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

“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