The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Got religion, did he?” Charlie chuckled at the thought of a Mann reading his Bible and maybe even getting saved. But he tended to agree with Mrs. Mann. It was probably a good thing for Baby. Taking all in all, moonshining was rough work and dangerous.

But maybe Baby was just looking for a change of scene. Maybe he’d already lined up another job—with Bodeen Pyle, for instance, who was a nasty thorn in Mickey’s side. Bodeen ran a large still somewhere just inside Briar’s Swamp, not far from the Jericho State Prison Farm, where the guards and inmates were his primary customers. His whiskey didn’t have the famous LeDoux firepower, but it was cheaper, and for lots of folks, there wasn’t a hairsbreadth of difference between a cheap drunk and a pricey one.

“What does Purley have to say?” Charlie asked. “Is he looking for a new line of work?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Mann exclaimed eagerly. “He says he’d a lot rather have a town job. Working for Mickey, he was out there in the woods for days at a time. He didn’t have much of a social life.”

That was true, Charlie thought, with some sympathy. A still hand worked around the clock, with one day off every couple of weeks. And while Baby might be a tad slow in his wits, he had a kind heart and he wasn’t at all bad-looking. He might just find a good woman and live a good life—once the town’s economy turned around.

“I couldn’t pay him much,” he said. “And all I’d have is a couple of hours a day.” He paused. “Why can’t he work over at the Mercantile?”

Mrs. Mann looked regretful. “He and his daddy don’t get along just real well, seems like. But if he was working for you and you could give him a recommendation, there might be other work he could get.”

Charlie looked around. The print shop really did look like a dump. It could stand a good cleaning. “Well, I could give him maybe three, four hours a day, a couple of days a week. Twenty-five cents an hour. When does he want to start?”

“Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Mann exclaimed. “How about tomorrow?”

Might as well be today as tomorrow, Charlie thought. “Send him over this afternoon,” he said. “I’ll find something for him to do.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mrs. Mann said. She slung her pocketbook over her arm, smiling happily. “Now I have to go see Miss Champaign about a hat. For the wedding, you know.”

At the words “Miss Champaign,” Charlie felt a stab of sharp regret. He wished he could go and see her, too, but he knew that she thought him a hundred kinds of cad for the way he had treated her. She would refuse to speak to him, or even shut the door in his face. And she would have every right. He was worse than a cad. He was an out-and-out scoundrel.

When Mrs. Mann had gone, Charlie finished stuffing the bundled scrip into the satchel and put the satchel under the counter so it would be handy when Mr. Duffy came in to pick it up. Then he went to his desk, took out the bottle, and fortified himself with a good long swallow. He was still thinking about Fannie—and about Liz. News traveled around Darling like greased lightning. Liz must know already. If she didn’t, he hoped somebody would break it to her gently, before she read it in Friday’s Dispatch.

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