Heat of Night by Harry Whittington Read Free Book Online Page B

heard Juan approach behind her. She caught her apron in her fist, wiped at her face, trying to wipe away the traces of her crying.
    “You need a washer,” Juan said. “We got a TV. You got no washer.”
    “Is all right. I love that TV.”
    “Al and Bea,” he said. “Where did they go?”
    “In to the A and ? store to buy something to eat. They said there was nothing in the house.”
    He spread his hands. “Funny, I had no idea we have nothing to eat in the house.”
    Rosa said, “Shu. For that one of Al’s we have nothing. You should know we have nothing for Miss Lace Drawers.”
    “She’s a good girl.”
    Rosa shrugged.
    “The Cunninghams. They have done a lot for our son. He makes plenty of money, I bet.”
    She shrugged again.
    “One of these days,” Juan said. “I get an aqua-lung. A cheap one, even. I no longer need pumps and all that stuff. This is for the weak. When I get that treasure, you see. I buy us a fine new boat, and a washing machine.”
    But his face was drawn, he could work up no enthusiasm.
    Rosa’s protest was only half-hearted. “You must not do this, Juan. Suppose something happen to you? What would I do if something happened to you? I am to find another man like you — and I have not seen one in thirty years?”
    “Maybe you better — without a man like me.” His voice was flat. He sighed. “You think Al can talk to this man — this Hollister?”
    “Alberto is a fine man, Papa. He is smart. He’s selling insurance all the time. He knows the thing to say. You let him handle, Papa.” Her voice was troubled now, all her worries pressing to the surface.
    “I worry. What can Alberto do?”
    “Is not Alberto I worry about. Alberto will talk with him. It is you — what you might do, Papa.”
    Juan looked down at his fists. They were clenched and he had not even known he’d balled them up. The terrible thoughts he had troubled him more all the time.
    “You let Alberto handle, Papa?” There was pleading in Rosa’s voice.
    “Something got to be done.” He was not speaking to her but to his fists.
    She touched his clenched hands, caressing them, willing them to relax.
    “Maybe — like Bea said, Papa, this Hollister not be as bad as we think…. maybe he be good for her, eh, Papa?”
    His voice grew hard. “You know better. A man like that — a man with money like that. And you know what else he is. You know better.”
    She nodded. She knew better.
    They saw Dolores cross the yard from the shell road, going toward the house. She waved to them but did not stop. Her smile brightened the yard for Juan. He moved to follow her into the house.
    Rosa caught his arm. “Papa. Let me talk to her a minute. You do this for me?”
    Dolores was undressing when Rosa came into her bedroom. It was a small room, overcrowded with a chest of drawers and a twin bed. Big Juan had added this room for Dolores when she was fourteen and old enough for privacy. Old pictures of movie stars were pasted on the walls, and figures of Christ on Calvary and the Blessed Virgin. The mirror over the chest was old and smoky.
    Dolores gave her mother a smile.
    Rosa sat on the bed, watching Dolores. “I have something for you,
mi corazon.
”
    “What is it, Mama?” Dolores was hurried. Her slip was too tight across her breasts and hips and she was searching in the top drawer for a newer one. What she suspected was true: there was none.
    “This, darling. I want you should have it.”
    She held up her beads. They were expensive, an heirloom from her grandmother.
    Dolores stopped rummaging in her dresser. She turned and leaned against it, frowning. “Why, Mama, you don’t want to give me those beads.”
    “I do. I want you should have them. I was much younger than you when they were given to me. When I die, you will get them. Why not now?”
    “Because you are young, because you are not going to die. Why, Mama, you are younger than I am.”
    “When you go to church,” Rosa persisted. “It is nice to have