Benjy closed the door and asked, “How deep, man?”

“A thousand,” Simeon said, cocky with the cash, a big player. He quickly spread the ten bills across the felt surface of the blackjack table. Benjy’s eyes widened. “Good God, man, you clear this with Tank?”

“No. Don’t tell me you ain’t seen a thousand bucks before.”

“A minute.” He took a key out of his pocket and opened the cash box under the table. He counted, pondered, worried, then said, “I guess I can do it. As I recall, you ain’t much of a threat anyway.”

“Just shut up and deal.”

Benjy exchanged the cash for ten black chips. The door opened and Ontario hopped in with a fresh beer. “You got any peanuts?” Simeon asked. “Bitch didn’t fix breakfast.”

“I’ll find somethin’,” he mumbled as he left.

Benjy, shuffling, said, “I wouldn’t be callin’ that woman no names, from what I hear.”

“You believe everything you hear?”

They split the first six hands, then Bonnie arrived with a platter of mixed nuts and another cold beer in a frosted mug. She had changed costumes and was wearing skimpy, see-through lingerie with black stockings and kinky platform high heels that would make a tart blush. Simeon took a long look. Benjy mumbled, “Oh boy.” Bonnie inquired, “Anything else you want?”

“Not right now,” Simeon said.

An hour and three beers later, Simeon looked at his watch, knew he should leave, but couldn’t force himself. His home was packed with freeloading kinfolk. Lettie was impossible. And he hated Rontell on a good day. All those damn kids running around.

Bonnie was back with another beer, one she delivered topless. Simeon called a time-out, said he’d be back shortly.

The fight started after Simeon doubled down on a hard 12, a stupid move in anyone’s how-to book. Benjy dealt him a queen, busted him, and pulled away his last two chips. “Loan me five hundred,” Simeon demanded immediately.

“Ain’t no bank round here,” Benjy said, predictably. “Tank don’t do no credit.”

Simeon, drunk, slapped the table and yelled, “Give me five chips, a hundred each!”

The game had attracted another player, a burly young man with biceps as round as basketballs. They called him Rasco and he’d been playing $5 chips as he watched Simeon throw around the big money until it was all gone. “Watch it!” Rasco snapped as he grabbed his chips.

Simeon had been irritated by Rasco’s presence to begin with. A high roller like himself should be able to play alone, one-on-one with the dealer. In a flash, Simeon knew there would be a fight, and in these situations he had learned that it was best to draw first blood, to land the initial and maybe decisive blow. He swung wildly, missed badly, and as Benjy was yelling, “Stop that nonsense! Not in here you don’t!” Rasco bounced from his chair—he was much taller than he appeared sitting down—and pummeled Simeon with two brutal shots to the face.

Simeon woke up later in the parking lot, where they had dragged him to his truck and laid him on the tailgate. He sat up, looked around, saw no one, gingerly touched his right eye, which was closed, and delicately rubbed his left jaw, which was quite tender. He glanced at his watch but it wasn’t there. In addition to blowing the $1,000 he’d stolen from Lettie, he realized he’d lost $120 he’d planned to use for the groceries. All cash and coins had been pilfered. They had left behind his wallet, though it contained nothing of value. For a moment, Simeon thought about rushing into the tonk, grabbing one-legged Ontario or one-armed Loot, and demanding to be reimbursed for the stolen money. After all, he’d been robbed on their premises. What kind of tonk were they running?

He changed his mind, though, and drove away. He’d come back later and meet with Tank, get things settled. Ontario was watching, and when Simeon’s truck was out of sight, he called the sheriff’s office. They stopped him at the Clanton city limits, arrested him for drunk driving, handcuffed him, and gave him a ride to jail. He was thrown in the drunk tank and informed he could not use a telephone until he sobered up.

He wasn’t too eager to call home anyway.

In time for lunch, Darias arrived from Memphis with his wife, Natalie, and a carload of kids. They were hungry, of course, and Natalie had at least brought a large platter of coconut squares. Rontell’s wife had brought nothing. No sign of Simeon and the groceries. Other plans were made, with Darias dispatched by Lettie to the store. As the afternoon dragged on, the crowd moved outdoors where the boys played tackle football and the men sipped beer. Rontell fired up the grill and the rich aroma of barbecue ribs settled like a fog over the backyard. The women sat on the porch and talked and laughed. Others arrived—two cousins from Tupelo and some friends from Clanton.

They all wanted to spend time with Lettie. She loved the spotlight, the admiration, the fawning, and even though she was suspicious of their motives, she couldn’t deny the pleasure of being the center of attention. No one mentioned the will, the money, or Mr. Hubbard, at least not in her presence. The figure of $20 million had been tossed around so much, and with such authority, that it was now accepted fact, established and well known. The money was there and Lettie was all set to collect 90 percent of it. At one point, though, Darias couldn’t resist. When he and Rontell were alone by the grill, he asked, “You see the paper this morning?”

“Yep,” Rontell replied. “Don’t see how that can help much.”

“That’s what I was thinkin’. But it sure makes Booker Sistrunk look good.”

“I’m sure he called the newspaper, planted the story.”

Front page, Mid-South section of the Memphis morning paper. A nice, gossipy story about Mr. Hubbard’s suicide and his unusual will, with the same photo of Lettie all dressed up in her courtroom best with Booker Sistrunk and Kendrick Bost pawing at her.

“They’ll be comin’ out of the woods,” Darias said.

Rontell grunted and laughed and waved his arm. “They already here,” he said. “Lined up, just waitin’.”

“How much you reckon Sistrunk’ll take?”

“I asked her but she ain’t tellin’.”

“He won’t get half, will he?”

“Don’t know. He ain’t cheap.”

A nephew stopped by to check on the ribs, and the two uncles changed the subject.

Late in the afternoon, Simeon was removed from the drunk tank and led by a deputy to the small windowless room used by the lawyers to huddle with their clients. He was given an ice pack for his face and a cup of fresh coffee. “What now?” he asked.

“You got a visitor,” the deputy said.

Five minutes later Ozzie walked in and sat down. He was wearing blue jeans and a sports coat, with a badge on his belt and holster on his hip. He said, “Don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“I voted for you twice,” Simeon said.

“Thank you, but they all say that after you win.” Ozzie had checked the records and knew damned well Simeon Lang was not registered to vote.

“I swear I did.”

“Got a call from Tank; said stay away, okay? No more trouble out of you.”

“They cleaned my pockets.”

“It’s a tough place. You know the rules because there are no rules. Just stay away.”

“I want my money back.”

“You can forget that money. You wanna go home or you wanna stay here tonight?”

“I’d rather go home.”

“Let’s go.”

Simeon rode in the front seat of Ozzie’s car, no handcuffs. A deputy followed in Simeon’s pickup. Nothing was said for the first ten minutes as they listened to the squawking on the sheriff’s radio. Ozzie finally turned it down and said, “None of my business, Simeon, but those Memphis lawyers got no business down here. Your wife’s already lookin’ bad, at least in the eyes of the rest of the county. This all comes down to a trial by jury, and ya’ll are pissin’ everybody off.”