The Do-Right (15 page)

XX
XX

PHELAN LICKED THE chocolate off a donut and scanned the newspaper. The chocolate went down sweeter than the news that President Nixon had refused to testify or to turn over so much as a weather report to the Senate committee, claiming “executive privilege.” Which meant, as far as Phelan could interpret,
Nyah nyah nyah, I'm President and you're not
.

Focused on that political message, he tripped over this line in the
Beaumont Enterprise
Divorce column. “Neva McCracken Elliott vs. Lloyd T. Elliot.” Phelan hustled it over and showed it to Delpha, who read it, raised her eyes to his without moving her head, shrugged.

He felt compelled to say, “You have less curiosity than me.”

“You can learn to lose curiosity.”

“I still wanna know the skinny.” Belatedly, he shut his mouth and thought about what she'd said.

“We already got paid. That's the skinny, Mr. Phelan.”

He scooted up a wooden chair to her desk. Her light brown hair was alternately blowing in the fake breeze from the fan and framing her face. A face a little marked, a little stormy.

“It's just,” he said, “somebody in that marriage'll be a couple hundred grand poorer, but neither of them will ever be short a sandwich.”

“Judging by your pictures, looked like he's gonna be happy.”

“So Lloyd's wife paid us to do him a secret favor?”

“Maybe she was really the girlfriend.”

“No, that wasn't it.”

Delpha clicked her ballpoint. In. Out. “Know that for sure?”

“I saw the girlfriend, remember? Took her picture a dozen times.” Phelan rose and stood in front of the fan, hands behind himself, catching the air. “And checked out her plates at the DMV. Got a friend there.”

“Gotta lot of friends. And?”

“Annie McNeill, second grade teacher, Eugene Field Elementary. Watched her walk out of school three o'clock, saw who she's with. Managed to shoot the breeze with some mothers. Said I was a daddy, 'magine that, inquiring among all the mamas about the best teacher for my baby girl. The picture they gave me of Annie McNeill, uh uh, not your blackmailing type.”

“She's your cheating type. I'm thinking you didn't do all that in one afternoon, did you?”

Phelan slid his hands in his pockets, ducked his head. “Annie McNeill in a wig is not our girl.” He moved out of the way of the fan, releasing the office wind, and her hair riffled again. Her eyes were narrowed.

“I know, I get it. The business has to eat, like I do. But to get back to the point, our client wasn't Annie O'Neill. They don't look alike. Our girl wanted to sock it to Lloyd Elliott. In a bad way.”

“'Sock it to him' meaning do him dirt.”

“In this case, yeah. That'd cover several meanings, I guess.”

They listened to the fan.

After a while, not looking at him, Delpha said, “This woman come in for killing her brother. Diddler and a beater and a lot of other things, hear her tell it. Name was Sue Jones,
we called her Plain Sue. She didn't like men. Wasn't there a week fore she fell for this woman named Forever. I swear that was her name. Colored woman with green eyes.” Delpha smiled a little.

Not even looking his way, and his stomach tightened.

“Sue, she was this scrub-bucket white girl in love. You could tell it was like she'd been in a tomb for twenty-odd years. Now the stone had rolled away, and she was standing in clear spring twilight. Do anything to be next to Forever, let their fingers touch. This guard name of J. W. got wind of it and headed off any pitty-pat. Switched Plain Sue's work detail to toilet-scrubbing. Threatened Forever with losing the radio in her cell. Just did it 'cause he could.”

Plain Sue had got the guard alone in a storage room, shed pants and underwear, raised up on her tippy toes, and braced the wall. Delpha wore a Mona Lisa smile while she related this part.

“What's the punchline?”

“Touch of syphilis to start with. Later on Sue took a bad fall, went to the infirmary with two black eyes and a grin. Got some crushed ice, penicillin.”

Phelan kicked this around for a minute. “Well, but so? That's kinda winning the shit sweepstakes.”

“Yeah, that was Sue. She was always winning those.”

“Don't get it. What's the connection to Elliott's case?”

“May not be one. But story we heard was, J.W. was engaged to be married and when the blood test come back positive, the bride-to-be jilted him. But she had syphilis too, now didn't she, despite the lace dress in her closet, and that was news she wanted to carry to the grave. J.W. told his people she give him a social disease, so hell yeah he called off the wedding. His people blabbed to everbody and their dog. He come out on top.”

“So…you're saying—”

“Saying you can plan. Don't mean your plan works out. Plain Sue spited that guard, but in the end, son of a gun squeezed a truckload of poor-me out of the deal.”

