The Eye: A Novel of Suspense (18 page)

“I know a pretty good place over on Fifty-fourth that’s open Sundays,” he said.

“Fine.” She stood up, brushed off her skirt, and tucked her sketchpad and an artist’s portfolio beneath her arm. “Is this going to be an official interrogation?”

Oxman could feel the direction of his life subtly changing.
Let it change
, he thought; he was like a ship that had been too long becalmed, ready to go wherever a cool, fresh wind might carry him.

He took Jennifer’s free arm and they began to walk. “Not an interrogation,” he said, “and as far from official as you can imagine.”

He thought of Kennebank. He thought of Beth. Then he became aware of the sun touching the right side of his neck and face with life and warmth and promise.

And he thought only of Jennifer Crane.

12:15 P.M. — RICHARD CORALES

Corales spent all morning avoiding the police. He knew about the new murder last night, some woman across the street; he’d heard all the racket after midnight and he’d heard Mrs. Muñoz and Mrs. Hayfield talking about it in the hallway this morning. So he knew the police would come around again, hassling him, asking questions he couldn’t answer, and he just didn’t want to deal with them anymore. What did he have to do with shootings and crazy people? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Besides, he had other things on his mind. Like his winning streak at gin rummy. Thirty-seven straight hands now—thirty-seven! That was incredible; that was something for the
Guinness Book of World Records
, all right. It made him tingle all over every time he thought about it.

How much longer would the streak last? Could he make forty, forty-five straight? Even fifty? Fifty straight
had
to be some kind of world record; if he could get to fifty, he’d ask Willie to help make out an application to the
Guinness Book
. He’d be somebody then. And he’d be able to prove it, too. He’d carry a copy of the
Guinness Book
with him everywhere he went, and when somebody he’d never met before asked what he did, he wouldn’t say “I’m a maintenance superintendent” like he had to now; he’d say “I hold the Guinness record for the longest gin rummy winning streak.”

Playing gin with Willie, establishing his world record—that was how he’d wanted to spend this Sunday. He’d felt lucky when he got up this morning, real lucky. He’d just been itching to get started. But no, there was that new murder, and the police all around, and then Willie had called up and said he couldn’t come by after all, like they’d planned, because he had some other things to do. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

Right after Willie’s call, Corales had taken his toolbox and his passkey up to the Royces’ apartment on the fourth floor and locked himself inside. The Royces were out on Long Island for the weekend, and they’d been after him for days to fix their toilet because it didn’t flush right and their kitchen faucet because it leaked. The doorbell rang once, but he hadn’t answered it. He’d fixed the toilet and the kitchen faucet, then turned on the TV for a while, keeping the sound real low, to watch the Giants and Eagles game. His own TV was black-and-white; the Royces’ was color. Football was always better in color.

The only reason he left the apartment was because he was hungry and he didn’t want to sneak anything out of the Royces’ refrigerator. He wasn’t a thief. He thought he’d slip down to his own place, get some cold cuts and a loaf of bread and a couple of beers, and then come right back upstairs and watch the rest of the game.

But no sooner did he get down to the basement than here came Benny Hiller, from 3-B. Hiller hadn’t followed him down; he’d been in the basement, over by the garbage cans. He looked angry, too, like he wanted to hit somebody.

“You and me better talk, Corales,” he said.

“Sure, Mr. Hiller. What about?”

“That friend of yours, Lorsec. You let him in here again last night, after I called you?”

“Well, I guess I did,” Corales said sheepishly. “I didn’t see no harm in it, Mr. Hiller. Willie’s a good guy and he’s got to make a living same as the rest of us—”

“I told you I didn’t want him prowling around in here. He doesn’t live in this building. I don’t even know who the hell he is.”

“He’s a junk collector,” Corales said.

“Yeah? For all I know, he’s the bastard who’s been offing people on this block.”

“Willie wouldn’t hurt anybody. He’s my friend; we play gin rummy together. Did I tell you about my winning streak, Mr. Hiller?”

