Sycamore Row

office. He crawled into a booth by himself in a corner and tried to hide.
    Stillman wiped foam from his mouth again and asked, “Why’d he do it, Jake? Any clues so far?”
    “Not really,” Jake said with a shrug, as though he would honestly share inside dirt with his opponent. He wouldn’t give Stillman Rush the time of day if it could possibly help his cause.
    “Sex?”
    Another casual shrug, a quick shake of the head, a frown. “I don’tthink so. The old guy was seventy-one, a heavy smoker, sick, frail, eaten up with cancer. It’s hard to imagine him having the energy and stamina to get it on with any woman.”
    “He wasn’t sick two years ago.”
    “True, but there’s no way to prove it.”
    “I’m not talking about proof, Jake. Or evidence or trials or anything else. I’m just speculating. There’s got to be a reason.”
    Then figure it out yourself, asshole, Jake thought but didn’t say. He was amused at Stillman’s clumsy effort at gossip, as if the two were old drinking buddies who often shared secrets. Loose lips sink ships, Harry Rex was fond of saying. Loose lips lose lawsuits.
    Jake said, “It’s hard to believe a little sex could be worth twenty-four million.”
    Stillman laughed and said, “Not so sure. Wars have been fought over it.”
    “True.”
    “No interest in pursuing a settlement?”
    “No. I have my marching orders.”
    “You’ll be sorry.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    “Not at all. The way we see it, Booker Sistrunk has already pissed off every white person in Ford County.”
    “Didn’t know you were such an expert on Ford County.”
    “Look, Jake, you got one huge, sensational verdict here. Don’t let it go to your head.”
    “I wasn’t looking for advice.”
    “Maybe you need it.”
    “From you?”
    Stillman drained his mug and sat it hard on the table. “Gotta run. I’ll pay at the bar.” He was already out of the booth and reaching into a pocket. Jake watched him leave, cursed him, then eased deeper into the room and slid into the booth opposite Harry Rex.
    “Sitting among your friends?” Jake asked.
    “Well, well, so Carla let you out of the house.” Harry Rex was working on a Bud Light and reading a magazine, which he put aside.
    “I just had my first and last drink with Stillman Rush.”
    “How thrilling. Let me guess. He wants to settle.”
    “How’d you know?”
    “Figures. A quick deal and those boys make out like bandits.”
    Jake described Stillman’s version of a fair settlement, and they hada good laugh. A waiter delivered a platter of nachos and dip. “Is this your dinner?” Jake asked.
    “Naw, this is high tea. I’m headed back to the office. You’ll never guess who’s in town.”
    “Who?”
    “Remember Willie Traynor, used to own the
Times
?”
    “Sort of. I met him once or twice, years ago. Seems like he sold the paper about the time I arrived here.”
    “That’s right. Willie bought it in 1970 from the Caudle family. It was in bankruptcy and I think he paid something like fifty grand for it. Sold it ten years later for one point five mill.” Harry Rex loaded up a nacho and stuffed it in his mouth. Pausing only slightly, he continued, “He never really fit in around here, so he went back to Memphis, where he was from, and lost his ass in real estate. Then his grandmother died and left him another bundle. He’s in the process of losing it too, I think. We were pretty close back in the day and he pops in from time to time, looking for a drink.”
    “Does he still own the Hocutt House?”
    “Yep, and I think that’s one reason he wants to talk. He bought it in 1972 after all the Hocutts died off. Talk about a weird bunch. Twins, Wilma and Gilma, plus a brother and a crazy sister, and none of them ever married. Willie bought the house because nobody else wanted it, then he spent a few years fixing it up. You ever seen it?”
    “Only from the street. It’s beautiful.”
    “It’s one of the finest Victorians in these parts. Kinda reminds me of your old place, just a lot bigger. Willie has good taste and the interior is immaculate. Problem is, he hasn’t spent three nights there in the past five years. He wants to sell it, probably needs the money, but, hell, can’t nobody around here afford it.”
    “Whatever the price, it’s way out of my range,” Jake said.
    “He thinks it’s worth $300,000. I said maybe so, but he’ll never get it. Not now, not ten years from now.”
    “Some doctor’ll buy