“So your moral here is revenge might head north or it might head south.”

“These stories don't have morals, Mr. Phelan. They're just things that happened.”

“J.W. mess with Sue's love life again?”

“Naw. He didn't.”

Delpha copied James T. Miller, Sr.'s obit word for word, drew a line. She flipped through successive years of Yellow Pages, running down James T. Miller, Sr. and his painting business, recording her notes on a long yellow tablet.

She got her stuff together and made a call at the pay phone, speaking sincerely into its dirty receiver while the sun beat on her head. She walked over to State National, blouse sweated through, humidity dampening her hairline, forming wandering wisps that tickled her cheek. She took last place in Debbie's line, noticed her earrings: cute red triangles that swung around as she talked to customers and thumped her ten-key. When Delpha got up front, Debbie said, “Hi there. How's my old boyfriend Tom?”

“Fine. Mr. Phelan's out on a case.”

“He make you call him that?”

“No,” Delpha said evenly, “that's my choice. It's businesslike.”

“Well, good for you. What can I help you with today?”

Delpha told her. Debbie directed her to a woman off to the side of the bank, a loan officer behind a nice desk with a stack of files. She gave Delpha a bright look that said she'd like to ask some questions but she wasn't going to.

Delpha did question the woman at the desk, who was late fifties, minimally made-up so as not to scare any bank presidents. After saying she was a business customer and offering a short, adjusted version of the case Phelan Investigations was pursuing, Delpha produced a modest, friendly smile. Broadened it when it didn't turn the lock. Became more conversational. The loan officer warmed just enough to give her some details, a few anecdotes, and Delpha, satisfied, thanked her and stood up.

She made way for a black man in a double-breasted suit carrying a handsome briefcase. Determination on his face, high polish on his shoes. Behind him was a young couple, clients or relatives, clenching hands. They all three settled in to speak with the woman, who cocked her head to listen. Some pre-decided flatness in her gaze, her artificially-raised brows told Delpha they might not close on the loan they came for.

XXI
XXI

AFTER CONSULTING THE tablet page supplied by James Miller's wife, Phelan headed to Sherry Boatwright's, the sister's, house. He pulled up to the curb in a brick neighborhood near Stephen F. Austin Junior High. Nice houses, full-grown trees, two-car garages, smooth concrete sloping driveways. The garage front featured a basketball hoop that looked to be regulation height. Backyard was chain-linked, with two collies patrolling, nosing into the links. Near the back door, a cement patio and a barbecue grill, lawn chairs and a chaise lounge. Clearly, the Boatwrights were more well-off than Byron. Possibly better off than James too, depending on the amount of his settlement.

Sherry was waiting for him. Knew he'd be coming because her brother would have hit the horn as soon he got into his house yesterday evening. Though it was ten o'clock in the morning, Phelan had expected her to be flanked by a husband. That was not the case. Another thing. The ponytailed woman in shorts, situated in a throne-like posture, open legs planted, arms bent and large hands dangling, appeared to be sitting on air. She let him cross the yard, inspecting him as he came. When he was a few feet away, Sherry Boatwright stood up, allowing him a view of a tortured lawn chair. One hand on her hip, James and Byron Miller's sister was Phelan's height and had at least thirty pounds on his one-eighty, not
much of it flab. Thighs like telephone poles, calves like cantaloupes. The double D's just served as advertising for the range of her shoulders. If he hadn't known whose sister she was, he'd have guessed the giant boxer, Primo Carnera's. The Ambling Alp, seventy-two knockouts, counting the one that didn't wake up.

“I know who you are,” she said, cutting off his introduction. She'd already looked him up and down. Phelan was on
her
walk by
her
front door, but this was a woman would've owned any space she chose. And liked owning it. He had trouble seeing her tenderly mulching the flowers in her backyard, less trouble imagining her hosing down a California redwood.

“Won't take up more of your time than I have to,” Phelan said, which did not necessarily mean he intended to be quick about this interview, only to make it sound that way. “Your brother James hired me to retrieve his prosthetic leg, and I was hoping we could come to some agreement about that.”

“Maybe,” she said. She did not invite him inside her house, nor did she punish the lawn chair again. She stood eye to eye. “I want my rocker back.”

Lost her rocker
was the first thought that came to mind. The second was an upward appraisal of Nutbox's nerve, holding out on such a sister. “Mean a rocking chair?”

“I sure do. Don't act like you didn't know.”

Yeah, like I'd do that
, Phelan thought indignantly.

