Requiem for a Realtor Read Online Free Page B

Were there any women nowadays like his sainted mother? She had been crushed when Phyllis got married in a civil ceremony, and until she died prayed a nonstop novena that her daughter would get her marriage blessed.
    â€œIt won’t last,” Bob assured her.
    â€œI want it to last. But as a real marriage,” his mother had said.
    When Phyllis told him about the money Stanley was due to get when he turned fifty, Bob wanted the marriage to last, too. That would be compensation enough for Stanley’s running around. What a crock that someone like Stanley was in line for an inheritance, even if he did have to wait for years until he got it.
    Phyllis and their mother were more or less reconciled during Mrs. Oliver’s last illness. Her dying wish was that her daughter should have her marriage blessed by the Church. Bob mentioned it to the Franciscan who came to give the last rites, expecting him to think of Phyllis’s situation the way his mother did, but the friar just smiled indulgently.
    â€œWill you talk to her, Father?”
    â€œThis may not be the best time.”
    Bob had thought of doing a story on permissive priests, but knocking people wasn’t the style of his features.
    At the paper, Bob shared an office with three other writers, but he had come to find the press room at the courthouse more congenial than the city room at the Tribune. It was more like an old movie set, hungover types hung over the keyboards of their computers, the air blue with cigarette smoke, an atmosphere of resentful and cynical discontent. It was one place where Bob Oliver felt unequivocally successful in his profession. The court reporters envied them. He found them fascinating company, feeling somewhat like Dante touring Purgatory. And Tuttle the lawyer was usually there, looking for an ambulance to chase. It turned out that Tuttle knew all about Stanley’s inheritance.
    â€œHow come you know about it?”
    â€œI looked it up.”
    â€œHow much is it?”
    â€œLots.”
    â€œReal estate?”
    Tuttle punched his arm. Maybe he didn’t know how much Stanley was due to get. Bob asked him how you looked up something like that, and he spent an afternoon with the lawyer going over the will of Frederick Collins. Well, it was hard to put an exact figure to an amount that was always growing larger. He tried to overcome his resentment by thinking that Phyllis would also benefit. In the meantime, she should do what she could about keeping her looks. He suggested she do something about her teeth.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” But she half-covered her mouth with her hand when she spoke, as she usually did.
    â€œGet them straightened. You have a natural right to a perfect smile.”
    He gave her a photocopy of his feature on dentists. “Tell Jameson you’re my sister. He owes me.”

7
    The visit with Father Dowling had gone well, not that Stanley Collins was surprised; he had a gift with people. It was that, rather than ambition, that carried him as a Realtor, maybe not with the results his partner would have liked, but how could you sweat it out day after day when you knew that you were going to come into money no matter how unsuccessful the agency was? Besides, if anything happened, George would do all right. In the manner of partners, George Sawyer and Stanley Collins had taken out hefty insurance policies on one another, just in case. The premiums were paid by the agency, of course, but even so George grumbled that Stanley didn’t carry his weight. Their arrangement was fifty-fifty, no matter the source of their profits, the lion’s share of which were always due to George.
    â€œCarrying my own weight is less of an effort in my case,” Stanley said, poking a finger in his partner’s huge belly like the witch in the fairy tale. “You ought to take better care of yourself, George.”
    Poor George was a sucker for every new diet that came along, and from time to