Sycamore Row - John Grisham

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