The Eye: A Novel of Suspense

by Bill Pronzini

  “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 Mand
ers 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.”

  “Which narrows the list of suspects down to several million people,” Tobin said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about the serial number?”

  “Filed off. The lab used acid to bring it out again, but it’s not going to do us much good. In the first place, it’s an old piece; Harrington and Richardson quit making that model years back. And in the second place, the serial number was filed off a long time ago, not recently. The perp probably bought it hot; he sure as hell didn’t get it off a reputable dealer. So how are we going to trace it?”

  “Damn,” Oxman said. “Right back to square one.”

  “Well, we do have a clear set of prints and the psycho doesn’t know we’ve got ’em. Neither do the cranks.” It was standard police procedure in homicide cases to withhold some vital piece of evidence from the media, not only so it could be used to throw the perpetrator off guard, but as a means of eliminating from suspicion the legion of weirdos who routinely confessed to well-publicized crimes. Five cranks that Oxman knew about had already confessed to the West Ninety-eighth Street shootings. “If we could just get a handle on who he might be, we can use the prints to nail him down.”

  “It’s not much, lieutenant.”

  “It’s something,” Manders said. “Don’t run it down.”

  Tobin asked, “What’s Kennebank’s condition?”

  “Still critical.”

  “How about the detail working over on West Ninety-eighth?”

  “Gaines phoned in a little while ago,” Manders said. “The close search of the Wilson woman’s apartment turned up something, but I don’t think it’ll lead us anyplace we want to go. Wally Singer’s name and telephone number was in her address book, and there was also a painting signed by Singer. And some men’s underwear monogrammed with W.S., would you believe it?”

  “I’ve met Wally Singer,” Oxman said. “I believe it.”

  “He’s also married, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Never trust a guy with his hair in a ponytail,” Tobin muttered.

  “Gaines talk to him about Cindy Wilson?” Oxman asked.

  “No. I told him not to. I want you or Artie to take care of that. Let him sweat for a while.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tobin said.

  “Okay. Ox, you go over to Brooklyn and talk to the victim’s ex-husband, Vernon Wilson. The word is he still wanted her and hung around bothering her.”

  Oxman said he would.

  “It could be the old game of making the intended victim part of a series of killings to divert suspicion,” Manders speculated. “It doesn’t smell that way, but we’ve got to check it out. If Wilson and Singer have alibis for the time of the shooting, make sure they’re tight before you back off.”

  One of the Lucite buttons on his telephone began to blink. He picked up the receiver and punched the button. As he listened, his hound-dog features went pale; tobacco-yellowed fingers tightened around the receiver. After a time he thanked the caller and replaced the receiver. His mouth was a blanched thin line between sagging jowls.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “That was Carletti at Saint Luke’s Hospital,” Manders said. “Kennebank died five minutes ago without regaining consciousness.”

  THE COLLIER TAPES

  Oh, I will admit that when I heard on the radio this morning that Jack Kennebank, the undercover policeman I shot, still lives, I felt fear again. And still feel it. He looked upon my face and might identify me. I could go to the hospital and attempt to end his life once and for all, but he will be closely guarded, untouchable in a labyrinth of danger. Oh yes, they’re waiting for me there.

  I am pacing as I dictate, five steps east, five west, digging my fingernails into my palms hard enough to feel the warmth of my blood. Martyr’s blood, as from the nails of the crucifixion.

  Must it come to this always? Must mortals drag the gods down to their own base level?

  As I pace, there is a cold tightness in my stomach that draws me forward like a bow, an ache so deep and attuned to the subtle currents of my body that it goes beyond mere physical suffering. My anguish is more than human, and it has, to a lesser degree, been with me always. Does nothing begin or end that isn’t paid for in pain?

  Nothing?

  And yet, as Euripides said, “The divine power moves with difficulty, but at the same time surely.” I must console myself with such thoughts. I must reaffirm my strength and my purpose.

  For I am the power and the glory, and vengeance is mine. Detective Oxman will find that out. They will all find that out soon enough.

  Vengeance is mine!

  10:35 A.M. — ART TOBIN

  Two minutes after he walked into the Singer apartment, Tobin had Wally Singer pegged. A white nigger. A bumbling, shuffling, honky Stepin Fetchit full of whines and “Yassuhs” that might have been funny some other time, some other place. But Tobin wasn’t laughing today. In the first place, a cop was dead. A bad cop, maybe, a foolish cop, but a cop just the same. And that made this case personal. In the second place, an attractive young woman was lying down in the morgue with a bullet wound in her chest and a tag on her toe. Bad enough that a psychotic killer had wasted three men on this block, but now the crazy bastard was after the women too. And in the third place, Singer was too pathetic to stir any feelings in Tobin beyond dislike and a mild disgust.

  Singer sat on the edge of his chair, leaning forward; his jaw kept moving from side to side, spasmodically, so that the whiskers on his chin twitched, rabbitlike. The beard suited him, Tobin thought wryly, except that it should have been white. A white spade beard for a white spade.

  “I swear to God I was right here when it happened, officer,” Singer was saying in his whiny voice. “My wife Marian was here with me. Ask her, she’ll tell you.”

  Tobin watched the man sweat, watched him wring his hands together like a woman. Singer was scared through and through, and that was all he was. He didn’t seem to feel a damned thing for the dead woman; his own ass was all he cared about. Too bad it wasn’t him lying down in the morgue with a tag on his toe.

  “Let’s talk about Cindy Wilson,” Tobin said at length. “Do you admit you were having an affair with her?”

  “Yes sir
, I admit it. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  The hell you wouldn’t, Tobin thought. You’d lie your peashooter off if you figured it’d do you some good. He said, “How long had you been seeing her?”

  “A few weeks, that’s all.”

  “How often?”

  “A couple of times a week.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Yesterday. We … spent the day together.”

  “Where?”

  “In her apartment.”

  “In bed?”

  Singer got to his feet, jerkily, and moved around behind the chair. Tobin half-expected him to start tap-dancing—break into some kind of whiteface vaudeville routine. Bo fucking Jangles. Instead he made a sudden appealing gesture and said, “You won’t talk to my wife about this, will you? I mean, she already suspects something was going on, but … well, she doesn’t know for sure. You won’t say anything to her?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how cooperative you are.”

  “I’m being cooperative, aren’t I? I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Everybody’s got something to hide, Mr. Singer.”

  “Not me. No sir, not anymore.”

  “Answer my question,” Tobin said. “Did you and Mrs. Wilson spend the day in bed?”

  “Yes. We … yes.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “A little after three. Just before she went to work.”

  “She worked from four to eleven, is that right?”

  “Yes. At the Little Switzerland restaurant, on Columbus.”

  “Did you stop by there at any time last night?”

  “No. Why would I do that? I spent all day with her.…”

  “Did you call her at the restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “Did she call you for any reason?”

  “No. She knew better than that.”

  “You spent the evening where, Mr. Singer?”

  “Here. Right here.”

  “All evening? You didn’t go out?”

  “Not once,” Singer said. “I came straight back here after I left Cindy’s. Marian got home a little after six; she was out in Brooklyn with her sister all day.”