The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (3 page)

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t think so. You married me for my money.”

“That goddamn ten thousand was gone years ago.”

“Yes,” Marian said. “Because
you
went through most of it. All those painting lessons—what a waste.”

“Are you going to start that again?”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth. You have no talent, Wally, none at all. You simply won’t admit it to yourself. How many paintings have you sold in fifteen years? Exactly three, for a grand total of seven hundred dollars.”

“I’ve had bad luck—”

“You’ve had good luck. Somebody as talentless as you should never have sold
any
paintings.”

“You think you’ve got talent? Those sculptures of yours are crap. Who buys them except cheap specialty stores? There’s not a gallery in the city that would touch them.”

“You’re forgetting the Morton Gallery, aren’t you?”

“That was six years ago. And a fluke, just a fluke.”

“A five thousand dollar fluke.”

Singer didn’t like to be reminded of her one big score; it set his teeth on edge every time she brought it up. “So some stupid Texas oilman who wouldn’t know art from a cow turd walks in and sees a piece of crap and plunks down five grand for it. So what?”

“
Windblown
was not a piece of crap.”

“
Windblown
. Jesus Christ, what a name for that graceless monstrosity.”

“You’re jealous, that’s all.”

“Jealous? Of what? How many other pieces of crap did you sell at that showing? How many pieces of crap have you sold since for more than nickels and dimes?”

“Those nickels and dimes have kept us eating,” Marian said. “They’ve paid the rent, they’ve given us a home——”

“You call this a home? Look at this place, it’s a fucking pigsty.” He waved a hand at the cluttered apartment: tools, hunks of metal, pieces of glass, blocks of plastic and wood, dozens of small abstracts that she’d started and then abandoned. At least he kept his corner of it, under the skylight, halfway swept and tidy. “Why don’t you clean up after yourself once in a while?”

“Why don’t you do it, if it bothers you so much? Better yet, why don’t you go out and get a job?”

“Here it comes,” Singer said. “The same old tune.”

“You haven’t contributed one cent to this household in years. All you do is sit around and swill beer and ruin perfectly good canvases. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“So don’t put up with me. Throw me out; the lease on this pigsty is in your name.”

“You’d starve.”

“Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t. There are places I could go.”

“Oh, no doubt. Right across the street, for instance?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means, Wally dear.”

He wanted to hit her. His hand actually twitched. The urge came on him more and more often lately, but he had never quite worked up enough courage to do it. One of these days, he would. They’d have this argument again, the same damned argument over and over, and she would provoke him once too often and he would slap her chubby face until it glowed. She damned sure deserved it.

A small wiry man with a spade beard and graying black hair that he still wore long and tied into a ponytail, he stalked away from her, over to one of the windows in the west wall. The view from the window was pretty good: Riverside Park, the West Side Highway, the wide expanse of the river, the apartment buildings on the Jersey shore. Sometimes, when the sun hit them right, all the windows in those high rises looked as though they were on fire. He’d tried to paint that scene once, to capture the burning aspect in oils, but it hadn’t come out right. Like most of his paintings, he thought bitterly. Something always failed between the eye and the hand, and they just wouldn’t come out the way he envisioned them.

Nice view, nice roomy apartment on the top floor, complete with skylight. They couldn’t have afforded to live here if the building wasn’t rent-controlled. If he did leave Marian, where would he go that was half as comfortable, half as conducive to artistic expression? Not across the street, that was for sure; not with Cindy’s ex-husband always hanging around.
Face it, Singer
, he told himself, not for the first time,
you’re not going anywhere. Like it or not, you’re stuck here with Marian
.

After a time he turned from the window. Marian had put on a lightweight summer jacket and was brushing her dishwater-blond hair. A jacket in this weather! It was stifling in here even with the air conditioner on. The jacket was belted and she looked fat and dumpy in it. She’d put on at least twenty pounds since their marriage, and if she put on any more he wouldn’t be able to get near her in bed. The doughy feel of her body was enough of a turn off as it was.

He said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out shopping. You won’t do it; somebody has to.”

“Go ahead, then. Stay out all day for all I care.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah, the hell with it. Bring back some beer; we’re almost out.”

