turkish?”

“Yes,” Farouk said.

“You mean, they're not …”

“No, they are Gypsies, all right,” Farouk said, anticipating Frank's question. He pointed to the odd-shaped instruments that hung from the wall. “Those are known only to the Gitano,” he said. Then he shook his head quickly, and stepped out of the small room, edging his large belly carefully out the door. For a moment he seemed lost in thought, his large eyes strangely distant, as if he were seeing other worlds, vanished lands. Then suddenly he seemed to return to himself. “Where is the kitchen?” he asked.

Frank shrugged.

“Probably back there,” Farouk said. He moved quickly out of the room, down a very short corridor to another small room. “Yes, here it is,” he said as he stepped into it.

Frank stopped at the entrance. “What are you looking for?”

Farouk didn't answer. Instead, he moved quickly from one cabinet to the next, opening them one by one, then moving on to the drawers, the refrigerator, the small dark space beneath the sink. When he'd finished, he stood near the center of the room, thinking to himself. “Three women,” he said almost to himself. His eyes shot over to Frank. “Is that what you think? That there were three women in this place?”

“Yes.”

“And no one else?”

“As far as I know.”

Farouk shook his head. “I do not think so, Frank.”

“Why not?”

Farouk brought his finger up to his nose again. “Because raki is not a woman's drink,” he said. “And whoever drank it here last took the bottle with him.”

Frank shrugged. “It could have been a guest. Someone passing through.”

Farouk nodded. “That is possible,” he said. Then he walked over to the small bathroom which adjoined the kitchen and turned on the light. He opened the small medicine cabinet, concentrating on the array of tubes and bottles which were crowded onto its three small glass shelves.

Frank ticked off the things he saw. “Toothpaste, perfume, hairpins.”

Farouk continued to glance about.

“Lipstick, rouge, eyeliner,” Frank went on. “I don't see anything that would belong to a man.”

Farouk turned toward him. “Perhaps,” he said. Then he drew a small pocket knife from his trousers, opened its slenderest blade and slid it into the tiny crevice where the sink's faucet met the basin. “Ah, yes,” he said with sudden satisfaction as he brought the blade out once again.

Frank stepped over toward him and watched as Farouk brought the blade near his eyes. It was covered with tiny black flecks.

“Not the strands of a woman's hair,” Farouk said, “but the leavings of a beard.”

“A man,” Frank breathed. “But why aren't there any other signs?”

“Because he does not live here,” Farouk said, “but only comes to them in the night, yes?”

“And leaves in the morning,” Frank added.

“After he has shaved,” Farouk said. He glanced at his watch. “Come now, we must go.”

They returned to Frank's office, moving down the nearly deserted sidestreets, their eyes searching up ahead for the old Gypsy. Finally they disappeared down the cement stairs, stepped over the old woman who was sleeping soundly at the bottom and made their way into the office.

Farouk sat in the old sofa by the window and watched while Frank retrieved the bottle from his desk and poured each of them a shot in a paper cup.

Farouk lifted his slightly, in a faint toast, then drank.

Frank sat down behind his desk. “What are you thinking, Farouk?” he asked bluntly.

One of Farouk's eyebrows arched gently. “Thinking? Many things, as you know.”

“About tonight,” Frank said. “That place.”

Farouk considered the question for a moment, as if carefully weighing his answer. “I think that there is one who wishes his presence to be concealed. This person is a man, and for a time at least he has visited with the women.”

“But where does that leave us?”

“Perhaps nowhere of importance,” Farouk admitted. “But when one wishes to hide himself, it causes me to wonder why.” He took another sip from the cup, then rested it on his large thigh. “You mentioned the statue,” he said.

Frank nodded.

“Describe it for me again.”

Frank shrugged slightly. “It wasn't much of anything. It looked religious, sort of like those plaster ones you see of Mary.”

“You are a Christian?” Farouk asked.

“I'm nothing,” Frank told him. “I was raised a Christian.”

“Catholic?”

“No.”

“But you said that it looked rather like the Virgin Mary?”

“That's right.”

“
Like
the Virgin Mary,” Farouk said emphatically. “It was not the Holy Mother herself?”

Frank shook his head. “It looked different somehow.”

“In what way?”

“Well, like I told you, she looked as if she were walking in water.”

“And it was foamy, this water? As if it were the sea, as if she were walking onto the beach?”

Frank nodded. “Yeah, that's the way it looked.”

Farouk's eyes closed thoughtfully. “Was she carrying a child?”

“No.”

“Was there a halo?”

“No.”

“And you said she was wearing a purple robe, is that right? With a hood?”

“With a hood.”

“And the hood was up?”

“Yes.”

Farouk opened his eyes and smiled. “Forgive me these questions, but the more detail the description has, the better I can use it.”

Frank took a sip from the cup. “Use it how?”

“To discover things,” Farouk replied idly. “And there was also a medallion?”

“Brass,” Frank said.

“Large? Small?”

