(LB1) Shakespeare's Champion Read Online Free PDF

in as spotter.
    “I didn’t know Mr. Packard very well,” said the golden boy. “But really, I don’t think he could have found out anything illegal my dad was doing. This may not be respectful, especially now that Mr. Packard’s dead, but I never thought he was that smart, and if he knew something Dad was doing that was wrong, I think he’d just feel like he didn’t really understand. Or he’d go talk to Dad about it.”
    I thought Bobo was exactly right.
    “You look nice, Lily,” Bobo said, changing the subject so abruptly that it took a minute for his words to sink in.
    “Oh. Thanks.” I was wearing a teal-colored T-shirt and sweatpants, new and unstained but strictly Wal-Mart.
    “Why don’t you wear something like that?” Bobo pointed to the sportswear rack that Marshall kept stocked with expensive exercise clothing. The garment that had caught Bobo’s eye was pale pink and blue swirled in a tie-dye pattern, cut low over the boobs and high in the legs, meant to be worn over coordinating tights.
    I snorted. “Right.”
    “You’d look pretty. You’ve got the body for it,” he said self-consciously. “I’d like to watch your back when you’re doing lat pull-downs.”
    “Thank you,” I said stiffly. “But stuff like that just isn’t my style.”
    I went over to say hello to Raphael. He’d recovered from his flu, but he had something on his mind. His greeting was not the usual happy roar.
    “What?”
    “You askin’ me what?” he said, rubbing the back of his head. Raphael kept his hair clipped so short that the passage of his mahogany hand made no change in the tight black curls. “I tell you what, Lily.” His voice got louder than it should have been, and I knew immediately that I had spoken to him at the wrong moment.
    “You’re a good woman, Lily, but this place is not friendly to blacks.”
    “Marshall—” I began. I was about to say Marshall was not a racist or some such thing, but I got interrupted.
    “I know Marshall is not a bigot. But there are too many others here who are. I can’t come to a place where I’m not welcome as a black man.”
    I’d never heard Raphael speak so seriously and angrily in the four years I’d known him. He was glaring at two men who were working out together on the other side of the room. They paused, stared at him for a minute, then went back to their activity. One of them was Darcy Orchard, a massively built man with long, thinning beige hair and acne-scarred cheeks, a broad Slavic face and legs like trees. I didn’t know the other man.
    As I was trying to think what to say to Raphael, he just picked up his gym bag and walked out. I looked over at Darcy. He had his back turned, and his companion was lifting the bar. Everyone in the gym seemed to be looking somewhere else.
    As I worked my way through my routine (today was legs and shoulders day) I tried not to brood about the little incident. I hated to think I might feel obliged to quit the gym, too. It meant so much to me, the daily workout. If I had to, could I buy my own gym equipment? No, not on my budget, not having already paid my annual fee here. I had to save so much each month, against the rainy day that would surely come. I already suspected Marshall discounted my Body Time membership.
    Other users of the gym trickled in and began their workout after waving a hand or calling hello to each other and to me. This was the only group of which I could call myself a member, except for my karate class. Until a few minutes ago, Raphael had been one of us. This fellowship of sweat had a wildly fluctuating membership as people made resolutions and broke them, lasting on an average three weeks into their exercise program. There was a hard-core group of members like me who came nearly every day, and we had gradually gotten to know each other. More or less.
    Del Packard had been one of this group.
    All the regulars except Del were here today: Janet Shook, who was also in my karate class, a short