The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

He pulled the screen door open and went into the dim interior, where a mixed quartet of Darling’s male senior citizens (that is, both colored and white), were gathered around one of the tables, enjoying a friendly game of pool. The sharp crack of ball against ball punctuated the mutter of voices, and a blue cloud of tobacco smoke hung curled around the hanging lamp over the pool table. There was a counter off to one side, where Pete—a tall, cadaverous man with a gray beard and a cud of chewing tobacco in his cheek—was perched on a stool. The counter displayed candy bars, cigarettes, and five-cent cigars. If you wanted a good cigar, Al knew, you could get them at the Old Alabama Hotel, where they were displayed in a glass case behind the lobby check-in desk. A box of even better cigars was kept in the safe in the manager’s office and produced on the guests’ requests.

“Afternoon, mister.” Pete’s voice was high and thin, almost a squeak. “You lookin’ for a game?”

Al hadn’t always been a banker, and one closed chapter of his life (there were several, all of them different, some rather eventful, others boring) included a fair amount of hustling—which, when you got right down to it, wasn’t that different from the banking game, which required hustling of a different sort. But he wasn’t here to play pool. Not today, anyway.

“Maybe later,” he said. He tipped his hat to the back of his head and pulled out the yellow Darling Dollar Myra May had given him. He propped his elbows on the counter and held it up. “I’m interested in this,” he said mildly.

Pete frowned at it. “Why? Ain’t it no good?”

“Oh, it’s good, all right. One hundred percent good. Got you your breakfast, didn’t it?” Al smiled disarmingly and slipped into a softer, more colloquial speech. “Thing is, see, these weren’t supposed to get out until the end of the week. Nothin’ to get all hot and bothered about, Pete. I’m just . . . well, I’m kinda curious to know how you came by it.”

Pete bent over and spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into a rusty can on the floor. “You’re that banker feller, ain’t you?”

“That’s me.” With an amiable grin, Al put out his hand. “Al Duffy. Moved here from N’Orleans not long back. Happy to meet ya, Pete.”

Pete leaned forward on his stool and shook Al’s hand. His was brown and calloused, clawlike. “What’s happenin’ with the bank?”

Al gave him a direct look. “Dunno yet. Workin’ on it. Hopin’ we can open up again real soon. In the meantime”—he waved the yellow dollar—“reckon this’ll take some of the pressure off. As we was sayin’, one hundred percent good. You get it from one of your customers?”

“Yeah.” Pete jerked his head toward the pool players. “Old Zeke over there give it to me last night, for six games of pool. He’s on his sixth now.”

Al turned and saw an ancient colored man in bib overalls and a faded brown shirt. He had seen the old fellow often on the street, pulling grocery orders for Mrs. Hancock in a little red wagon with wooden slat sides.

“Zeke, huh?” he said. “That’s his name?”

“Ezekiel,” Pete said. “You can tell by his face what game he was in.”

“Boxer?” Al guessed. The old man’s face was scarred, his nose misshapen, one eye half closed, both ears cauliflowered.

“Middleweight. Southern circuit, back in the teens. Good, too, a scrapper. Fight any fool who’d climb into the ring with him.”

Al took a dime out of his pocket. “I’ll have two Snickers,” he said. “Thanks.” He unwrapped one of the candy bars and carried it over to the pool table, where Zeke was racking his cue.

“Good game, Ezekiel?” he asked, and handed Zeke the second Snickers.

“I’s done better,” Zeke said, taking the candy. “Whut’s this for?”

“’Cause I’m hopin’ you can tell me where you got this,” Al said, and held up the yellow dollar.

“Hell.” The old man’s grin showed missing teeth. “I don’t need no candy for that. I got it from Baby Mann. He give it to me last night, out of a satchel he had. Said he was doin’ the work of the Lord, passin’ out them dollars to folks who needed ’em. And I damn sure did.” He unwrapped the bar.

“Baby man?” Al was puzzled.

“Purley. His daddy runs the Mercantile.” He bit off half the bar, chewing enthusiastically. “Folks calls him Baby ’cause he’s simple-like.”

“Ah. Purley Mann.” Al regarded the old fellow. “Baby give you any more of these dollars?”

“Nah.” Old Zeke shook his head wistfully. “Bought me six good games of pool, though.”