The Eye: A Novel

By Thomas Doulis

All that Bill Doyle knew about jinxes, which was plenty, he had learned from his grandfather. “Eyes fourteen!” the old man would shout at Doyle’s retreating back whenever he went out. The full Greek expression was, “You must have fourteen eyes for danger,” and Pappou, a refugee, knew that even fourteen eyes weren’t enough because if God wanted to, he’d give you a whack from your blind side, and the fifteenth or the eighteenth or the twenty-third would knock you senseless. The moral was, do what you can but don’t expect much. And so Doyle was sure that something would go wrong today, no matter how many precautions he took.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984558084

Thomas Doulis

Thomas Doulis’ first novel, Path for our Valor, was based on his experiences as a paratrooper in the pre-JFK Special Forces. His second novel, The Quarries of Sicily, was set in Greece during the military Junta. He is also the author of The Open Hearth and City of Brotherly Love.

Book preview

1

All that Bill Doyle knew about jinxes, which was plenty, he had learned from his grandfather. Eyes fourteen! the old man would shout at Doyle’s retreating back whenever he went out. The full Greek expression was You must have fourteen eyes for danger, and Pappou, a refugee, knew that even fourteen eyes weren’t enough, because if God wanted to, he’d give you a whack from your blind side—the fifteenth or the eighteenth or the twenty-third—that would knock you senseless. The moral was to do what you can, but don’t expect much. And so, Doyle was sure that something would go wrong today, no matter how many precautions he took.

That’s him, Doyle said. Father Timothy, with his old lady.

Onions turned into the parking lot of Max’s Diner and slowed down to check the window at the back booth. How’d you know? I can’t see a thing.

The priest’s a runt, Socrates Straton said from the back. He was seated over the drive shaft to balance out his heft, according to Onions’s instructions. See the tuft of white hair?

How much time we got?

The diner’s four blocks away from the church. Timothy’s seventy-four. His old lady’s got a game leg. Doyle had figured everything out. Even if they finished right now, it would take them a half hour to walk to St. John’s.

Yeah, but suppose Max drives them back?

During lunch hour? Doyle huffed. A lot you know about work.

Suppose he gets someone else to do it?

The waitress? Not likely. He wouldn’t have the guts to ask Mabel.

It’s a feast day, Socrates said. St. Maximus the Confessor. He’s just finished liturgy. What’s to rush home for?

Lunch is complementary today, Doyle added.

What we don’t know, Onions said as he pulled the Chrysler into the street, is whether they’re on the soup or the Jell-O. He headed toward the church. You got ten minutes. Then every minute I lean on the horn.

That wasn’t long enough, but Doyle had to agree. The bookie was doing them a favor. Getting from the Chrysler to the church door would take some time because Socrates had just twisted his knee. It was Labor Day weekend though, and the streets were deserted. Doyle had the key ready.

They wore sandals, and the sidewalk felt hot until they arrived at the entry, where the overhang provided shade. Getting in was no problem. The residue of incense after the liturgy was still strong in the vestry.

Doyle had his knife handy, but the cabinet was unlocked. He searched for a robe his size, while Socrates pulled out the ones Doyle rejected and draped them over his front.

You’re wasting time, Soc. We got eight minutes left.

It was like talking to a wall. Socrates, with thighs as wide as the priest’s chest, wondered if he’d fit into any of the robes. Look in the back.

Doyle put on a robe of the current chanter, admiring himself in a small mirror near the table where the sexton cut up the bread handed out after liturgy. Damn, he could pass as a deacon, and the Vandyke gave him a look of gravity, but he had to remember to keep his eyes steady, more relaxed, less rapacious looking.

You look convincing, Bill. Good thing you trimmed your beard.

Sweat trickled down Doyle’s back and chest. I’m going into the altar for a look-see. On his way, he paused at the dusty window to check Onions’s Chrysler Imperial in the shade of the maple tree. Aside from the occasional rumble of an eighteen-wheeler over the trolley tracks a few blocks away, everything was quiet. Onions had the car running and the air conditioner on; waves of heat simmered above the hood.

I won’t forget this, Bill, Socrates said. You’re risking a lot for me.

You’d do the same, Doyle assured him quickly, worried that the catch in Soc’s throat signaled an outpouring of the desperation he’d tried to forestall. Today he had to be cool. His friend’s predicament must not interfere with his own reactions.

