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little brother, you don't have any fortune!"

"Got twenty billion, ten million, fifty-five

thousand and six hundred and forty-two cents!" He

used his fingers to tally up. "But I can't remember

how much I have in stocks and bonds, so I guess you

could triple that figure. A man isn't rich if he can

name what he owns."

I hadn't known he could even name a figure like

that. Just when I would say something sarcastic, Bart

let out a yelp and doubled over. He fell to the floor

and gasped. "Quick . . . my pills. I'm dying! My left

arm is going numb! Save me, send for my doctors!" That's when I left the house and went outdoors.

I sat on a lawn chair and pulled out a paperback novel

to read. Bart was getting to me, really getting to me. It

was like living with Jekyll and Hyde. If he had to act,

why the heck didn't he choose some role better than a

lame old guy with a bad heart?

"Jory, don't you care if I die?" Bart came out

and asked me.

"Nope."

"You've never liked me!"

"I liked you better when you acted your own

age." "Would you believe Malcolm Neal Foxworth is

the father of that lady next door, and she is my real

grandmother, truly my own grandmother?"

"She told you that?"

"No. John Amos told me some, she told me

more. John Amos tells me lots of stuff. He told me

Daddy Paul and Daddy Chris were not brothers, that

my momma only said that so we wouldn't find out her