The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (16 page)

Marian frumped in from the bedroom, wearing a suit, a pair of gaudy earrings, and too much makeup. “I’m going,” she said.

He scowled at her. “Going where?”

“I told you that last night, Wally.”

Yeah, she had. Going down to Emil’s shop in the Village to talk to a guy who was interested in commissioning a sculpture, a Kraut friend of some other Kraut she knew. The guy owned a brauhaus over in Jersey and wanted a metal conversation piece for the outside fountain in the beer garden, a bird or something. How about a piece of crap, Singer thought.

He said, “Don’t hurry back.”

“I won’t.” She paused and gave him a long, funny look. “You’d better be civil to me from now on, Wally,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means,” Marian said, and turned out of the doorway. He heard the muffled tattoo of her shoe heels on the floor, then the door slam as she left.

Singer got up, poured his cup of cold coffee into the sink, and refilled it from the pot. Then he sat back down at the table. He felt a little relieved that Marian had left before the cops showed up; now he wouldn’t have to face both them and her at the same time. But why
hadn’t
they come? Were they trying some subtle form of psychological pressure by not showing up before now? You could never tell what the police might do. Sometimes they refused to give up on an idea that they got into their heads, hounding people without mercy. That sort of thing, Singer knew, could cause even an innocent man to confess just to get them off his back. And that one detective, Oxman, was like a dog with a bone.

The apartment seemed empty, hushed, now that Marian was out of it. He glanced over at the telephone. Was it all a crazy dream? If he picked up the receiver and dialed Cindy’s number, would he hear her live, warm voice?

Cindy’s dead
.

She was murdered last night, right across the street
.

He shuddered again. This wasn’t a dream, at least not one from which he would awaken. This was a bright, sunshiny morning in the real world. This was his life. This was it.

8:15 A.M. — MARCO POLLO

The little cunt stole things. Marco knew that as surely as he knew high-C from F-flat. Sweet-ass Michele was some actress; her one facial expression seemed to be guilt. It’d be conviction city if she ever tried her act on a judge and jury.

Marco grinned. He was mellowed out from some of the good Mex weed he’d bought from Freddie the reliable. He lay stretched out on his back on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, ankles crossed, comfortable. It was a pleasure lying here thinking about Michele. Much better than thinking about the shootings, which were what had been in his head when he woke up forty-five minutes ago. Two more last night, one of them an undercover pig. Good thing he’d been blowing with the combo at Jazz Heaven, else he’d have been home, right here in the middle, when all the shit went down. Then he’d really have been spooked. Bad enough to hear about it at the club, have to come home at three fucking
A.M.
all wired up because some crazy was running loose with a piece in his pocket. Hell, he’d needed that first joint this morning bad. Who could blame him, man?

But now he was feeling all reet, all reet, thinking about sweet-ass Michele. His grin broadened. But hey, why only
think
about her? Why not go
see
her? She’d be home this early.

Yeah. Ask her where she got rid of the things she stole. It was damned important to have a reliable fence these days. The pigs were on to all the amateurs in the business; you needed a pro if you didn’t want to get busted. And Marco didn’t want Michele busted, at least not until he’d had the chance to bust her himself.

He got up from the bed. Should he have another joint before he went upstairs, maybe a hit on some of that good coke? Nah, better not. He didn’t want to get stoned, not with the pigs all over the place. They hadn’t been around to talk to him again, but they would be, sooner or later. His stash was safe enough, in the false pipe behind the radiator, but if the pigs saw him stoned they’d hassle him. Who needed that?

Marco took the stairs up to the fourth floor and did the old shave-and-a-haircut on Michele’s door. He heard her moving around inside, then stop moving near the door as she looked out through the peephole. He laid a smile on for her, playing it casual. And just like he knew she would, she opened right up.

Usually she acted kind of surprised and flustered when they met, but this time she was ready for him with a big bright smile. Marco tried to remember that acting was her life—not that she could ever fool him. As far as he was concerned, she’d had an X on her ass from the time he found out how she earned her part-time money.