I wish I knew what’s going on with you, Bill. My own problems have preempted yours, and … I’m sorry.

Doyle was stern. In seven minutes, that son of a bitch Zappas is going to start leaning on his horn. Let’s get the stuff and go.

I thought you liked being back with us.

More than anything. I just have to leave Philly for a while.

But things are going well. Why don’t you want to talk?

The time for talk was when Doyle got back into town, not now. How could he explain things so far out of the ken of people he’d always admired?

Socrates returned from the back, holding two of the old chanter’s robes, neatly folded, so worn that they looked purple, glinting with a celibate sheen. What do you think?

Put one on. Let’s see you.

Fortunately, they had both worn long pants. Socrates was even bigger than the old chanter, and the robe would have ridden up his hairy calves.

Well?

You look like Rasputin, only mild mannered. Actually, Socrates’s beard was luxuriant enough to be scary, which worked out well, since they planned to present themselves as monks. Mess up your eyebrows and tense your eyes, like that crazy monk in the Russian movie. As part of Socrates’s efforts to improve Doyle’s cultural education, they had seen Battleship Potemkin.

The one going up the ladder with the cross in his hand?

That’s the guy. Doyle was nervous.

What else do I need?

How about a cross? Something ornate, with jewels.

Doyle knew the layout from his years as an altar boy. He crossed himself and kissed the icons as he moved toward the holy table, his glance raking the walls and niches for anything usable. Be careful, Soc. It’s a tight fit in here.

Socrates got through the door with inches to spare, but the altar hadn’t been built for someone of his dimensions. Except for a bit of a paunch that few would notice until he stood sideways, he was remarkably fit for his 250 pounds.

Socrates found a pectoral cross that looked patriarchal.

Onions leaned on the horn.

What else?

Headgear, Doyle suggested.

Too hot.

Clergy without headgear? You some kind of New Age monk? How about we go casual? Shorts and tank tops?

Doyle went back into the altar for the censer, but he needed incense. Here, carry this. He handed Socrates a large cross atop a sturdy six-foot pole he’d found in its slot behind the table. Back in the vestry, he opened a drawer and found a box of incense pebbles. On a shelf, he saw the stovepipe hat Father Timothy had brought from the village and rammed it on his head.

Let’s go. Onions’ll have cops crawling all over the place.

Can I have one of those?

Your head’s too big. Let’s get out before that son of a bitch honks again.

Socrates went back. Onions leaned on the horn.

Doyle waited, staring at Onions, trying to catch his eye. He heard a noise and turned. Jesus! he gasped.

You find me scary? Socrates was wearing a black kerchief over his head like a hood.

No more than any other three-hundred-pound nun with facial hair.

It’s crepe from the Good Friday cross.

What kind of religion you representing?

A tradition from the Ancient Church. You wouldn’t understand.

Socrates knew everything about everything—the world’s foremost authority—but if you sent him to the well, he wouldn’t find water, to use another of Pappou’s expressions.

They hesitated at the side door, preparing for the blast of afternoon sun.

Up to now, it was just breaking, entering, and playing dress up. Once they stepped on the pavement, they were into hardball. With his past and certain items the cops might find if they searched Madame Agape’s place, Doyle, if caught, would be looking at enough time for most of the books he had never read.

He held the door open, exaggeratedly cringing, then followed his beatitude with the kind of skip and jump he’d seen in ecclesiastical flunkies. Socrates, as the hierarch, got in the back, rocking the Chrysler with his heft. Doyle handed him the cross and slipped into the passenger side.

Watch the upholstery with that thing.

"That thing, Socrates said, you raging heathen, is a cross."

Brains are in your thumb, right? Doyle glared at Onions. Calling attention. You got the neighborhood thinking you’re some guinea mobster in a limo. We’re doing fraud. Or have you forgotten?

Big deal. Onions pulled into the street. You done fraud before.

Onofrio Zappas was so tall and rangy and his skin so gray that he looked cadaverous. He always seemed without energy. His craggy face reminded Doyle of pictures of the youthful Lincoln before his beard, but as Abe’s evil double—Abe as a bookie and loan shark.

That was different, Doyle said.

Screwing insurance companies is different?

Doyle stifled his response. He would not get into a spitting contest with Onions, not today.

