Sycamore Row

or perhaps your paths have crossed in recent years.”
    Lonny said, “You’ve come all the way from Mississippi?”
    “Sure, but it’s no big deal. We have airplanes down there too. And we’ve covered the continent looking for Ancil.”
    “What kind of litigation?” Lonny asked, with the same disdain most people heap onto the unsavory subject.
    “Some pretty complicated stuff. Seth Hubbard died suddenly about six months ago and he left behind a mess. A lot of business interests and not much in the way of estate planning. Our job as lawyers is to first try and round up the family, which in the case of the Hubbards is quite a task. We have reason to believe you might know something about Ancil Hubbard. Is this right?”
    Lonny closed his eyes as a wave of pain rolled through his head. He reopened them, looked at the ceiling, and said softly, “That name doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”
    As if he was either expecting this or not hearing it, Lucien went on, “Can you think of anyone in your past who might have known Ancil Hubbard, or mentioned his name? Help me here, Mr. Clark. Think back. It looks like you’ve moved around a lot, so you’ve known many people in many places. I know you got a sore head and all, but take your time, think real hard about this.”
    Again, he said, “That name does not ring a bell.”
    The nurse glared at Lucien and seemed ready to pounce. He did not acknowledge her presence. He carefully sat his battered leather briefcase on the foot of the bed so Lonny could see it. It probably contained something important. Lucien said, “Have you ever been to Mississippi, Mr. Clark?”
    “No.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Sure I’m sure.”
    “Well, hey, that’s a real surprise, because we thought you were born there. We’ve paid a lot of money to some high-priced investigators who’ve been tracking Ancil Hubbard. When your name popped up, they took off after you and found several Lonny Clarks. One of them was born in Mississippi sixty-six years ago. You are sixty-six years old, aren’t you, Mr. Clark?”
    Lonny stared at him, overwhelmed and uncertain. Slowly, he said, “I am.”
    “So what’s your connection to Ancil Hubbard?”
    The nurse said, “He said he didn’t know him.”
    Lucien snapped at her: “And I’m not talking to you! This is an important legal matter, a big case involving dozens of lawyers, several courts, and a pile of money, and if I need you to stick your nose into the middle of it, then I’ll let you know. Until then, please butt out.” Her cheeks blushed crimson as she gasped for breath.
    Lonny despised that particular nurse and said to her, “Don’t speak for me, okay? I can take care of myself.” The nurse, completely chastised, took a step back from the bed. Lucien and Lonny, now joined in their contempt for the nurse, looked at each other carefully. Lonny said, “I’ll have to sleep on it. My memory is coming and going these days, and they got me so doped up, you know?”
    “I’ll be happy to wait,” Lucien said. “It’s very important that we find Ancil Hubbard.” He pulled a business card from a pocket and handed it to Lonny. “This is my boss, Jake Brigance. You can call him and check me out. He’s the lead lawyer in the case.”
    “And you’re a lawyer too?” Lonny asked.
    “I am. I just ran out of cards. I’m staying at the Glacier Inn on Third Street.”

    Late in the afternoon, Herschel Hubbard unlocked the door to his father’s house and stepped inside. It had been empty now, for how long? He paused and did the math. His father had killed himself on October 2, a Sunday. Today was April 2, a Sunday. To his knowledge, the house had not been cleaned since the day Lettie was fired, the day after the funeral. A thick layer of dust covered the television console and bookcases. The smell was of stale tobacco and stagnant air. He flipped a switch and the lights came on. He’d been told that Quince Lundy, the administrator, was in charge of paying the utility bills. The kitchen counters were spotless; the refrigerator empty. A faucet dripped slowly into a brown stain in the porcelain sink. He made his way to the rear of the house, and in the room he’d once called his own he slapped the bedspread to stir the dust, then he stretched out on the bed and gazed at the ceiling.
    In six months, he’d gone through the fortune several times, spending as he pleased but also doubling and tripling it with shrewd investments. At times he felt