Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“I think so.” Benjy dealt blackjack in a locked, windowless room behind the bar. Next
to it, in a similar room, they were shooting dice at the moment and anxious voices could
be heard. A comely white woman, with all limbs and other critical body parts intact and
exposed, walked in and said to Ontario, “I’m here.”
“I thought you slept all day,” he replied.
“Expecting some customers.” She kept walking, and when she passed behind Simeon
she gently raked her long, fake, pink fingernails across his shoulder. “Ready for
business,” she cooed into his ear, but he pretended not to hear. Her name was Bonnie,
and for years she’d worked the back room where many of the young black men of Ford
County first crossed the line. Simeon had been there several times, but not today. When
she was out of sight, he drifted to the rear and found the blackjack dealer.
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 timeout,
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.”