Read Online Yellow Mesquite by John J. Asher - Free Book Online

said and done, Crump was his only link with any kind of real art. And he had learned a lot from him.  
    “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled.
    Mr. Crump straightened, nodding triumphantly to the others. “You’d do well, Mr. Buchanan, to follow the premise, to work with the premixed colors and values.” He took a starched white handkerchief from his apron pocket and blotted the oily shine on his forehead. “With discipline and attention to application, you might eventually become a decent enough painter.” He walked away, slapping the brush against his leg.

    THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, Harley got a letter from his mother, a part of which read: Darlene and Billy Wayne Hinchley got married last weekend. Of course, Doris and Russell are all tore up about it….
    Harley wasn’t present at the boardinghouse meal that evening, and he wasn’t at work the next day. Neither was he at Crump’s studio Thursday night.  
    Friday morning he showed up at the DP&L lot.  
    “You look like hell,” Pellerd said. “Where you been, anyway?”  
    “Minding my own business. That’s where I’ve been.”  
    Berry and Moon stood back, glancing from one to the other.  
    Harley set about shoveling sand into the back of the pickup. He was aware of Pellerd watching him.
    Pellerd turned on Berry and Moon: “Okay, dickheads, let’s hit it!” Pellerd stabbed his own shovel into the sand.

Chapter 7
    Sidney

    O NE SATURDAY IN November, he was selecting tubes of oil paint in Flagg's Color Mart on Lemmon Avenue in North Dallas when he became aware of a commotion over in the paint and wallpaper department. He turned to see a man in white paint-splattered overalls, the pant legs cuffed several inches above his bare ankles. The man wore a pair of worn-out black-and-white wingtip shoes without laces or socks. He waved his arms over his head, gesturing with a handful of money at Mr. Flagg, the owner. Flagg leaned his soft frame against the counter by the cash register, shook his head.
    The man making all the noise looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had a shock of defiant white hair standing straight up from a high forehead, and a gray Vandyke beard that jumped out belligerently when he shouted at Flagg.  
    “Two dollars,” he yelled. “Two lousy dollars! What kind of man are you, Flagg, not to give two dollars’ credit to your best customer? Tell me that!”
    Mr. Flagg continued to shake his head. “My best customer? My worst maybe.”
    “Your worst—” The man drew himself up, brows peaked. “Every cent I get goes into your miserable store, Flagg. Every cent! I hardly eat. I go without because of your greedy profit margin.”
    “You owe more than you've ever spent,” said Flagg.  
    “Capitalist!” the man cried.
    Flagg nodded. “I have to make a living.”  
    “In Europe they treat artists like human beings. With re spect !”
    “Sorry, Sidney. Why don't you just put back two dollars worth and take what you can pay for?”
    “Because I need this paint! Every can! Otherwise, would I be here, pleading like a common beggar?”
    “Sorry. I can't carry you for any more.”  
    “Demeaning! That's what it is!” Sidney brightened suddenly. “How about I make you some more sale cards?”
    “Nope. Couldn't anybody read the last ones.”
    “Ye gads!” Sidney rolled his eyes. “That's America for you. Can't even read their own language! How can you expect them to appreciate a great artist!”
    “Those cards were pretty far-out, even for you, Sid.”  
    “Look, I've got to have this paint.” Sidney shook his finger in Flagg's face. “I have a big show coming up in Basil, Switzerland. You understand? I must have this paint!”
    “Sorry.”
    “Jesus H. Christ!” Sidney slapped one palm against his forehead. “Isn't anyone sympathetic to the poor artist anymore? Is the whole world a slave to the hundred percent markup?” His gaze fixed on Harley in the art department.
    “I wish I could do something,” Flagg was