His gaze level, exactly level, he asked, “And your brother has this chair?” Mentally he re-inventoried James Miller's living room, recalling, among the new furniture, that low-slung old thing with the brocade seat cover. Short-backed, pine probably and painted by Sears during the dustbowl.

“James,” she said, upping her chin, “took it outa our
daddy's house during the visitation, when Byron and us were up at the funeral home. He knew I wanted it special. I got a son in high school and three daughters. Two're engaged. One's married and due in October. I promised her her grandmama's rocking chair for the baby. James doesn't even have kids.”

“Yet.” Phelan slipped his hands in his pockets. “Has a fond wife.”

Sherry Boatwright's prison-guard stance gave a little. “We got nothing against Linda. This is between us and Nutbox. They can buy themselves a brand new chair they get a baby coming. Heck, I'll even loan it back to 'em. But I want the keepsake for my daughter's baby.”

“Well, doesn't seem unreasonable. How come James won't give it to you?”

The big woman's lower lip pushed into the upper one. She turned away toward the street where a late-model Chrysler with a Student Driver sign was creeping by, a boy completing his stop five yards from the stop sign. “Not a reason in the world. Rocked him myself when he was little.”

“Maybe that's why he took it.”

She laughed rustily. “Fat chance. Seem like he turned against me with Daddy's passing.”

Phelan shook his head, studying an oleander hedge bordering her front yard from her neighbor's. White and pink. Pretty scent, pretty leaves, waxy green. Mouthful'd poison a horse.

“Sorry to hear it. I got two brothers. We hardly give each other the time a day. I wish it was different, Mrs. Boatwright.” Didn't hurt his acting, the little sluice of deadness through his chest. “Think your brother Byron wishes that, too.”

The tight ponytail of brown hair, streaked with gray at
the temples, might be pulling her eyes, but they managed to widen themselves a tad anyway.

“Then you know. James was the baby, and I guess we spoiled him.”

She told the story of James's nickname that Phelan had already heard. Added new ones. How she and Byron didn't leave him out of stuff just because they were so much older. They played with him. Keepaway, tossing Nannit—that was his old rag of a baby blanket. Let him be the batter when Byron practiced fast-pitch. Laughed at him when he couldn't hit; they had fun. How she stayed outside the door to the dark room where James, two or three years old, was huddled sobbing in the very same rocking chair he refused her now. Their daddy had sworn he wasn't growing up any titty-boy ascared of the dark and locked James in there. James wailing. Few hours later, after their father went to sleep, Mama had got the key out of his pocket and rescued her little boy out into the light of the kitchen.

“James wrapped himself around Mama like a baby monkey, I swear. And she always let him.” There was a hitch in her smile.

Phelan nodded, glanced toward the Boatwright driveway. “Heard you got a boy plays basketball.”

The wistful smile gained in wattage. “Six foot four and three quarters and still growing. Farley's just a sophomore, but he can get his elbows in the rim. Nine rebounds his last game.”

Phelan whistled. Then he grinned at her. She grinned back, swelling into her full height, a mountain shining proprietarily over a brood of thrusting foothills. He could see her inching onto the fulcrum of friendliness, so he went for it. “I talk James into parting with that rocking chair, you give his leg back?”

Slowly she nodded. Estimating that the usual cutting-some-slack man's handshake with a woman wouldn't work for Sherry Boatwright, he shook with her, forcefully. Drove back downtown to the office, right hand pulsing on the wheel. Glad you didn't shake with your left because she'd have crushed his stump. But mostly he was thinking about what Byron Miller had said, about his brothers-in-law. About the one percent money couldn't buy.

He recapped his interview for Delpha, what Sherry looked and acted like, where she lived. He added one detail. The tell that had lightly curled one side of Sherry's maternal smile.

Delpha folded her arms. “This a plain old slat rocker?”

He shook his head. “Nope. It's short in the back and upholstered, got a seat cushion. Faded cloth, sorta thick, with a figure to it.”

Her voice was sharp. “Then I think why'd you come back here instead of speaking to the chair. Well-to-do woman jacks her little brother's pegleg to get a rocking chair—and she smiles crooked when you act like you gonna help her.”

Since when was it a capital offense to seek consultation with a colleague? Phelan registered a certain irked calculation in her attitude, as if she were determining whether he was testing her smarts. Why'd he stop back here? Well, he'd wanted the information he'd sent her to the library for: details of Mr. James Miller, Sr.'s obituary. She ought to know that.

