minute to realize that the voice belonged to Laurel Jones. A minute later, I was out the door and on my way to Newport.
She hadn't been collected enough to make good sense. It had to do with Parks and with CM. and with our conversation earlier that night. The gist of it was that Laurel had talked to C.W. that evening. She'd paid her a visit, in spite of the fact that I'd asked her to wait. And on that visit, something had gone very badly wrong, so wrong that it had virtually unhinged Laurel. I was afraid that Parks or Kaplan had beat her up or threatened to beat her up, and that that was what had terrified her. I cursed myself for giving the girl any encouragement to act as a go-between.
I was so furious with myself, that I was a hazard behind the wheel, making it over the river and into Newport in less than six minutes. I caromed through Newport's maze of decrepit, one-way streets to the red-light district on York. At that hour the legitimate shops were locked and lit for the night. The rest of them -the strip-and-clip joints- were wide open. I shot down York, and eventually the neon storefronts gave way to gaslights and maple-shaded tenements. Two twenty-five was just one more brick apartment house in a long row of apartments, three blocks south of the unmarked dividing line that ran like a part in Newport's hair, separating the respectable side of town from the unkempt one. I double-parked on the street and ran up a short flight of steps to a courtyard with a mass of hollyhocks in its center. A U-shaped building rather like the Delores surrounded the court, with a lobby door in each of the wings. I tried the wing on the right and got lucky. Laurel Jones/Number Six was written in neat script on a card in one of the brass mailboxes. There were two apartments per floor and two flights to each landing, which meant that it was six flights to Laurel Jones. By the time I finished bounding to the top landing, my lungs were on fire and my face was pouring sweat.
I pounded on Laurel's shiny mahogany door. A frightened little voice that sounded like Laurel with all the gumption let out asked, "Who's there?"
"Harry!" I shouted. "For chrissake, open the door!" I heard chains sliding in locks, then the door opened and Laurel ran out -straight into my arms.
She came flying toward me so quickly that I didn't get a chance to examine her face. And then she wouldn't let go for a minute -head buried in my chest, arms wrapped around my neck.
I held her for a long moment then gently pushed her away and tilted her face up to the light. I'd been sure that she'd been worked over by Parks or by Kaplan, but there were no marks on her face or her forearms.
I thanked God for big favors and asked her what had happened.
"I couldn't ..." Her voice failed, and she took a couple of deep breaths. "I couldn't get hold of you." She stared at me, her blue eyes wet with tears. "I tried calling, at one and one thirty and two and two thirty. Where were you?"
Her voice was so plaintive, her pretty doll-like face so full of disappointment, that I felt as if I'd truly let her down -as if I should have been around to look after her. As if I'd contracted to do so earlier that night.
"I'm sorry, Laurel," I said guiltily. "I was looking for Parks."
Her face shook when I mentioned his name. "Oh, God," she said. "Oh, God. I don't know what to do."
I wiped the tears from her eyes with my fingertips.
"It's going to be all right," I said. "Whatever happened, I'll take care of it." I glanced over her shoulder at the open apartment door. "Do you want to go inside?"
She gasped. "God, no. I've been sitting in there for two hours."
"Then let's go out."
Laurel stared fearfully down the stairwell.
"My car's right in front. Everything will be fine."
She nodded weakly. "Okay," she said in a tiny voice.
We got to the car without any trouble, although from the way Laurel was acting I thought we might be attacked at any moment. She was so distraught that
She hadn't been collected enough to make good sense. It had to do with Parks and with CM. and with our conversation earlier that night. The gist of it was that Laurel had talked to C.W. that evening. She'd paid her a visit, in spite of the fact that I'd asked her to wait. And on that visit, something had gone very badly wrong, so wrong that it had virtually unhinged Laurel. I was afraid that Parks or Kaplan had beat her up or threatened to beat her up, and that that was what had terrified her. I cursed myself for giving the girl any encouragement to act as a go-between.
I was so furious with myself, that I was a hazard behind the wheel, making it over the river and into Newport in less than six minutes. I caromed through Newport's maze of decrepit, one-way streets to the red-light district on York. At that hour the legitimate shops were locked and lit for the night. The rest of them -the strip-and-clip joints- were wide open. I shot down York, and eventually the neon storefronts gave way to gaslights and maple-shaded tenements. Two twenty-five was just one more brick apartment house in a long row of apartments, three blocks south of the unmarked dividing line that ran like a part in Newport's hair, separating the respectable side of town from the unkempt one. I double-parked on the street and ran up a short flight of steps to a courtyard with a mass of hollyhocks in its center. A U-shaped building rather like the Delores surrounded the court, with a lobby door in each of the wings. I tried the wing on the right and got lucky. Laurel Jones/Number Six was written in neat script on a card in one of the brass mailboxes. There were two apartments per floor and two flights to each landing, which meant that it was six flights to Laurel Jones. By the time I finished bounding to the top landing, my lungs were on fire and my face was pouring sweat.
I pounded on Laurel's shiny mahogany door. A frightened little voice that sounded like Laurel with all the gumption let out asked, "Who's there?"
"Harry!" I shouted. "For chrissake, open the door!" I heard chains sliding in locks, then the door opened and Laurel ran out -straight into my arms.
She came flying toward me so quickly that I didn't get a chance to examine her face. And then she wouldn't let go for a minute -head buried in my chest, arms wrapped around my neck.
I held her for a long moment then gently pushed her away and tilted her face up to the light. I'd been sure that she'd been worked over by Parks or by Kaplan, but there were no marks on her face or her forearms.
I thanked God for big favors and asked her what had happened.
"I couldn't ..." Her voice failed, and she took a couple of deep breaths. "I couldn't get hold of you." She stared at me, her blue eyes wet with tears. "I tried calling, at one and one thirty and two and two thirty. Where were you?"
Her voice was so plaintive, her pretty doll-like face so full of disappointment, that I felt as if I'd truly let her down -as if I should have been around to look after her. As if I'd contracted to do so earlier that night.
"I'm sorry, Laurel," I said guiltily. "I was looking for Parks."
Her face shook when I mentioned his name. "Oh, God," she said. "Oh, God. I don't know what to do."
I wiped the tears from her eyes with my fingertips.
"It's going to be all right," I said. "Whatever happened, I'll take care of it." I glanced over her shoulder at the open apartment door. "Do you want to go inside?"
She gasped. "God, no. I've been sitting in there for two hours."
"Then let's go out."
Laurel stared fearfully down the stairwell.
"My car's right in front. Everything will be fine."
She nodded weakly. "Okay," she said in a tiny voice.
We got to the car without any trouble, although from the way Laurel was acting I thought we might be attacked at any moment. She was so distraught that
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