“Buy your own beer. I’m not your slave.”

She picked up her purse, went out without looking at him. He crossed over and locked the door after her, and then stood there for a minute or so, to make sure Marian hadn’t forgotten something and would come back. Then he moved back to where the telephone was.

Cindy answered on the second ring. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to call,” she said. “I’ve been half-frantic all morning.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Wally, don’t you
know?
There was another street shooting last night. Right outside your building.”

Singer felt a ripple of coldness on his back. “Jesus. Who was it this time?”

“I don’t know. A stranger, somebody named Simmons. Didn’t you hear all the commotion this morning?”

“No,” he said. The apartment was in the rear of the building, away from Ninety-eighth, and both he and Marian were heavy sleepers. He had a vague memory of sirens, but he never paid any attention to sirens. Not in Manhattan. Nobody had called, either; they didn’t have any friends in the building or on the block. “Have the police found out anything?”

“I don’t know that either. Wally, I’m frightened. That’s three murders in two weeks, all right here on this block.”

“Just take it easy,” he said, as much to himself as to Cindy.

“It must be a maniac. What if he lives here? What if he lives in my building? Or yours?”

“Calm down, will you? You’re making it worse than it is.”

“Can you come over? God, I need to see you. I don’t like being here alone.”

“All right. But I can’t stay long.”

“Hurry, Wally. Please hurry.”

Singer put down the receiver. Another shooting. Three in two weeks. Maybe there
was
a maniac in the neighborhood; who else would go around killing people at random on this particular block? Jesus!

He hurried across to the door. The hell with Marian; if she came back and he wasn’t here, let her think what she wanted. She seemed to know about Cindy anyway, or at least suspected, and it couldn’t matter much or she would have sent him packing already. Stupid woman. Goddamn cow. He unlocked the door, pulled it open.

A man was standing there, tall and lean, with sandy hair and a sandy mustache, wearing a jacket and a tie in spite of the weather. Singer jumped when he saw him, startled; then he recognized the man. A small uneasy knot formed in his stomach.

“I’m sure you remember me, Mr. Singer,” the sandy guy said. “Detective Oxman, Twenty-fourth Precinct. I’d like to talk to you again, if you don’t mind.”

1:15 P.M. — MARCO POLLO

With his horn case tucked under one arm, Marco walked into the Green Light Tavern at 109th and Broadway and scanned the place. A few noon-hour drinkers and a couple of kids from Columbia University scattered along the bar. Big Ollie behind the plank, slicing lemons and limes into wedges. And Freddie in his favorite booth, in back near the juke box.

Marco licked his lips, feeling relieved. He hadn’t been sure Freddie would show. Things were tight on the street these days, lots of heat, big cleanup campaign going on.

He went up to the bar, got a draft from Big Ollie, and took it to Freddie’s booth. Freddie was playing solitaire, cheating like always. He had a new set of threads: fancy black coat, ruffled shirt, designer slacks, a big gold chain around his neck. The crunch wasn’t hurting him much. He was a cat, Freddie was; he landed on his feet no matter what.

“What’s happening, baby?” Freddie said as Marco slid in across from him, laid his black horn case down on the table. “You look a little wired.”

“Yeah, well, another dude got wasted on my block last night. Number three. Looks like a psycho, man, and that spooks me.”

“Bad news,” Freddie said. “It’s a twitch bin out there, you know what I mean? More crazies on the loose every day.”

“Yeah.”

“But you can’t let it get to you. Make
yourself
crazy if you do, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“So how was it over in Brooklyn?”

“Not bad. Last night was the wrap-up. Tomorrow we play Jazz Heaven, down in the Village. Two-week gig.”

“Nice. You oughta be rolling in it these days.”

“Doing okay,” Marco said. He took a sip from his draft, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You bring the shit?”

“You bring the dead presidents?”

“Hey, man, you know I always pay.”

“Sure you do,” Freddie said. “That’s why I like you. I’m going to the John, take a leak. You know what I mean?”

