Eyes in the Fishbowl Read Free

thieves and vandals.
    As the girl turned the corner at the end of the next counter, she looked back at Rogers again, and I got my first real look at her face. It wasn’t at all what I expected. I can’t exactly explain why it was a shock, but it was. Actually, I don’t know what kind of face I expected on a shoplifter, but I knew right away that this wasn’t it.
    She was quite young, for one thing. Maybe about my age, or even younger. And her skin was dark—not darker than a beach tan, maybe, but with a different shade to it, like a shadow of purple under the brown. But most of all I noticed her eyes. They were very big and dark—black, but clear and deep—like the night must be to a cat. For just a second she looked right at me and smiled like she thought the whole thing was a joke, and then she hurried on.
    On the other side of Hosiery she turned quickly to the left, and I almost yelled at her to go the other way. If she had turned to the right, she just might have made it to the Palm Street entrance in time; but the way she was headed, she was walking right into a trap. Behind the hosiery counter there was only a short corridor that led to some storerooms, and the doors were always kept locked.
    But I didn’t yell, and the girl disappeared into the corridor and a few seconds later Rogers followed. I knew he had her then, and I could just imagine the smug look on his slick face. But the girl was obviously a thief all right, and that was her problem. There was no reason for me to get involved. I had plenty of troubles of my own. I told myself that the thing for me to do was to turn around and cut out, while Rogers was occupied. But I didn’t, and when I reached the end of the hosiery counter, I met the great detective on his way back—all by himself. Behind him the short corridor was empty. The girl seemed to have completely disappeared.
    It occurred to me that maybe one of the storeroom doors had been unlocked after all. But that didn’t explain why Rogers came back so quickly, or the look on his face. I got a good look at him as he came back past me, without even glancing my way. His eyes were wide open but without any focus, like a sleepwalker looking at his dream.
    Out on the sidewalk the wind was colder than ever and full of freezing mist. As soon as I picked up my stuff from José, I turned up the collar of my jacket and headed south towards Cathedral Street. I kept thinking about the girl on the way home.

Chapter 2
    O UR HOUSE IS AN old Victorian brownshingle in the Cathedral Street district. Matt Ralston, who studies sociology and lives in our attic, says the whole district is in what is called a “changing neighborhood,” but I don’t know what that means, because what neighborhood isn’t? I mean, as long as there’s people in it? But as far as our street is concerned, the change seems to be towards more kids on the sidewalks and less paint on the houses. And our house is no exception.
    It must have been quite the thing when my dad’s family built it, but it’s pretty beat up now, and getting worse all the time. It has so many missing or crooked shingles that it looks like a moulting chicken, and the yard is bare except for clumps of mangy grass and broken toys and an iron pole with a sign that says James Music School—Second Floor. The toys belong to the Grovers who live on the first floor, and James is my father.
    My dad is Arnold Valentine James, music teacher and neighborhood philosopher, known as Val to his many friends and students. He is also sometimes known as Prince Val. The “Prince” is as in “he’s a Prince of a guy.” He is also the world’s worst business man and the most famous soft touch in this part of town. He really is a great music teacher, but he doesn’t charge enough to make people think he’s any good, and half the time he doesn’t collect even what he does charge. He’s always letting people give him some worthless piece of junk instead of money. As a matter of