“The Sappington place?”

“You know, up north of town, off Martin Road, just down from the auction yard. Old farmhouse you can barely see from the road. They’ve been trying to sell it ever since Yank Sappington died, what, ten years ago?”

“At least. Seems like it’s been rented a few times.”

“But they’ve never rented to blacks before, have they?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I thought it was in pretty good shape.”

“It is. They painted it last year.”

This was considered for a moment and was the cause of great consternation. Even though the Sappington place was on the edge of town, it was in an area still considered white.

“Why would they rent to blacks?” asked one of the geezers.

“Money. None of the Sappingtons live here anymore, so why should they care? If they can’t sell it, might as well rent it. The money’s green regardless of who sends it over.” As soon as the banker said this, he waited for it to be challenged. His bank was notorious for avoiding black customers.

A realtor walked in, took his seat at the white-collar table, and was immediately hit with “We were just talking about that woman renting the Sappington place. Any truth to it?”

“Damned right,” he replied smugly. He took pride in hearing the hot gossip first, or at least appearing to. “They moved in yesterday, from what I hear. Seven hundred dollars a month.”

“How many carloads?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t there and don’t plan on dropping by. I just hope it don’t affect the property values in the neighborhood.”

“What neighborhood?” asked one of the geezers. “Down the road is the auction barn that’s smelled like cow dung since I was a kid. Across the road is Luther Selby’s scrap yard. What kinda neighborhood you talking about?”

“You know, the housing market,” the realtor fought back. “If we get these folks moving into the wrong areas, then property values will go down all over town. It could be bad for all of us.”

“He’s right about that,” the banker chimed in.

The merchant said, “She ain’t working, right? And her husband is a deadbeat. So how does she afford $700 a month in rent?”

“She can’t get Hubbard’s money this soon, can she?”

“No way,” the lawyer said. “The money is locked up in the estate until the lawsuits are gone. It’ll take years. She can’t get a penny.”

“Then where’s the money coming from?”

“Don’t ask me,” said the lawyer. “Maybe she’s charging everybody some rent.”

“The house has got five bedrooms.”

“And I’ll bet they’re all full.”

“And I’ll bet nobody’s paying her any rent.”

“They say he got picked up for drunk driving, couple of weeks back.”

“He did indeed,” the lawyer said. “Saw it on the docket, Simeon Lang. Caught him on a Saturday morning. He put in a first appearance and Jake represented him. Got it postponed for a while. I figure Ozzie’s involved some way.”

“Who’s paying Jake?”

The lawyer smiled and said, “Oh, we’ll never know for sure, but you can bet your ass it’ll come out of the estate, by hook or crook.”

“If there’s anything left in the estate.”

“Which looks doubtful.”

“Very doubtful.”

The merchant said, “So back to my question. How does she afford the rent?”

“Come on, Howard. They get checks. They know how to play the system. Food stamps, Aid to Dependent Children, welfare, housing, unemployment—they make more sitting on their asses than most folks do working forty hours. You get five or six of ’em in one house and all drawing checks—ain’t gotta worry about the rent.”

“True, but the Sappington place ain’t exactly subsidized housing.”

The lawyer said, “Her Memphis lawyer is probably front-loading the expenses. Hell, he probably paid her to get the case. Think about it. If he forks over fifty or a hundred grand, cash, up front, to get the case, then rakes off half of the estate when the ship comes in, then it’s a good deal. Plus, he probably charges interest.”

“He can’t do that ethically, can he?”

“You mean a lawyer would cheat?”

“Or chase a case?”

The lawyer calmly said, “Ethics are determined by what they catch you doing. If you don’t get caught, then you haven’t violated any ethics. And I doubt if Sistrunk spends too much time reading the latest ethical guidelines from the American Bar Association.”

“He’s too busy reading his own press clippings. When’s he coming back to town?”

The lawyer replied, “Judge Atlee has a hearing scheduled for next week.”

“What’re they gonna do?”

“Bunch of motions and such, probably another circus.”

“He’s a fool if he shows up again in a black Rolls-Royce.”

“I bet he does.”

The insurance agent said, “I got a cousin in Memphis, works in the court system. He says Sistrunk owes money all over town. He makes a lot, spends even more, always running from banks and creditors. He bought an airplane two years ago and it damned near broke him. The bank repossessed it, then sued him. He’s claiming it’s a racist conspiracy. He threw a big birthday party for his wife, number three, rented a big tent, brought in a circus, rides for all the little kids, then a fancy dinner with fresh lobster and crab and wines flown in. When the party was over, all his checks bounced. He was threatening to file for bankruptcy when he settled some barge case for ten million and paid everybody off. He’s up and down.”

This had their attention and they mulled it over. The waitress refilled their cups with scalding coffee.

The realtor looked at the lawyer and said, “You didn’t really vote for Michael Dukakis, did you?” It was an act of outright provocation.

“I did and I’d do it again,” the lawyer said, and this was met with some guffaws and some fake laughter. The lawyer was one of two Democrats present. Bush carried Ford County by 65 percent.

The other Democrat, one of the geezers, redirected things by asking, “When do they file Hubbard’s inventory? We need to know what’s in the estate, right? I mean, look at us here, gossiping and bickering over his estate and his last will and so on. Don’t we have the right, as citizens and taxpayers and beneficiaries under the Freedom of Information Act, to know exactly what’s in the estate? I certainly think so.”

“It’s none of your business,” said the merchant.

“Maybe so, but I really want to know. And you don’t?”

“I couldn’t care less,” replied the merchant, who was then ridiculed.

When the heckling died down, the lawyer said, “The administrator is required to file an inventory whenever the judge tells him to do so. There is no statutory deadline. Just guessing, in an estate of this size, the administrator will be given plenty of time to find everything and have it appraised.”

“What size are you talking about?”

“The same size everybody else is talking about. We won’t know for sure until the administrator files his inventory.”

“I thought he was called the executor.”

“Not if the executor quits, as he did here. The court then appoints an administrator to handle everything. The new guy is a lawyer from Smithfield named Quince Lundy, an old friend of Judge Atlee’s. I think he’s semiretired.”

“And he gets paid out of the estate?”

“Where else would the money come from?”

“Okay, so who all gets paid out of the estate?”

The lawyer thought for a moment, then said, “The estate lawyer, which is Jake for the time being, though I don’t know if he’ll last. Rumor is he’s already fed up with the Memphis lawyers and thinking of quitting. The administrator gets paid from the estate. Accountants, appraisers, tax advisers, folks like that.”

“Who pays Sistrunk?”

“I’m assuming he has a contract with that woman. If she wins, he’ll take a percentage.”

“What the hell is Rufus Buckley doing slinking around the case?”

“He’s the local counsel for Sistrunk.”

“Hitler and Mussolini. They trying to offend every single person in Ford County?”