She looked tasty standing there in the doorway, long blond hair pulled back and up in some kind of fancy braid across the top of her head. Wearing a pair of tight—real tight—jeans and a silky tan blouse that did good things for her tits. Marco gave her another grin, a cozy one this time.

“I don’t want to borrow a cup of sugar,” he told her.

She caught on right away and invited him in, trying to hide her reluctance.

Marco looked around. Not much of a pad, the only funky touch the Chinese chest in one corner. He wouldn’t mind having that chest himself; maybe he could work something out with her. He plopped his bony body down on the sofa, saying, “I thought you might be scared, so I figured I’d keep you company. You know, give you some moral support.”

Michele crossed the room with a long nonchalant stride, her chin tucked in, her eyes level. When she stopped near the sofa she fired a cigarette with a silver lighter that worked on the first try, squinted at him over the flame. She was doing Lauren Bacall, Marco thought. He loved it.

“I’m not scared,” she said.

“No, huh?”

“No.”

“Pretty awful what happened last night. Right across the street. Could of been you or me, you know?”

“I suppose so.”

“So, like I said, I was worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” He kept grinning at her, holding her eyes until she had to look away.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked. It wasn’t what she’d wanted to say, though. She’d wanted to tell him to leave, only she didn’t have it in her.

“Sure, why not?” Marco said.

He watched her walk into the kitchen: an actress’s trained walk, graceful and with a rhythmic switch of her ass beneath the jeans. He loved that, too.

“Cream or sugar?” she called from the kitchen.

Just you, sweetheart
, he thought. But he called back, “No. Black’s okay.”

In a minute she came back with a steaming mug of black coffee, handed it to him. He set the mug on a glass ashtray on the end table. He never touched the stuff. Caffeine could fuck a guy up.

“None for you?” he asked.

“I’ve had mine.”

“So,” he said, “why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d rather stand. I’ve been sitting all morning.”

“Uh-huh.” He watched her. “You know,” he said casually, “dozens of really good musicians graduate from Julliard every year. Almost every one of them winds up teaching high school music somewhere, or in some other line of work altogether.”

Michele stood looking at him with a puzzled frown; Lauren Bacall was gone. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m a musician, and I know how tough it is to make it as an actress. We’re the same, you and me, same as same can be.”

She smiled faintly. “Nice song title.”

He didn’t smile back. Serious time. “We both do what we have to sometimes, for our art. It’s not like when other people do the same things. I understand that, Michele.”

She didn’t answer; he thought he had her on the fence.

“I just wanted you to know I see where you’re at and I’m in the same place. I figured you could use the understanding. I know I could.”

Something seemed to change in her. Marco picked up the vibes, high-pitched and subliminal. He felt like a fisherman whose cork had bobbed.

“It’s tough for anybody with talent,” he said. “Compromising don’t come easy for people like us. I had plenty of chances for straight jobs, and good ones, but music is where I’m at and where I’m staying.”

“I feel exactly the same way about acting,” she said. “Not that I wouldn’t take a strictly commercial job. That’s part of the profession, I guess.”

“Oh, sure, tell me what I don’t know. Listen, I done trumpet background for a dog-food commercial once. So what? Thing is, I ain’t sitting behind a desk, and you ain’t wearing down your fingers in a typing pool. The breaks will come. They got to. And one break is all the difference.”

“I know.”

“Meantime,” Marco said, “we get by any way we can, no rules, no moralizing. But you got to be careful, you know what I mean?”

“Careful?”

“Sure. The heisting’s not the dangerous part. What’s risky is getting rid of the stuff. Where do you fence it?”

Her face closed up again for a second, then smoothed into an expression of innocence. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Come on, Michele. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know all about it.”

“All about what?”

“I’m your friend,” he said. “People like us, we got to stick together.”

She was silent. Just kept looking innocently at him like Shirley goddamn Temple.

“So you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay with me. But if you hock the stuff, you’re getting cheated. I know a couple of guys maybe could get you a better price. Just keep that in mind.”

“You’re not drinking your coffee,” she said.

“Who needs it? Why don’t you come over here and sit down?”

She stayed where she was. But he still thought he had her. She was no dummy; she knew the score. It was go down for him or else.

“Or maybe you’d rather I leave?” he asked, confident of her answer.

