'Maybe I could explain that in person,' I said. 'I'm just a few minutes away from you now. Would it be all right if I come over?'
'Jesus. What's today, Saturday? And what time is it? I've been working and I tend to lose track of the time. I've got six o'clock. Is that right?'
'That's right.'
'I'd better fix something to eat. And I have to clean up. Give me an hour, okay?'
'I'll be there at seven.'
'You know the address?' I read it off as I'd received it from Information. 'That's it. That's between Church and Broadway, and you ring the bell and then stand at the curb so I can see you and I'll throw the key down. Ring two long and three short, okay?'
'Two long and three short.'
'Then I'll know it's you. Not that you're anything to me but a voice on the phone. How'd you get this number? It's supposed to be unlisted.'
'I used to be a cop.'
'Right, so you said. So much for unlisted numbers, huh? Tell me your name again.'
'Matthew Scudder.'
She repeated it. Then she said, 'Barbara Ettinger. Oh, if you knew how that name takes me back. I have a feeling I'm going to be sorry I answered the phone. Well, Mr. Scudder, I'll be seeing you in an hour.'
Chapter 8
Lispenard is a block below Canal Street, which puts it in that section known as Tribeca. Tribeca is a geographical acronym for Triangle Below Canal, just as SoHo derives from South of Houston Street.
There was a time when artists began moving into the blocks south of the Village, living in violation of the housing code in spacious and inexpensive lofts. The code had since been modified to permit residential loft dwelling and SoHo had turned chic and expensive, which led loft seekers further south to Tribeca. The rents aren't cheap there either now, but the streets still have the deserted quality of SoHo ten or twelve years ago.
I stuck to a well-lighted street. I walked near the curb, not close to buildings, and I did my best to move quickly and give an impression of alertness. Confrontations were easily avoided in those empty streets.
Janice Keane's address turned out to be a six-story loft building, a narrow structure fitted in between two taller, wider and more modern buildings. It looked cramped, like a little man on a crowded subway.
Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the width of the facade on each of its floors. On the ground floor, shuttered for the weekend, was a wholesaler of plumber's supplies.
I went into a claustrophobic hallway, found a bell marked Keane, rang it two long and three short. I went out to the sidewalk, stood at the curb looking up at all those windows.
She called down from one of them, asking my name. I couldn't see anything in that light. I gave my name, and something small whistled down through the air and jangled on the pavement beside me.
'Fifth floor,' she said. 'There's an elevator.'
There was indeed, and it could have accommodated a grand piano.
I rode it to the fifth floor and stepped out into a spacious loft. There were a lot of plants, all deep green and thriving, and relatively little in the way of furniture. The doors were oak, buffed to a high sheen. The walls were exposed brick. Overhead track lighting provided illumination.
She said, 'You're right on time. The place is a mess but I won't apologize. There's coffee.'
'If it's no trouble.'
'None at all. I'm going to have a cup myself. Just let me steer you to a place to sit and I'll be a proper hostess. Milk? Sugar?'
'Just black.'
She left me in an area with a couch and a pair of chairs grouped around a high-pile rug with an abstract design. A couple of eight-foot-tall bookcases reached a little more than halfway to the ceiling and helped screen the space from the rest of the loft. I walked over to the window and looked down at Lispenard Street but there wasn't a whole lot to see.
There was one piece of sculpture in the room and I was standing in front of it when she came back with the coffee. It was the head of a woman. Her hair was a nest of snakes, her face a high-cheekboned, broad-browed mask of unutterable disappointment.
'That's my Medusa,' she said. 'Don't meet her eyes. Her gaze turns men to stone.'
'She's very good.'
'Thank you.'
'She looks so disappointed.'
'That's the quality,' she agreed. 'I didn't know that until I'd finished her, and then I saw it for myself.
You've got a pretty good eye.'
'For disappointment, anyway.'
She was an attractive woman. Medium height, a little more well-fleshed than was strictly fashionable.