Impersonating a priest or monk, Socrates reminded them, is for some people a fraud against the Holy Spirit.

Doyle smiled. For some people! That was rich! For Doyle, yes. He was common clay. For Socrates, probably no. Socrates was in another category. He teetered on the line between spirit and flesh, of which he had more than his share. About Socrates, there was only one question: he was either anointed or damned, and today would tell.

Holy Spirit doesn’t break bones, Onions snorted.

That’s how much you know.

"I never claimed to be a professor. Onions looked into the rearview mirror. Least I’m not a debtor—he winked at Doyle—as opposed to some ecclesiastical types I could mention."

Soc was into the loan shark for four thousand dollars.

Listening to Onions, one would think that being a professor was an unforgivable sin, that nothing could be more useless than humanities and art history. He obviously thought that these were courses for fags, though he would never say it within Socrates’s hearing.

Onions threaded his way through afternoon traffic until he got to the broad expanse of Ben Franklin Parkway, then he made the turn around the art museum circle, passing screaming children jumping in the cascading fountains. A minute later, they passed Boathouse Row and were deep in the Park, the river to their left. Three single shells and two eights sprinted homeward from the Columbia Avenue Bridge, the clack of the coxswains’ clappers sounding like ticks in the distance.

You gotta be nuts to do a sport like that. Doyle tried to keep the conversation light. Socrates was brooding. I mean, you sit down, in stocking feet, go backwards, and nobody’s there to see you.

Believe it or not, Onions said, they used to bet on crew races.

Bet what? That anyone would show up to watch?

Nowadays we want everything easy. Socrates was making a familiar pronouncement, but his heart was not in it. "Turn on the TV and sit back to watch millionaires playing kids’ games. Rowing is a truly amateur sport—amo, from the Latin, meaning ‘to love.’ To compete for the love of something, not for money. For us, amateur means ‘not so good,’ a beginner, a neophyte. That’s our mistake. Sophocles and Aeschylus were amateur dramatists, not pros, right? They didn’t need to earn a living from their plays. Then he paused, thoughtful. Homer, of course, was a pro. Went from place to place, reciting poems. Had to be careful not to get noble noses out of joint. He stared out of the window for some time. What were we talking about? I seem to have lost track."

Rowing. Doyle helped him out.

Oh, yes. It doesn’t take any brains, granted, but what’s strange is that there are more college oarsmen on dean’s lists than in any other sport, except maybe Ping-Pong, where you get a lot of Asians. Look at my brother Lee.

"I know him." Onions snorted. Mr. Anti-War.

"Mr. Been-in-a-War." Socrates was getting testy.

"Mr. Been-in-Prison too."

He’s not the only one.

Matter of fact, Doyle added, Soc’s the only one in this car who hasn’t been in the can.

What was Korea, a vacation?

Sorry, Soc, I forgot. Anyway, Lee … Doyle got him back on track.

Anyway, Lee’s a national champ, and he had a four-point average all during his college career.

So?

So these oarsmen are different. None of this consumer culture, candy-ass preoccupation with self, the easy way in everything.

You’re too much. Onions laughed. I’m sweating my ass off in Philly, and you’re down at the shore, swimming, playing tennis, twisting your knee.

"Sweating, Doyle sneered. Doing what? Walking into poolrooms? Standing on a street corner? Car like this and you’re complaining. Look at the size of that hood. That’s no hood, that’s real estate!"

Up ahead, to the left of the hood ornament and in the shade of an elm, a black man was doing calisthenics. He was tall and lean, wearing track shorts, purple with white stripes. In the heat of the day! Must be nuts! Doyle was so preoccupied that he didn’t realize it was Derrick at first.

Socrates must have seen Derrick too, because he cleared his throat noisily. Derrick should not see them, not like this.

Doyle pointed to his right. Looks like they had a fire here, he said to distract Onions.

Where? Onions took the bait. I don’t see nothing but green.

Yeah. Socrates played along. A big one too. Wow! Look at that!

What the hell? Onions stared past Doyle. Where’d you see a fire?

Watch the road! Doyle shouted. You got two hierarchs in here.

Higher arcs, my ass. Lower’s more like it. He laughed at his joke.

They sped past. Derrick barely glanced at the car.

Must be the tinted glass. Doyle rolled down the window. I thought I saw a funny color.

You said a fire. I didn’t see no fire. And only the windshield’s tinted.

