Blue Eyes Read Online Free PDF

scrutinizing Coen. “Odile’s the older. She could sway Caroline. They both became involved with a Jew pimp.”
    â€œIs he from Manhattan, the pimp? Does he walk, or drive a car?”
    â€œHe has a Spanish name, that’s all I know.”
    â€œGuzmann?” Coen said. “Is it Guzmann. César Guzmann?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œHow did your girls meet César?”
    â€œYou said César, Mr. Coen. I didn’t. It might be Alfred, Pepe, Juanito, God knows.”
    â€œWhat were they doing with a pimp, Mr. Child?”
    â€œThis isn’t East Hampton, Coen. The pimps cruise around Caroline’s school every morning looking for fresh tail. They fish pretty hard. Several Carbonderry girls have run off with Spics. The school hushes it up. You can’t keep a chastity belt on Amsterdam Avenue.”
    â€œYou think your daughter’s with this pimp then? If your niece was mixed up with him too, she ought to remember his name.”
    â€œOdile? You won’t get much from her. She’s Carrie’s conspirator. She plays dumb.”
    â€œStill, it can’t hurt. I’d like to ask her a few things.”
    â€œI’d rather you didn’t, Coen. Pimloe can tell you about Odile. He talked to her once. She started stripping for him in the middle of a conversation. She’ll steer you wrong, Coen, and try to win you over. Anyway, my own men have questioned her. Detectives from the agency I hired.”
    â€œWhat did she give them, Mr. Child?”
    â€œI told you. Nothing. The little bitch loves to perform for detectives.”
    Child handed him photographs of Caroline and the detectives’ report, which came in a large brown envelope with scalloped edges, the hallmark of that particular agency. The scallops annoyed Coen. He figured the detectives were soaking Child. The girl in the photographs had mousy features and hair like straw. Her neck, her stingy jawline, the bones behind her ears, had little to do with Child. Coen peeked inside the envelope. There were bloated expense vouchers, news of “suspicious vehicles” parked near the Carbonderry School, hints of white slavery. Coen couldn’t believe anybody would bother to capture so homely a prize.
    â€œThey think she may be in Peru,” Child said. Coen smiled to himself. The Guzmanns came from Peru, where they had cousins who were pickpockets, city bandits, and confidence men; these cousins could have swallowed up a hundred New York girls, at Papa Guzmann’s request.
    â€œSome money,” Child said, drawing six hundred-dollar bills from a wood box. “Pimloe says no cop buys information like Manfred Coen.”
    â€œFor six little ones I can buy the world, Mr. Child.”
    â€œKeep it,” Child said, squeezing the money into Coen’s palm. “Peru’s a lonesome place.”
    Coen played with the lamp outside Child’s apartment. He sat the shade on a chair and passed each of Child’s hundred-dollar bills over the bulb. He looked for Pimloe’s marks under the treasury numbers. The money was clean.
    Child was considering the details of his Harold Pinter festival when he heard a knock inside his dumbwaiter. He dismissed it as a nuisance, rats among the cables, or the superintendent’s boy farting in the shaft. Should he open with The Dwarfs or The Birthday Party ? Should he go with native Americans, or import an English cast? He was fifty thousand dollars shy. He would have to make Odile run a little harder for the money. He wouldn’t finance musicals. He would have nothing to do with gauche mystery plays. He resisted vehicles for resurrected movie stars, even though he could have been guaranteed a return of a hundred thousand a year.
    Vander was a purist on the question of which shows he would back. He expected to lose his money. His father, also Vander Child, but a richer man, had left Vander II with a taste for croissants and a love for “le