"She stopped by this morning."
"What'd she want?"
"I think she was looking for money. She said the Judge had always promised to take care of her, and she wanted to know what was in the will."
"Did you tell her?"
"With pleasure."
"She'll be all right, never worry about that woman. You remember old Walter Sturgis, out from Karraway a dirt contractor for years, tight as a tick?" Harry Rex knew everybody in the county, all thirty thousand souls - blacks, whites, and now the Mexicans.
"I don't think so."
"He's rumored to have a half a million bucks in cash, and she's after it. Got the ole boy wearing golf shirts and eating at the country club. He told his buddies he takes Viagra every day."
'Attaboy"
"She'll break him."
Forrest shifted somehow in the porch swing and the chains creaked. They waited a moment, until all was quiet out there. Harry Rex opened a file and said, "Here's the appraisal. We had it done late last year by a guy from Tupelo, probably the best appraiser in north Mississippi."
"How much?"
"Four hundred thousand."
"Sold."
"I thought he was high. Of course, the Judge thought the place was worth a million."
"Of course."
"I figure three hundred is more likely."
"We won't get half that much. What's the appraisal based on?"
"It's right here. Square footage, acreage, charm, comps, the usual."
"Give me a comp."
Harry Rex flipped through the appraisal. "Here's one. A house about the same age, same size, thirty acres, on the edge of Holly Springs, sold two years ago for eight hundred grand."
"This is not Holly Springs."
"No, it's not."
"That's an antebellum town, with lots of old houses."
"You want me to sue the appraiser?"
"Yeah, let's go after him. What would you give for this place?"
"Nothing. You want a beer?"
"No."
Harry Rex lumbered into the kitchen, and returned with a tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "I don't know why he buys this stuff," he mumbled, then gulped a fourth of it.
"Always been his brand."
Harry Rex peeked through the blinds and saw nothing but Forrest's feet hanging off the swing. "I don't think he's too worried about his father's estate."
"He's like Claudia, just wants a check."
"Money would kill him."
It was reassuring to hear Harry Rex share this belief. Ray waited until he returned to the desk because he wanted to watch his eves carefully. "The Judge earned less than nine thousand dollars last year," Ray said, looking at a tax return.
"He was sick," Harry Rex said, stretching and twisting his substantial back, then sitting down. "But he was hearing cases until this
"What kind of cases?"
"All sorts of stuff. We had this Nazi right-wing governor a few years back - "
"I remember him."
"Liked to pray all the time when he campaigned, family values, anti-everything but guns. Turned out he liked the ladies, his wife caught him, big stink, really juicy stuff. The local judges down in Jackson wanted no part of the case for obvious reasons, so they asked the Judge to ride in and referee things."
"Did it go to trial?"
"Oh hell yeah, big ugly trial. The wife had the goods on the governor, who thought he could intimidate the Judge. She got the governor's house and most of the money. Last I heard he was living above his brother's garage, with bodyguards, of course."
"Did you ever see the old man intimidated?"
"Never. Not once in thirty years."
Harry Rex worked on his beer and Ray looked at another tax return. Things were quiet, and when he heard Forrest snore again, Ray said, "I found some money, Harry Rex."
His eyes conveyed nothing. No conspiracy, no surprise, no relief. They didn't blink and they didn't stare. He waited, then finally shrugged and said, "How much?"
"A boxful." The questions would follow, and Ray had tried to predict them.
Again Harry Rex waited, then another innocent shrug. "Where?"
"Over there, in that cabinet behind the sofa. It was cash in a box, over ninety thousand bucks."
So far he had not told a lie. He certainly hadn't given the entire truth, but he wasn't lying. Not yet.
"Ninety thousand bucks?" Harry Rex said, a little too loudly and Ray nodded toward the porch.
"Yes, in one-hundred-dollar bills," he said in a lower voice. "Any idea where it came from?"
Harry Rex gulped from the can, then squinted his eyes at the wall and finally said, "Not really."
"Gambling? You said he could throw the dice."
Another sip. "Yeah, maybe. The casinos opened six or seven years ago, and he and I would go once a week, at least in the beginning."
"You stopped?"
"I wish. Between me and you, I was going all the time. I was gambling so much I didn't want the Judge to know it, so whenever he and I went I always played it light. Next night, I'd sneak over and lose my ass again."
"How much did you lose?"
"Let's talk about the Judge."
"Okay, did he win?"
"Usually. On a good night he'd win a coupla thousand."
"On a bad night?"
"Five hundred, that was his limit. If he was losin', he knew when to quit. That's the secret to gamblin', you gotta know when to quit, and you gotta have the guts to walk away. He did. I did not."
"Did he go without you?"
"Yeah, I saw him once. I sneaked over one night and picked a new casino, hell they got fifteen now, and while I was playin' black-jack things got hot at a craps table not too far away. In the thick of things, I saw Judge Atlee. Had on a baseball cap so folks wouldn't recognize him. His disguises didn't always work because I'd hear things around town. A lot of folks go to the casinos and there were sightings."
"How often did he go?"
"Who knows? He answered to no one. I had a client, one of those Higginbotham boys who sell used cars, and he told me he saw old Judge Atlee at the craps table at three o'clock one mornin' at Treasure Island. So I figured the Judge sneaked over at odd hours so folks wouldn't see him."
Ray did some quick math. If the Judge gambled three times a week for five years and won two thousand dollars every time, his winnings would have been somewhere around one and a half million.
"Could he have rat-holed ninety thousand?" Ray asked. It sounded like such a small amount.
"Anything's possible, but why hide it?"
"You tell me."
They pondered this for a while. Harry Rex finished the beer and lit a cigar. A sluggish ceiling fan above the desk pushed the smoke around. He shot a cloud of exhaust toward the fan and said, "You gotta pay taxes on your winnings, and since he didn't want anybody to know about his gambling, maybe he just kept it all quiet."
"But don't the casinos require paperwork if you win a certain amount?"
"I never saw any damned paperwork."
"But if you'd won?"
"Yeah, they do. I had a client who won eleven thousand at the five-dollar slots. They gave him a form ten-ninety-nine, a notice to the lRS."
"What about shooting craps?"
"If you cash in more than ten thousand in chips at one time, then there's paperwork. Keep it under ten, and there's nothin'. Same as cash transactions at a bank."