The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“You think we’d be wastin’ our time if it wasn’t?” Mr. Tombull demanded.

Ignoring Mr. Tombull, Mr. Moseley took the pipe out of his mouth and answered Verna’s question.

“Depends,” he said. “I’d have to see the details, which haven’t been worked out yet. But in general, yes, Mrs. Tidwell, scrip is legal. In fact, Senator Bankhead has proposed a bill in the U.S. Senate to issue a stamp scrip emergency currency nationwide.” Verna knew that Bankhead, a longtime Alabama senator, had significant clout in Washington. If he said scrip was legal for the country, it would be legal in Alabama.

Mr. Moseley went on. “Bankhead’s scheme won’t go anywhere unless Woodin buys in—he’s FDR’s secretary of the Treasury—and that doesn’t seem likely, at least at this point. Still, the bill is a straw in the wind. It’s likely that the Alabama state legislature will put out some sort of authorization.”

“There,” Mr. Tombull said triumphantly. “You see, Miz Tidwell? Legal as sin.” He chuckled, appreciating his little joke, and said it again. “Yes siree, Bob, legal as sin. Now, all we got to do is hang together—”

“Or hang separately.” Charlie was glum. “That’s the key, isn’t it? Hanging together. But what makes you think that Lester Lima is going to take anything but legal tender for his drugstore prescriptions, for which he has to pay cash to the pharmaceutical supply? And how about Roger Kilgore, over at the auto dealership? How many wheelbarrows of scrip will he accept for that 1932 Dodge coupe he’s got on the lot?”

Mr. Tombull picked up his cigar and jammed it back into his mouth. “Well, the county’s on board,” he said defensively. “And if we can get half of the local merchants to sign on, it’ll probably be enough to get us started. The others’ll come around, when they see that it’s working.”

“If it works,” Charlie muttered, under his breath. “Which I doubt.”

Jed sighed, seeming to accept the inevitable. “Just how is it gonna work?” he asked dispiritedly. “Everybody lines up with their hands out and Mr. Duffy here doles it out, so many Darlin’ Dollars per person?”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Duffy replied firmly. “Delta Charter will authorize an issue against employers’ bank deposits, and it will be paid out in various denominations through their payrolls. Some provision will have to be made for a fractional distribution to bank depositors who are not locally employed—the elderly, say. But I’m sure we can work that out.” He took the cigarette out of his holder and dropped the butt into the ashtray on Charlie’s desk, smiling at Verna. “The bulk of the issue will be distributed through the Cypress County treasury, as the county’s biggest employer.”

“And your job,” Mr. Tombull said to Verna, “is to sell the idea to the county employees. Make ’em feel good about the way we’re takin’ care of ’em. Make ’em glad they’re working for us.”

Verna did not roll her eyes. Instead, she said, “Who’s printing the scrip?”

Mr. Duffy and Mr. Tombull both looked at Charlie Dickens.

Charlie laughed shortly. “Oh, yeah? You think I’m going to go into business as a counterfeiter?”

“Oh, pshaw.” Mr. Tombull brushed the word “counterfeiter” away, as if he were brushing a bothersome fly. “Who else we gonna get to do it, Charlie? You’re the only job printer in town. And I’m sure you know to the penny how much the county pays you every month to print our legal notices.” He didn’t look at Charlie when he said this, and he didn’t have to spell out his threat to pull the county’s business from the newspaper. The threat was implicit, and Charlie understood.

“Yeah,” he said sullenly. “Yeah, well, who’s paying for the paper and ink? Not to mention the time. That job press doesn’t run by itself, you know.”