Lullaby

* * * *

748 North Orange was in the area of the city that sounded like a Chamber of Commerce promo for a small Florida town. Narrow, twisting little streets with names like Lime, Hibiscus, Pelican, Manatee and Heron lay cheek by jowl with similarly narrow streets like Goed-koop, Keulen, Sprenkels and Visser, which had been named by the Dutch when you and I were young, Maggie.

The center of the Three-Two was in Scotch Meadows Park, which opened at its westernmost end onto Hopper Street, hence the ellipsis 'Hopscotch' for the now-voguish area where many of the city's artists and photographers had taken up residence. Orange Street itself was hardly voguish. Too far uptown to be Lower Platform, too far downtown to be Hopscotch, it meandered almost to the Straits of Napoli and Chinatown on its eastern end and then veered sharply north to run into the warehouses hugging the River Harb. 748 North was in a building that used to be a shoe factory, was later a warehouse for the storage of heavy machinery, and was now divided into lofts occupied not by artists - as were those in the Quarter and in Hopscotch - but by people who called themselves actors, playwrights, musicians and dancers. Most of these people were students. The real actors, playwrights, musicians and dancers lived farther uptown in a recently renovated neighborhood near the theater district, but don't get confused, Harold.

The young woman who answered the door to apartment 41 was named Angela Quist.

The detectives told her they were investigating a homicide and asked if they could talk to Joyce Chapman.

She told them Joyce didn't live there anymore, and then said that she herself was on the way out. She was wearing a loden coat, blue jeans, boots, and a red wool cap pulled down over her ears. She told them she was really in a hurry, class started at one, and she didn't want to be late. But she took off her coat and hat and said she could give them a few minutes if they really made it fast. They sat in a small living room hung with framed Picasso prints.

Angela Quist was an actress.

Who lived in a loft.

But Angela Quist was in reality a waitress who took an acting course once a week on her day off, and her loft was a twelve-by-twenty space sectioned off with plasterboard partitions from a dozen similar small spaces on the floor.

It did, however, have a high ceiling.

And Angela did, in fact, have a beautifully sculpted face with high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a generous mouth and eyes like star sapphires. And her hair was the color of honey and her voice sounded silken and soft, and who said Cinderella couldn't go to the ball and live in a palace?

She had known Joyce Chapman in Seattle, Washington, where they'd both grown up.

Went to high school with her.

They'd both come to this city after graduation, Angela to seek a career in the theater, Joyce to study writing at Ramsey U.

'With Parker Harrison,' Angela said.

Carella said nothing.

'The poet,' Angela said. 'And novelist.'

Carella felt he was supposed to say, 'Oh, yes, of course! Parker Harrison!'

Instead, he cleared his throat.

'He's quite famous,' Angela said.

Meyer cleared his throat, too.

'It's very difficult to get accepted for his course,' Angela said.

'But apparently he accepted Joyce,' Carella said.

'Oh, yes. Well, she's marvelously talented, you know.'

'And is she still studying with him?' Meyer asked.

'Joyce? Well, no.'

'What's she doing now?' Carella asked.

'I really don't know,' Angela said.

'Do you know where she's living?'

'Yes.'

'Can you give us her address?'

'Well, sure. But ... I mean, if this has to do with something that happened here . . .'

'Yes, it . . .'

'. . . in this city, I don't see how my giving you Joyce's address is going to help you.'

'What do you mean, Miss Quist?'

'Well, she's in Seattle. So . . .'

The detectives looked at each other.

'I mean, she went back there shortly after the baby was born. Well, actually, as soon as the baby was placed.'

'Uh-huh. That would've been in August sometime.'

'Around the fifteenth, I think it was. Well, the baby was born in July . . .'

'Yes.'

'And I think arrangements were made right away for . . .'

'Yes.'

'So as soon as she was clear . . .'

'Clear?'

'Well, she didn't want to be saddled with a baby, you know. I mean, she's only nineteen. We talked about it a lot. She's Catholic, so abortion was out of the question, but she certainly didn't want to keep the baby. I mean, Joyce is enormously talented. She's got a tremendous future ahead of her, she never even once considered keeping the baby.'

'Did she consider marriage?' Meyer asked.

'Well, I don't think this was that kind of relationship.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, she picked him up in a bar. A merchant seaman. He was on his way to the Persian Gulf. He doesn't even know he's a father.'

'What's his name?'

'I don't know.'

'Does Joyce know?'

'I guess so. I mean, this was an extremely casual encounter, believe me.'

'Uh-huh,' Meyer said.

'I think she was stoned, in fact. I mean, I was here asleep when she came in with him. Usually we, well, we made arrangements if we planned to be with someone, you know.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Asked the other person to spend the night someplace else, you know.'

'Uh-huh.'

'So there'd be some privacy.'

'Uh-huh. But she just came home with this sailor . . .'

'Yeah. Well.' Angela shrugged. 'She's a little impetuous sometimes, Joyce. But she's very talented so, you know.' She shrugged again.

'She can be forgiven her little oddities,' Meyer said.

Angela looked at him as if suspecting sarcasm.

'What'd he look like?' Carella asked.

'I have no idea. I told you. I was asleep when they got here, and still asleep when he left the next morning.'

'And you say she was enrolled in this man's course . . .'

'Yes. Parker Harrison.'

'Then why'd she go back to Seattle?'

'Her father's sick.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Dying, in fact. He owns a big lumber company out there. Chapman Lumber.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Cancer of the liver. I've been meaning to call her, see how he's coming along.'

'When's the last time you spoke to her?' Meyer asked.

'She called from Seattle on New Year's Eve.'

The detectives looked at each other.

'She was in Seattle at that time?' Carella asked.

'Yes. That's where she called from. Seattle. To wish me a happy new year.'

'Could we have the number there, please?' Meyer asked.

'Sure, let me get it,' Angela said. 'But what's this homicide got to do with Joyce?'

'Her baby got killed,' Carella said.

* * * *

The two men were in a diner on Longacre and Dale.

This was now one-thirty in the afternoon, but they were just having breakfast. One of the men was eating buttered French toast over which he'd poured syrup. The other man was eating eggs over easy with sausage and home fries. Both men were drinking coffee.

This was a little early for either one of them to be up and around. One-thirty? Very early when you had a night job. Usually, their separate days didn'tstart till two, three in the afternoon. Roll out of bed, have a cup of coffee in the apartment, make a few calls, see who wanted to meet you for a bite, take your time showering and getting silked up, have your first meat of the day maybe around four, four-thirty.

'You sure got enough syrup on that,' the one eating the eggs said.

'I like it wet.'