Looked like a fire to me. Doyle turned resolutely to the front.

Can’t you turn off this air conditioning? Socrates said. I’m freezing to death.

It’s cool, comfortable. Not freezing cold. All this in a monotone. What’s got into you guys? You got problems? I’ll show you problems.

I’ve got no problems.

Once I get the four big ones you owe, Onions turned to Doyle, dark bags sagging under his eyes, none of us has problems.

Suppose—Doyle studied Onions—just suppose we come up with the money … and it turns out to be counterfeit? He let that sink in. A big reaction he did not expect, but he wanted to introduce a menacing note, and he was pretty sure that Onions was involved in the counterfeiting scheme.

Onions seemed to give this some thought. Even you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

No, there’s a lot of funny money going around, I hear.

I wouldn’t know about that. Onions tightened his grip on the wheel.

There are more hundred dollar bills under the ground in New Jersey than potatoes, I hear.

News to me.

All I know—Doyle smiled—is that the treasury guys have a lot of informers. A very dangerous scam, if you ask me. Compared to that, playing dress up as monks is small potatoes.

In a manner of speaking. Socrates was puzzled by the conversation. Doyle knew, but there was no reason to tell him everything.

Just remember, the magic number is four. Onions sounded dispirited.

You’ll get your money.

"I know I will."

One thing I don’t like about you. Doyle looked at Onions’s long neck. You like to scare people you got clout over. You’re not making points with me.

Onions flipped him a finger. Kiss me again.

Now you’re getting into negative points territory.

I’m the only one here who’s got points. He directed a sour look at the rearview mirror, something between a sneer and a stab of gas pain. Goes to brother Nick and gets zilch ’cause his credit’s—

Lay off. Doyle stepped in, as much to spare Socrates’s feelings as for Onions’s welfare.

Onions did not know about sabbaticals and leaves of absence. In his field, there was no time off to do research or write a book or recharge your batteries. If he wasn’t on his corner or at his regular phone, he lost business. Soc’s brother Nick, on the other hand, understood the general idea but thought a year off work was enough. It was the second year that upset him, and he balked at lending Soc more money. Roxanne continued to work, and the kids went to school every day, but Soc lay around, thinking. Then, instead of thinking, he began to help Doyle comanage Derrick, though he still knew very little about boxing. But rather than get into trouble with the IRS for the taxes they owed, he borrowed from Onions, without telling Doyle.

What I’d like to know—Onions looked back—is how come Bird Dog’s still your friend?

Because some people respect—

Stop it, Socrates cut Doyle off. Let’s go through this again. We get challenged, then what?

Too much thinking was what Doyle feared. Who’s to challenge?

Suppose some cop says, ‘You’re not a monk.’ What’ll I do?

Bird Dog’s at your elbow. Onions, hunched over the steering wheel, played the brakes and clutch like a pipe organ. Let the master of lies answer for you. You’re his flunky, ain’t you?

We’re partners.

"Foof. Onions dismissed the claim. Partners in what? Whoever heard of a boxer afraid to get hit?"

That’s a bad rap, Doyle objected. Derrick’s just too fast for most sluggers.

Onions turned to him. "Why have you been trying to find another manager for him then? Why do you want out just when he’s gonna fight Simms on TV? Million-to-one chance. Kwame Mustapha pulls out of a fight, and Derrick gets to substitute. No more nickels and dimes. And you want out!"

Socrates stepped in. That doesn’t answer my question about the cops.

I got some advice. Onions jerked his thumb to the back seat. Never do business with people you like. You get sentiment involved, and before you know it, somebody’s into you for four grand.

That’s your problem? Doyle laughed. "You like us?"

Onions braked hard at a stop sign. Look saintly is all. It’s going to be tough, being as you’re packing forty pounds extra and got a great tan. He looked to the right.

Doyle would not have noticed the powder-blue VW beetle if its windshield had not been glaring. It was parked at the corner in the sun, and someone sat in the driver’s seat, waiting. It was a residential neighborhood—no shops or offices—and the driveway to the nearest house was at least a hundred feet away.

Doyle turned to the back seat. If Vrikos gives us a check, we tear it up. He asks what he can do. We help people who suffer, we say. Ready money’s what we need.

Onions had his own question. "Suppose he asks why I’m chauffeuring you? Explain again, Bird Dog."