“I don’t give a shit about your winning streak,” Hiller said. “I told Lorsec and I told you that I don’t want him nosing around, and now I find out he’s been back at the trash again. That pisses me off, Corales.
You
piss me off.”

Corales frowned. He was starting to get a little pissed off himself. Hiller had yelled at him last night too, on the telephone; he didn’t like to be yelled at. He didn’t like people saying they didn’t give a shit about his winning streak, either. His winning streak was important. It was a lot more important than Willie poking around in the trash, looking for things to sell, and a lot more important than how upset Mr. Hiller was.

He said, “I don’t have to do what you tell me, Mr. Hiller. You don’t own this building.”

“That’s right, but I know who does. You want me to go to him, tell him you been letting strangers in without permission?”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Corales said, feeling a twinge of apprehension.

“The hell I wouldn’t. You let Lorsec in here again, let him steal something else, and I’ll see to it you’re out of a job.”

“Steal something? Willie didn’t steal nothing. I was with him the whole time.”

“He pawed through my garbage, took some things.”

“What things?”

“Never mind. Just things he had no right to take.”

“But you threw ’em away, Mr. Hiller. Otherwise they wouldn’t of been in your trash. It’s not stealing to take things a person has thrown away.”

“Quit arguing with me, dummy. I say he—”

“Don’t you ever call me dummy.”

Corales said it quiet, but his hands were bunched into fists now and Hiller could see how angry he was. Hiller backed up a step, like maybe he wasn’t so sure of himself after all, and said, “All right, forget I said that.”

“Don’t ever say it again.” Corales was satisfied, but still angry. “I’m not a dummy.”

“All right. But what I said before still stands. You let Lorsec in here again, I go to the building owner.”

Corales didn’t say anything. He’d have to think about what he was going to do; until he made a decision, he’d be better off to keep his mouth shut.

“One more thing,” Hiller said. “Where does he live?”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Lorsec.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“What about?”

“About what he took from my garbage. He told me he lives on the next block. Which building?”

“I don’t know,” Corales said.

“Come on, Corales. Which building?”

“I don’t know. I got to go now, Mr. Hiller. I’ll remember what you said; I won’t forget none of it.”

He opened the door to his apartment and went inside. When he came out again five minutes later, loaded down with the bread and cold cuts and beer, Hiller was gone.

On the way back upstairs, Corales wondered what Willie had taken from Hiller’s trash. He hadn’t noticed anything in particular and Willie hadn’t offered to show him, as he sometimes did when he found an interesting item. What could it be that would get Hiller all stirred up like that? Trash was trash, wasn’t it?

Corales couldn’t figure it out, so he quit thinking about it. There was no point in worrying about things you couldn’t figure out. The murders, that was another example. And the cops. No, it was better to think about things you understood, good things, things that made you happy. Like sandwiches and beer and football on Sunday afternoon. Like a thirty-seven hand winning streak at gin rummy that would maybe turn into a fifty-hand winning streak and put him in the
Guinness Book of World Records
.

He was smiling by the time he let himself back into the Royces’ apartment, feeling good again, feeling lucky again.
Willie
, he thought,
I sure do wish you were here
.

3:10 P.M. — JENNIFER CRANE

On the way back from lunch, sitting alongside E.L. Oxman in his car, Jennifer felt an odd mixture of exhilaration and unease. On the one hand he was an attractive man and the thought of going to bed with him, now or later, was tremendously exciting. But on the other hand, he stirred things inside her, resurrected feelings and emotions that she had long ago buried. She could care for him, and that frightened her. She had cared for no man, no other person, since Zach; she must never let herself care for anyone except herself.

So far in this budding relationship, she was in complete control. She had manipulated E.L., seduced him mentally as she would seduce him physically; it was a game she had played many times with many men and she was very good at it. But she sensed that the situation could turn around on her, so subtly perhaps that she wouldn’t even know it was happening until it was too late. He was a strong-willed man, intelligent, with a great deal of depth; he could be manipulated for a while, but he could not be controlled indefinitely. She had known men like him before, and always, always, she had broken off with them while she still held the upper hand. Yet she had felt little for any of them. They were just men, warm bodies on cold nights, hard hot flesh to fill the cavity of loneliness. It was different with E.L. Oxman. The seeds of caring had been sown inside her for the first time in nine years and it would not take much to make them sprout.