Only she surprised him. “Yes, maybe you’d better,” she said. “A friend is coming over in a little while and we’re going out.”

Shit
, Marco thought. He hadn’t expected this, and he didn’t know quite how to play it. He could force the issue, but that wouldn’t be cool; with a bitch like this, you didn’t want to come on too strong or she’d spook. The whole idea was to screw her, and she knew that as well as he did. She’d give in sooner or later; she didn’t have any choice. So what difference did it make if he waited a while longer? Pussy was always better when you had to work for it a little.

“Okay,” he said, getting to his feet. “No problem. Like I said, I’m your friend. We’re gonna be real good friends, you and me. Real good.”

“Yes. I’m sure we are.”

She went over to the door and opened it. He made sure he brushed against her when he passed by, felt the swell of one of her tits against his arm. Nice. In the hallway he said, “Soon, huh, Michele?”

She shut the door in his face, but gently, smiling as she did it. Marco laughed when he heard the locks click into place.
Some sweet piece, all right
, he thought. And then he went back up to his own pad to smoke some more dope and think how good it was going to be when he finally balled her.

8:20 A.M. — E.L. OXMAN

He had grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep at the precinct house, on one of the cots in the Swing Room downstairs, and he was in the men’s lavatory shaving with a borrowed razor when Tobin, who lived nearby and who had gone home to sleep, came into the restroom. Oxman caught his partner’s reflection in the mirror and nodded to him. Tobin was neatly dressed as usual, looking ready for a board meeting of conservative bankers.

“Bunch of reporters and cameramen hanging around out front,” Tobin said as he walked to one of the stand-up commodes and urinated. “What’s this place coming to?”

“What’s this city coming to?” Oxman said seriously.

“Yeah. Any word on how Kennebank’s doing?”

“Not that I heard. Which has to mean he’s still alive.”

“That’s something, at least. How about on the thirty-two automatic?”

“There wasn’t when I sacked out, and nobody came in to wake me about that, either. If there’s any news, you can bet it’s negative.”

Tobin zipped up his pants. “You seen Lieutenant Smiley?”

“I haven’t seen anybody but me, in this mirror.”

“Not a pretty sight, eh, Elliot Leroy?”

So we’re back to Elliot Leroy again, Oxman thought sourly. But he had to agree with Tobin’s comment. There were dark pouches beneath his eyes, an unfamiliar gauntness to his cheeks. His hair was oily and lay close to his head. He put down the razor and splashed cold water over his face to wash away the excess lather. Shaving made him
feel
a little better, anyway.

“Let’s go see if Manders is in,” he said.

Tobin nodded, finished drying his hands and effortlessly hook-shot the wadded paper towel into the wastebasket.

“You should have played pro basketball with a shot like that, Artie,” Oxman said.

“Sure. We all got rhythm and a natural talent for basketball. Not to mention peckers a foot long.”

Oxman ignored that. He led the way to the crowded squadroom, across it to Manders’ office.

Lieutenant Smiley was in, leaning back in his desk chair, talking on the phone. He waved for them to sit down. Tobin sat. Oxman elected to stand. He listened to Manders say, “Sure, sure, okay, sure thing,” and then watched him hang up the phone.

“Fucking newspapers,” Manders said then.

“The media howling all over the city like they’re howling around here?” Tobin asked.

“Damn right. And they’re not the only ones; you should hear what the goddamn Deputy Commissioner said to me a little while ago. I ought to sue the bastard for slander.” Manders sat forward, rested his elbows on his desk blotter. His sleeves were rolled up; there was a dark coffee stain on the left one. “All right, here’s the official line. I gave the papers a quote: ‘There were no fingerprints on the gun Officer Kennebank recovered; the serial number of the weapon is being traced, however, and police are hopeful that it will lead them to the identity of the perpetrator of these crimes.’”

“How much truth is in that?” Oxman asked.

“Hardly any. Ballistics confirmed that the thirty-two is the murder gun, and there were prints on it, all right, nice fat latents; but when we ran them through the FBI computer we got zilch. You know what that means. The killer has no police record, he’s never been in the military, he’s never held a civil service job.”