“I'd say it was about four inches in diameter.”

“And there was a scorpion, you said.”

“That's right,” Frank told him. “And on the Puri Dai, too.”

“There were scorpions on her? You mean …”

“Embroidered on her blouse,” Frank said quickly. “One over each breast.”

Farouk sat back slightly, raised the cup toward his lips, then stopped and brought it down again. “I think it is now time for me to meet the Puri Dai.”

Frank nodded.

Farouk glanced at his watch. “But not tonight,” he said. “Toby has returned, and I must see her home.” He got to his feet. “Tomorrow morning, then?”

Frank shook his head. “No, I can't,” he said.

Farouk looked at him, surprised.

“The day case,” Frank reminded him.

“Ah yes, the day case,” Farouk said. “That which feeds the body and leaves the soul to starve.”

F
rank waited for the buzzer to ring, then stepped into the office's small reception area. The woman behind the desk nodded to him politely as he walked over to her.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

“I'd like to see Dr. Powers,” Frank told her. He pulled out one of a collection of cards which Farouk had assembled for him over the past few months. This one identified him as a professional tax consultant, and for a moment he tried to assume the manner of one: cool, professional, a man who could spot vultures from a great distance.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked, after she'd glanced at the card.

“No, I don't,” Frank said politely. “That's why I came so early. I thought that if the doctor had a moment, he might be willing to see me. I think he'd be interested in what I have to say.”

“And you're a tax consultant, is that right?” the woman asked.

“Yes.”

She didn't seem to doubt it, and Frank could feel himself assuming the role a bit more casually. Still, he could sense the overall stiffness of his manner, and for a moment he envied the way Farouk could pull it off, the way he could almost become the man he pretended to be.

“I know it's early,” he said. “But I think Dr. Powers would profit by seeing me.”

“I understand,” the woman said. “Just a moment.” She disappeared into the back of the office, and while she was gone, Frank dropped the tax consultant pose and looked the place over the way he always did, searching for that odd detail that would bring everything else into focus. He noted the small tables and chairs which dotted the waiting room, the spray of flowers in the corner, the overall elegance of the place, its antiseptic calm.

He drew in a deep, faintly weary breath and sat down in one of the small chairs near the front desk. His eyes ached slightly, and he rubbed them gently. They felt large and faintly sore, as if swollen with his long sleeplessness. He closed them for a moment, then opened them again and scanned the room a second time.

The walls were pale blue, and an assortment of framed Broadway posters hung from them, old broadsides advertising
Oklahoma!, Mame, The Sound of Music
. Aside from them, there was only one other picture, a very ornately drawn portrait of a woman whose eyes seemed to watch the world from behind a pale, gossamer screen. The eyes themselves were large and blue, and something about them disturbed him. For a time, he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Then, suddenly, he knew. Their color was the exact shade of the walls. Frank realized that either the walls or the eyes had been painted to match the other's color.

He was still looking at the eyes when the receptionist returned.

“Dr. Powers will see you now, Mr. Clemons,” she said. “But it'll have to be brief.”

“Thank you.”

“Just follow me, please.”

She led him down a short corridor, then into the doctor's consulting room. Powers sat behind a large glass-topped desk, his back to the window. He rose immediately. “Good morning, Mr. Clemons,” he said. He smiled brightly and offered his hand.

It was a fat little hand, very pink and pudgy, but Frank pumped it enthusiastically, as he thought a tax consultant would.

“Good morning, Dr. Powers,” he said.

“Please, sit down,” Powers told him. The smile stayed on his face, as if someone had pasted it there because without it there would have been no face at all.

Frank took a seat in front of Powers's desk. He crossed his legs primly, like he'd seen men do in ads for expensive suits, and folded his hands in his lap. “Thanks for seeing me without an appointment,” he said.

“Happy to do it,” Powers said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

The smile flexed a little, as if Powers were testing his lips for longer service later on. “So, tax consultancy,” he said cheerfully. “Tax avoidance, not evasion, I hope.”

He was a large man, but the longer Frank observed him, the more light and buoyant he seemed. He looked swollen and overweight, but like a beachball—puffed out, yet empty.

“Like everyone else, I'm always interested in saving money,” he said. “So, what exactly do you do?”

Frank brought himself to attention. “I provide advice and assistance, particularly to people in private occupations.” It sounded exactly like something Farouk would have come up with, and he felt vaguely pleased by it. “Sometimes in difficult matters,” he added without elaborating.

“Mostly doctors?”

“Quite a few doctors.”

“So you know the particular kinds of expenses we have?”

“Yes,” Frank said. Then he guessed. “Transporting specimens, for example.”

“No, I use a local lab, Pentatex, over on Second Avenue,” Powers said. “They're very good.”

“Yes, they are,” Frank said authoritatively. “You send all your lab work from this office?”

Powers looked at him quizzically.

“I mean, you have only one office?” Frank explained.

“Yes.”

“You don't work out of your home?”