Sycamore Row - John Grisham

as if the driver needed a long look at the home of Lettie Lang. Minutes later, another
one came from the other direction. Lettie recognized it: her brother Rontell and his
passel of rotten kids and bitch of a wife. He’d called and said they might be coming
over, and here they were, dropping in too early on a Saturday morning to see their
beloved Aunt Lettie, who’d gotten her picture on the front page and was everybody’s
favorite topic now that she had wormed her way into that old white man’s will and was
about to be rich.
She scampered into the house and began yelling.
As Simeon hovered over his grocery list at the kitchen counter, he caught a glimpse of
Lettie reaching her hand into a box of saltines in the pantry. She withdrew cash. He
pretended not to notice, but seconds later, as she went to the den, he grabbed the box
and pulled out ten $100 bills.
So that’s where she’s hiding “our money.”
At least four of the kids along with Rontell said they wanted to go to the store, but
Simeon needed some quiet time. He managed to sneak out the back door, hop in his
truck, and leave without being seen. He was headed to Clanton, fifteen minutes away,
and enjoying the solitude. He realized he missed the open road, the days away from
home, the late-night bars and lounges and women. He would leave Lettie eventually,
and move far away, but it damned sure wouldn’t happen now. No sir. For the
foreseeable future, Simeon Lang planned to be the model husband.
Or so he told himself. He often did not know why he did the things he did. An evil
voice came from nowhere, and Simeon listened to it. Tank’s Tonk was a few miles north
of Clanton, at the end of a dirt road that was used only by those looking for trouble.
Tank had no liquor license, no permit, and no Chamber of Commerce sticker in the front
window. Drinking, gambling, and whoring were illegal in other parts of the county. The
coldest beer in the area was kept in Tank’s coolers, and Simeon suddenly had a craving
as he puttered innocently down the road with his wife’s grocery list in one pocket and
their lawyer’s borrowed cash in another. Ice-cold beer and Saturday morning dice and
cards. What could be better?
Last night’s smoke and debris were being cleared as a one-armed boy they called Loot
mopped around the tables. Broken glass littered the dance floor, evidence of the
inevitable fight. “Anybody get shot?” Simeon asked as he popped the top of a sixteenounce
can. He was alone at the bar.
“Not yet. Got two in the hospital with cracked skulls,” replied Ontario, the one-legged
bartender who’d been to prison for killing his first two wives. He was now single. Tank
had a soft spot for amputees and most of his employees were missing a limb or two.
Baxter, the bouncer, was minus an ear.
“Sorry I missed it,” Simeon said, gulping.
“I hear it was a right good scrape.”
“Looks like it. Benjy in?”