The oil executive drew a checkbook from the inside pocket of his suit, folded the alligator skin cover back, and wrote out a second check for ten thousand dollars.

The lawyer shuffled papers in his briefcase and presented Desmond with two copies of a four-page agreement.

“This explicitly waives your right to further litigation…”

Desmond signed them before the man could finish speaking.

The lawyer collected them from the table and took out an envelope.

“We’ve sent your uncle’s body to the Seven Bridges Funeral Home in Noble. Due to the nature of his injuries, he’s already been cremated. We will, of course, cover the expense.”

The lawyer waited. When Desmond said nothing, the lawyer opened the envelope.

“Your uncle, like all contractors, was required to file a will with us. We’ll read that now.”

He squinted at the page. Through the glare of the sun through the window, Desmond could tell there was only one line.

The sweating man in the suit cleared his throat.

“The last will and testament of Orville Hughes is as follows: To my nephew, Desmond Barlow Hughes, I leave everything. 39-21-8.”

From the recliner, Dale let out a laugh. “Well, least we know Orville was sober when he wrote it.”

All eyes went to him.

Dale shrugged. “He was a man of few words when he wasn’t drinking.”

No one responded.

The oil executive again expressed his condolences, this time without the forced sincerity. They were in a hurry to leave now. They were out the door within seconds.

Dale told them he wanted to stay, “in case Desmond needs anything,” as if they were anything more than work acquaintances. When the oil men had left, Dale and Desmond sat across from each other in the shabby living room, Dale chatting about nothing in particular, seeming unbothered by Desmond’s silence. He was working up to something. Or working up the courage to do what he’d come here to do.

“The thing is, Des, your uncle owed me some money.”

“That right?”

Desmond had never seen his uncle borrow a dollar—or get up from a card table with a debt to his name.

“Sure did.”

Desmond could see the outline of a small revolver in Dale’s pants pocket. A .38 caliber snub-nose if he had to guess.

“Tell you what,” Desmond said. “We’ll head to the bank, I’ll cash these checks, and we’ll settle up.”

Dale thought about it a moment. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why don’t you go ahead and sign the back of ’em checks right now.”

His eyes bored holes into Desmond.

Slowly, the teenager turned the checks over and signed them.

“Old Orville wasn’t much for banks, was ’e? Didn’t trust ’em.”