Eye of the Cricket by James Sallis Read Free Book Online Page B

breath. They all pulled back a moment, and when the one at my
     feet leaned in for a closer look, I kicked him between the legs. Then spun on my back and took another's legs out from under
     him as he was looking up to see what happened to his man. That left one standing—but only till I'd slammed my foot straight
     into the side of his knee. The others would get up, in time. He wouldn't. The second guy was already trying to get up. I gave
     the side of his head a light kick.
    Afterwards, this strange serenity comes over you. The vessel's emptied, no more fright-or-fiight, but adrenaline's still got
     your senses racked up high. Everything's incredibly sharp, clear, intense. The world shimmers. You hear breathing from an
     upstairs apartment, a birdsong blocks away. You see patterns of sunlight in the air around you. You hear a cat moving, crouched
     down low, against the wall. Sirens screaming miles away in the CBD. Boat horns on the river.
    That's how it was as I walked back up through the Marigny and Quarter towards Canal, senses ratcheting down like a car on
     a jack. In others' faces I saw the ordinary world returning. On a clock's face I saw it was almost two.
    Morning had been narrative oatmeal: all expository lumps. I'd got home from the hospital planning on a few hours' sleep before
     I dropped by the school to patch things up and took another shot at tracking down Shon Delany. Never in my life had I wanted
     a drink more. I settled for coffee. No way caffeine was going to keep me awake. I'd have slept through the Inquisition.
    But I only slept through thirty minutes. Fumbling for the phone. Seeing my coffee cup, still full, on the floor by the bed.
    I'd been promising myself for some time that I was going to go buy furniture, a bureau or two maybe, bookshelves, some kind
     of table for beside the bed. A lifetime spent tucking belongings underarm and moving on leaves odd habits. I'd lived here
     now for over ten years. Chances were fair I'd stay awhile.
    "Lew?"
    I realized I hadn't said anything. I'd just picked up the phone and lay there with it to my ear, listening.
    "Mmmmhn."
    Much better. Civility rears its shaggy head.
    "Want me to call back?"
    "You at work?"
    "Yeah. City's funny that way, likes me to show up on a more or less regular basis."
    "Give me five minutes."
    "They're yours."
    I drank the cold, grayish coffee, splashed water on my face and stood at the window for a couple of minutes watching the world
     hunch its shoulders towards another day. Since it was Thursday, garbage was set out near the street for collection. A woman
     in a motorized wheelchair rolled from can to can, combing through each, pulling out select items that she dropped in a canvas
     bag strapped to the back of the chair.
    Don, wonder of wonders, was actually at his desk and answered when I called back.
    "Must be a slow day."
    "Aren't they all. I just said the hell with it, I'm taking a break. Sit here and watch the goddamn storm go on happening."
    "They still tiying to kill everybody in the city?"
    New Orleans had clocked 421 murders for the year thus far. Even the folk out in Jefferson Parish were getting concerned, as
     violence spilled towards their precious suburbs. I kept expecting them to announce any day that they were putting up a wall.
    Don grunted. "This rate, it'll take them what, ten, twelve years till no one's left? Hang on, Lew." He spoke brusquely to
     someone, then was back. "Wanted to let you know nothing's come in on the prints or photo. Not that I expected anything, this
     soon." His voice rose suddenly. "You want to wait a fucking minute? What, you think this is my lunch, I'm eating the fucking
     phone? No. 7*11find you.
    "You still there, Lew?"
    "Yeswr."
    "Cute. Okay, I talked to the officer who took the call, but he couldn't tell me much of anything we don't already have. Call
     came in, nine-one-one, at nine-fourteen, from the driver of the sanitation truck. No real evidence of struggle—"
    "How could you