Read Online The Do-Right by Lisa Sandlin - Free Book Online Page A

got the pictures, please. And only then. My time is dear.” She slid from the booth and walked off, trailing a hand against the backs of the empty bar stools as she passed them.
    Phelan sipped his grapefruit. This woman considered divorce eviscerating, yet she was engineering one. Must be the betrayal she was talking about. Easier now to understand why her social life had dwindled in the past ten years. Imagine tipping a glass of pink champagne with Neva Elliott. Like trading banter with a bandsaw. Phelan couldn’t figure if his estimate of Lloyd went up or down.
    All in all , he thought, up .
    He laid down a couple bucks for the drinks. He folded a ten, just about enough for a sack of groceries, by the far side of his glass. Maybe he’d piss off the freckled girl who’d worn that white carnation corsage. Maybe not.
    The three guys at the bar were leaving. Astros must have wrapped it up. The lunkhead pool players and the middle-aged ladies had already taken off. The bartender reached up and dialed the channel to an I Love Lucy rerun. Except for the table of beer-drinking grabbers, Leon’s was deserted.
    Patty cruised by. “That suit’s doing strange things to you, Tommy. Your type has changed considerably.”
    â€œProfessional meeting, darlin’.”
    â€œWell, as I recall, you used to beat ’em off, not drive ’em off. You make that poor woman cry?”
    â€œNot on my account. You gonna keep this job?”
    She whispered in his ear. “Just till I find a suitcase of money.”
    Phelan kissed Patty’s Revlon-coated cheek. She grinned, licked her thumb, touched it to one hip, and hissed, “Sssssst. Still got it.”

VII VII
    A THURSDAY EVENING and Depha got on the bus at two minutes after six with a pair of rubber dishwash gloves in her purse. Shared a flick of eye contact with the woman in the first seat, pocketbook and sacks, brown knee-highs wilted at her ankles. She was your average six o’clock rider: that is, homebound, black, and tired. But there could be the rare downtown-bound rider, too, and the second had to be one of those. Unusual to see a white boy on the bus; his car must be broken down. Longish dark hair around a surly face, beads showing in the neck of an oxford shirt, one knee hammering.
    Did a boy wearing a necklace mean he was a hippie? The Summer of Love had not ranged so far as Gatesville.
    The kid jumped up at the next stop and sailed off the bus, swinging out from the handrail by the door. Another stop and a muscular boy whose Afro had a comb planted in it spanked the pert butt of a girl in an orange mini-skirt. She yelped. They chased each other halfway down the street. Delpha marked each bouncy step they took—the way hands kept grazing bodies, how the girl whirled and buried her face in the boy’s chest, walking backwards—until they disappeared around a corner.
    She heated up a can of Vegetable Beef, took down the clean tray from the shelf she’d left it on. Servant serving.Carrying and setting down before. Beers. Tubs of powdered mashed potatoes, tubs of over-floured gravy, canned carrots, tubs of hot washing. Basins of piss, bloody sheets, towels, pillow cases for the infirmary. Finally, last three years, cart of books, library desk, best of all.
    Delpha had promised herself patience. Get used to all the clear air around her, the streets stretching out, doors that open open open. Couldn’t come all at once. Come slow. She’d have to get used to wearing sky over her head. Would get used to it, like everybody else so used to being free that it didn’t even enter into their calculations. But promising and doing were two different things.
    She was grateful for Tom Phelan. Polite to her, and it felt genuine. Noticed he was a nice-enough looking man, yes, she did, the minute he met her at the door. The dark hair that was kind of long on his collar had some deep auburn when the light hit it. Seemed like he