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

a thief but I’m not guilty .
    The pace of her heart gradually slowed; she no longer felt quite so nervous or shaky. It was over. And perhaps she wouldn’t have to do it again, perhaps this was the last time. Perhaps at the next audition she would be given a part she deserved. She didn’t believe it, and yet it was a small hope to cling to, because hope, like dreams, dies hard.
    She walked to Forty-second, turned west and made her way crosstown past the porno movie theaters and the lurid sex shops and the cruising prostitutes of both sexes, until she came to Eighth Avenue. There were several pawnshops in the area; she was careful not to pick one she had gone to before. She settled on a place near Forty-first, steeled herself and went inside.
    A fat man with funny eyes was peering into a glass case full of knives while the proprietor looked on. Michele pretended to examine a shelf lined with small appliances until the fat man made a purchase and hurried out. Then she crossed over to where the proprietor stood.
    He was a middle-aged man, gray-haired, bored-looking; but he had shrewd moneylender’s eyes. He said, “Yes, miss?”
    “I’d like to pawn a ring.”
    “Yes?”
    She took the ruby ring out of her purse, laid it on the counter cushion in front of him. “My boyfriend gave me this two months ago,” she said, “before we broke up. It’s very expensive and I haven’t worn it much. I just don’t want to keep it any longer; it reminds me of David. And I’m afraid I need the money.”
    The pawnbroker picked up the ring, fitted a jeweler’s loupe to one eye, and studied the ruby. “Nice stone,” he said in a noncommittal way.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I can let you have, oh, three hundred for it.”
    “Three hundred? But it must be worth five times that!”
    “Not to me. Why don’t you try to sell it?”
    “I don’t have time. I really do need money; I have to pay my rent …”
    He was appraising her, now, with shrewd eyes. He knows , she thought. He’s seen thieves before, he’s probably seen a hundred or a thousand in here. He’s a thief himself. We’re all thieves .
    “Three hundred,” the pawnbroker said again.
    “Can’t you let me have at least five hundred?”
    “Not much turnover on an item like this. But you seem like a nice lady. Tell you what I’ll do: three twenty-five, just for you.”
    “But I need more than that—”
    “You could try one of the other shops,” he said. “You won’t find a better deal, though. Not for a ring like this.”
    His meaning was clear: Take it somewhere else and she would run the risk of another pawnbroker realizing it was stolen and calling the police. “All right,” she said bitterly. “Three twenty-five.”
    “Done.”
    He came up with a soiled register book for her to sign. She made up a name and address—Kathryn Newcombe, 411 Houston Street—and he nodded and gave her a pawn ticket. Then he opened his safe, carefully counted out three hundred and twenty-five dollars. When he handed the money to her he smiled, and one of his eyelids twitched in what might have been a wink.
    “Come back any time,” he said.
    Outside, away from him, Michele started back toward Forty-second Street. Three hundred and twenty-five dollars. Coupled with what she had left at her apartment, it was enough to pay next month’s rent and the grocery and utility bills. Which meant that unless a job turned up on or off Broadway, she would have to visit Saks or Bergdorf’s or one of the other big department stores in four weeks. It had been three months since the time before today, five months before that; but then she had been getting a part here, a part there, all turkeys that folded after a few performances. She hadn’t had a part in almost three months now. Nothing but an endless series of headshakes, propositions, sorrys.
    Well, at least she hadn’t succumbed to any of the propositions. Nor would she. She was not promiscuous; she believed sex was an act of love and