The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Al hung up and went back to work, but a few minutes later, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mrs. Peters, still red-eyed from weeping, came in and announced tentatively, “Purley Mann is here to see you, Mr. Duffy.”


Al could see how Purley had gotten his nickname. He was as big and burly as his father, but his face was round, his eyes were innocent, his skin was clear and soft, and his hair was fine as a baby’s. He was carrying a brown leather satchel papered with travel decals. He set it on the desk and stepped back, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his denim overalls.

“Pop said I had to bring this back, Mr. Duffy,” he said meekly. “Took me a while to get some of the stuff I give away, and I couldn’t get it all. Miz Toms spent her two dollars for milk and flour and sugar at the grocery, and Mr. Murfee gave Jake Pritchard his dollar for a new tire for his jalopy. Pop says you got the dollar I give Old Zeke. But I brung the rest of it.” He gave Al an apprehensive look. “I hope you’re not mad at me nor nuffin’. The Good Book says we’s supposed to help the needy and give to the poor. That’s whut I was aimin’ to do.”

Al stood, but still they weren’t quite face-to-face. Purley was a foot taller. “I’m not mad at you, son, and I appreciate your good intention. But I’m curious. Where’d you get the satchel?”

Purley brightened. “I was walkin’ down the alley last evenin’, ’bout seven, seven thirty, prayin’ and askin’ the Lord for a sign of his goodness, and—lo and behold!—He give me one. There was this satchel sittin’ in the alley, right outside the door of Mr. Dickens’ newspaper, just like a angel had put it there. And when I opened it and looked, I seen it was plumb full of money.”

He stopped, frowning a little. “Well, not real money, ’xactly. But when I showed it to Mr. Kinnard, he said he’d heard that it was gonna be real, soon as somebody blowed the whistle and said it was real. So I should keep it and spend it or give it away.” He added proudly, “So that’s how I come to be doin’ the Lord’s work.”

Al caught the name and lifted his head. “Have you known Mr. Kinnard for long?”

“Just the last few days,” Purley said. “He’s a real nice fella. He bought me a—” He looked nervously away, lowering his voice. “No, sir. No, Mr. Duffy, I don’t know him at all. No.”

“What did he buy you?” Al softened his voice. “Come on, Baby. I’m not going to bite. What did Mr. Kinnard buy you?”

Half sullen, Purley surrendered. “Bought me a soda, out at Jake’s fillin’ station. That’s all. Jes’ one soda. No law agin that, is there?”

“No law at all,” Al said. “And you showed him what was in the satchel. That was last night?”

“Well, yes, but—” Caught, he struggled. “I mean, no, I never—”

Al leaned forward, palms of his hands flat on the desk. “The Good Book says we shouldn’t lie, Purley, no matter what kind of a fix we’re in. Remember? It’s one of the Ten Commandments.”

Purley scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yessir,” he muttered. “I remember.”

In a conversational tone, Al asked, “So what else did you show Agent Kinnard last night, Purley? Did you show him where he could find Mickey LeDoux’s still?”

Purley’s eyes widened. “No, not me!” he protested. “It wa’n’t me, honest, Mr. Duffy! I couldn’t—I didn’t—”

“I don’t suppose you could’ve known there was going to be any shooting,” Al said thoughtfully. “And maybe Kinnard told you you’d be doing the Lord’s work.” He looked up. “Did he, Purley? Did he say that closing down Mickey’s moonshine operation would save souls?”