The Eye: A Novel of Suspense Read Online Free Page A

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.