Freddie slid out of the booth and ambled through the door into the men’s can. Marco lit a Salem, wishing it was a joint instead; he felt spooked, all right. Up half the night, blowing over in Brooklyn, come home, cops all over the street, guy lying there dead on the sidewalk with a blanket over him. Christ, who wouldn’t be spooked? Freddie was right about it being a twitch bin out there. As soon as he could afford it, he’d get the hell out of the city, find a pad on Long Island or over in Jersey. Or maybe head south for New Orleans, if he could talk Leon and the other guys into a change of scenery.

He jabbed out his cigarette after two drags, eased a look around the room. Nobody was paying any attention to him. He picked up his horn case, walked across to the can and went inside. Freddie was in one of the stalls, with the stuff arranged on the greasy top of the toilet tank. Marco locked the door, moved over to lean against the edge of the stall.

“Half-ounce of coke, one kilo of Mexican grass,” Freddie said. “Good shit, you won’t be disappointed.”

“Looks sweet, man.”

“Like candy. You want a taste?”

“No. Bad vibes in here. I’ll wait until I get home.”

Marco had the cash in the pocket of his Levi’s; he slid it out, slipped off his gold money clip, and handed over the bills. Freddie thumbed through them, quick and easy, like a teller in a bank. Then he nodded and grinned.

“Twelve hundred,” he said. “Right. It’s all yours, baby.”

Marco opened his horn case. The case was empty; he’d left the trumpet back in his pad on West Ninety-eighth. He put the bags of coke and grass into the velvet-lined depression inside, closed the case and flipped the catches. Nothing like a horn case for carrying shit on the streets. Leon had taught him that, among other things.

“You go out first,” Freddie said. “I want to comb my hair.”

“Sure. Thanks, Freddie.”

“Any time. Listen, maybe I’ll drop down to Jazz Heaven tomorrow night, catch your gig.”

“Do that, man. We’re blowing sweet and pretty these days.”

“Nothing like those high notes to mellow you out,” Freddie said. “You know what I mean?”

There were only five drinkers left in the bar when Marco came out of the can. Big Ollie gave him a two-fingered salute as he made for the door; none of the other dudes looked at him. Clean buy. All right.

Marco went down Broadway to West End Avenue, down West End to Ninety-eighth. He started walking faster. Sunshine, good air, plenty of people around, but he still felt spooked. He needed a snort of coke to lift him up, set him free of the jangles.

Nothing much was happening on the block. Couple of old ladies sitting on the stoop of the corner brownstone, chattering about the murder last night; no sign of the pigs. Marco cut across the street, went into 1276, took the elevator up to the second floor.

When he stepped out, a middle-aged black dude was coming down the hallway. Marco didn’t know him; no black dudes in the building. Cop? Visitor? Or—Christ—a crazy with a piece in his pocket? For all he knew, it was a black cat from Harlem who was wasting people on the block.

Marco eased on past the guy, stopped in front of his door. The black dude stopped too, and was looking at him. Marco dragged out his keys, sweating a little now. Just as he shoved the right key into the lock, the guy came toward him.

“Marco Pollosetti?”

“Yeah?” He had a tight grip on the horn case; if the guy tried anything, he’d get the case shoved down his frigging throat.

“Detective Tobin, Twenty-fourth Precinct,” the dude said, and hauled out his shield to prove it.

Marco didn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more spooked. Here he was with twelve hundred bucks worth of coke and grass in his hand, eyeball to eyeball with a cop. That much shit meant a possession charge; they could even nail him for dealing if they felt like it.

He licked his lips, tried to make himself look friendly and cooperative. “What can I do for you, officer?”

“Like to ask you a few questions about the homicide last night.”

“The shooting, yeah. Hell of a thing. But I don’t know nothin’ about it; I was over in Brooklyn when the guy got blown away, didn’t get home until about three.”

“You didn’t notice anything on the street when you came in?”

“Not a thing. But I wasn’t looking.”

The pig had hard eyes; he kept looking at Marco as if trying to see inside his skull. “Mind if we talk inside?”

Marco tried to remember if there was anything in the pad he didn’t want the pig to see. No, it was cool; the only shit he had was in the horn case. And the pig wasn’t a narc. “Sure,” he said, “no problem. Only like I said, I don’t know nothing about what happened.”