It amazed her that she could have nascent feelings like this after so many years. After what Zach had done to her. She had told herself often enough that she hated men, and she still supposed that this was true. So how could something like this happen to her? She hadn’t let her guard down, hadn’t changed her outlook, hadn’t lost any of her bitterness or her resolve. How could it happen?

The murders, she thought, that’s how. The death of Martin Simmons had shaken her far more than she had let on to E.L., more than she had let on to herself at first. A man she hardly knew, a man like a hundred others she had picked up and brought home; but a man who had gone from her bed and her body to his death a few minutes later. It wasn’t her fault that he’d been killed. She had told E.L. that and she believed it. There was no way she could have known what would take place after she asked Marty to leave; she was innocent, she had done only what it was her custom to do. Nonetheless, his death had shaken her, opened her up inside, made her vulnerable again.

She glanced over at E.L. He was looking straight ahead, both hands on the wheel—a competent driver, with a hint of both power and aggression in his handling of the car.
I should break it off with him right now
, she thought.
No sex, don’t even let it go that far
. But just looking at him built up a prickling heat between her legs. God, she wanted to go to bed with him! It was an almost overpowering need, and the very intensity of it added to her sense of unease. It was dangerous to want a man that badly, because that was the way she had wanted Zach in the beginning.

Zach. Thinking of him again, in spite of herself. Big all over, thickly muscled, incredible in bed. Six times one night, orgasms by the bushel—incredible. Strong macho personality, easygoing most of the time but with a mean streak, a dark side she’d only been partly aware of before she got pregnant. Her fault, the pregnancy, because she’d forgotten to get her prescription for the Pill refilled. His rage when she told him, his rage when she said she wanted to have the baby. The fights. And then the beating, using his fists, hitting her over and over in the stomach until she began to hemorrhage, and then leaving her there on the floor, bleeding, to crawl to the phone and call an ambulance to come and take her to the hospital. She had never seen him again after that night. Which was a good thing, because if he had tried to come near her she would have killed him. She would have murdered him the way he had murdered her baby.…

“… wrong?”

Jennifer blinked and looked at E.L. again. “What did you say?”

“I asked if something was wrong. You had a funny look on your face.”

“No,” she said, “nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

An urge to tell him about Zach and the baby came over her. She fought it down. Too personal, too painful—no. She had never told anyone about that period in her life; the last person to tell would be this man.
Keep it superficial
, she thought.
He’s enough of a threat already
.

“It’s not important,” she lied.

He held her gaze for a moment, the way he had over lunch. As if he were trying to peer through her eyes to see what thoughts lay behind them. Other men had looked at her that way, but not quite so penetratingly. There was a kind of implacability in his look, the eye of authority that refused to be denied knowledge—a man who laid out dotted lines for himself and then followed them. He wanted to get inside her mind as well as her body, and she was not sure she could keep him from doing that, keep herself from giving in. And that, even more than the seeds of caring, was what made her afraid of him.

She looked away, through the windshield. They were just turning onto Ninety-eighth Street now. The sky was a bright blue and hot sunshine bathed the crowded street, made the air shimmer with heat waves; and yet the brownstones had a shadowy, vulnerable look, crouched together like frightened animals. Imagination, she thought. But a coldness had touched her and would not go away.

E.L. drove past a remote camera crew from one of the TV stations that was filming on the block, a knot of curiosity seekers watching them, and slid the car to the curb just ahead of her building. He set the handbrake, but made no move to shut off the engine. Jennifer knew what that meant, and she thought:
Damn, damn—
because the heat in her loins was demanding and she did not want to spend the rest of the afternoon alone. But she let none of that show in her expression. And she made the invitation anyway, because it was part of the game she had established between them.