Delpha did know that. With the eraser end of a pencil, she'd tapped the notes on the legal pad. Sherry Boatwright had other reasons for wanting that chair than rock-a-bye-ing her grandbabies, and his secretary understood that same as he did, once he'd described the tell.

He strolled the little room and sat down on the secondhand couch underneath the secretary window, lit a cigarette, stretched out his legs. Slow-poking into his mind, a glimmer: he'd just wanted to talk to Delpha a while. That's why he'd described his visit to Sherry. He liked hearing what she thought.

“I'm just asking you for your opinion.”

She was squinting at him, charcoal glints in her eyes. “Or wanting me to tell you some cute prison story?”

He sat up. “Jesus, Delpha, you couldn't get much wronger than that. Couldn't you let down the ramparts for five minutes?”

At the sound of her name, the graceful neck lengthened and her chin curved down and inward, like a swan's. All Phelan knew about swans came from a day in his childhood by a slaggy Houston pond. Pretty white things, floating, but they could cruise like steamers, they liked bread, and they bit.

Phelan flicked ashes in his palm. “You got some concentrated experience of female human nature, and you said I could ask about it long as I didn't act like your slip was showing. I'm asking straight out. So what law did I break now?”

The squint stayed in place while Delpha processed this. Then she pulled out a drawer, took out a black plastic ashtray, walked over and gave it to Phelan, walked back, tucked herself into the desk, pushed back a strand of brown hair, and looked up.

“Fair enough. Just this ain't a case needs Sam Spade, and both of us know it.”

Phelan studied a hardy hangnail on his thumb. “Not saying it is.”

The slight inclination of her head indicated acceptance and the reestablishment of cordial relations.

“Awright.” She steepled her hands like a banker with phony bad news.

Phelan sat still.

“Girl by the name of Sandra Ann, in for lonely heart scams. But they hadn't run her outside Texas, and she still got a couple of out-of-state husbands sending her money ever month. Cartons of Lucky Strikes under her bunk, shoebox clinkin' with bottles of fingernail polish. Way over the number allowed. Had a bargain-size Oil of Olay, Pond's Cold Cream, nylon panties. One supper, for grins, the cook didn't give her any pie. I'm not talking fancy pastry, this was a convicted arsonist using canned apples. Sandra threw a fit so wild it took two guards to wrestle her down.”

“You're saying Sherry Boatwright's like this Sandra Ann.”

“I'm sayin' them that has craves more.”

Phelan considered that.

Delpha tilted the yellow pad. “You ready for this stuff now?”

“Yeah.”

“James T. Miller, Sr. passed bout a year ago from emphysema. Seventy-four years old. Survived by wife Nettie, former employee of State National Bank, and three children. Whose names you know. Veteran of the U.S. Army. Self-employed at H&M Painting as a house painter. And…” She looked up from the legal pad, trace of a smile.

Finally.
That's all I wanted anyway
, Phelan thought.
Little gab and a smile, be on my way. Christamighty, I'm a simple son of a bitch
. “And what?”

“And I looked up H&M Painting in the old phonebooks at the library. H&M stopped listing in 1958. If Miller, Sr. ever did another lick of work in his life, they didn't write it down in his obituary.”

Delpha flipped a page over. “I called up Restful Ways Home
where you said she was and asked about Nettie Miller. Said I was a niece from out of town and what should I bring when I came to see her because I'd heard her mind was plumb gone. Asked a few questions in a concerned voice. Asked what she could still do, compared to what she used to do, and all such.”

Mrs. Nettie Miller tended to wear her brassiere on the outside of her clothes. Spit okra on the floor. Her kids had written down that she was a member of Rosebud Baptist, but the receptionist couldn't swear about that because that pastor had not yet paid a visit. A friend from the bank had stopped by though.

“From the bank.”

“Where she worked. Our bank, where your friend Debbie works.”

Phelan laced his hands. Out of sympathy with the stump, the left pinky refused to bend. “You go see Debbie?”

“I did. Nettie Miller was before Miss Debbie's time. But not the loan officer's, she's an older lady. Nettie worked at State National for twenty-nine years. One of her duties was managing safety deposit boxes, keeping records of the contents and all. Know what she was specially good at?”

“Leaving off a few of the contents.”

“I 'magine so. And—handling grieving family members who came to close out boxes of the deceased. They all liked Nettie. Some even opened up their own accounts at the bank afterwards. She was good for business. Until she started forgetting to do stuff and doing other stuff twice. Then one day she went to the bathroom at her desk.”

Phelan winced. He put his hands on his hips and considered her. “That's first class work, you know. Thank you.”

He received another smile from Miss Wade, and this one was full.