Doyle wondered himself why Onions had volunteered. All His Eminence has is a rusty pickup, and no one respects a man of God who doesn’t drive a luxury car.

Verily, verily, Soc said. Talk about Vrikos again.

Guy needs a miracle. For Onions, it was as simple as that. Vrikos’s daughter’s been in a coma for … two to three months. And he’s generous.

Technically, the doctors did not consider Daphne Vrikos to be in a true coma, but they were baffled, so they called it a locked-in state. She was wakeful, her eyes were open, she could understand things said to her, even blink responses, but she wasn’t conscious—figure that out—and had to be fed through tubes. A junior in high school, she’d come out of the auditorium after completing her SAT exams, dizzy from the morning’s concentration and from the noon sun, then drove home with the top down and head-on into another car. She’d been in the county hospital, then at a private clinic. In an hour or two, she’d be going home to be cared for by a nurse. The insurance didn’t cover all the expenses; the whole business had cost Vrikos up to fifty thousand dollars, and that did not include the faith healers.

What’s Vrikos do?

Olive oil imports, Onions said. Sells the full complement, from extra virgin down to neighborhood tramp. Lite olive oil. Latest thing. For dieters and yuppies. Without the oil, probably.

Doyle knew Vrikos better than Onions did, but he was sure the Olive Oil King would not remember him, certainly not with his Vandyke, mainly because the arrangements had been made by a third party. Years before, Vrikos had been in restaurant supply, with a warehouse full of old furnishings. Inventory wasn’t moving. He needed a fire. Doyle wasn’t a specialist but knew his way around a library and could read technical manuals. He knew what arson squads wanted to know. Did the fire spread too fast? Did it start in more than one place? Did it burn too intensely for the kind of building involved? Was the color of the flames or smoke what would be expected?

The warehouse was next to a garage run by a slob who left oil and dirty rags all over the place. Electricity wasn’t up to code either. Doyle set fire to the garage and made it look like the warehouse went up by sheer bad luck. The insurance adjuster bitched, but what could he do? There was an old wino asleep behind the garage that Doyle did not know about though. Luckily, he woke up in time. That was a warning and it was Doyle’s only arson. You could have fourteen eyes, but disaster always came from a direction you didn’t see. Afterward, he went into chain-reaction car crashes and neck braces and payoffs from body shops. There were more people to worry about, but it was more lucrative, and you were only hurting the big wallets.

At the moment, Vrikos was between churches. A lot of impediments. The priests had him in some kind of bureaucratic hammerlock. Must have been a heavy one, since he had plenty of money and could pay his way out. He was religious, Doyle knew that for a fact. There were a lot of people like that—had to be right by the church. But the only churches that would take him and his wife now were in storefronts, and Vrikos didn’t do so well on the tambourines. He was looking for a healer. Besides, he’d gone through all the straights. They came to the clinic on their own. Those in colorful robes, with or without facial hair, said a few prayers in ancient languages; those in polyester suits with rosy cheeks and pompadours spoke in down-home parlance. The girl was still comatose, though CAT scans revealed no injury to the brain stem or cortex.

Doyle had overheard two old ladies talking at Max’s Diner about the situation. This was the ideal challenge for Socrates. Though a genius, Soc was a straight arrow. For him, what had been happening either showed that he was marked in some way or they were all random events. Doyle had to convince him that if the former, Soc was anointed, and this visit to the girl would test the oil of his sanctification; if the latter, which Doyle thought was more likely, Socrates was just a tough-luck guy with a series of disasters worthy of the record books. After all, how many people, in all history, had the power to look at something and do it harm? Soc had the eye, there was no doubt in his mind, and he knew of no rule that only crones or practitioners of the occult had this power.

That was when Doyle called Vrikos. He identified himself as a friend and told him about this monk who might be able to help—real spiritual, but kind of far out. Noncanonical, which meant, as Vrikos knew, that he didn’t take any bureaucratic shit. Get me him, Vrikos said. Urgent-like. "Get me him."

So Doyle did everyone a favor.

2

They drove along a rural road now, having passed through fashionable suburbs where lawns stretched a quarter of a mile and the mansions, identified by snooty names and not plebeian street numbers, were secluded behind bushes and trees.

Soon they turned onto a highway. The clinic was deep into farm country. Onions had been glancing at