The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

The clock on the wall said ten past ten and Charlie Dickens was sitting at his desk, banging out the lead story for Friday’s Dispatch in his two-finger staccato style. His green eyeshade was pulled low, and a cigarette hung limp out of one corner of his mouth, the smoke curling in front of his face. A half-full bottle of warm Hires Root Beer, his second of the morning, stood at his elbow, and an overflowing ashtray sat on the Webster’s Dictionary. The typewriter keys clacked, the carriage slammed, and the black electric fan on the edge of the desk whirred noisily. In the back corner of the pressroom, Ophelia Snow was working at the ninety-character keyboard of the Linotype, which produced hot lead slugs with its usual arrhythmic thump. On the shelf over her head, the radio was playing the “Liberty Bell March,” loud. Charlie wrote best when there was plenty of background noise, the way there had been in the other newsrooms where he’d worked. Somehow, noise seemed to fuel the creative process. The words came quicker and they had more energy, especially on days when he was plagued with a morning-after headache that pounded in his head like a set of drums in a basement.

But the words were coming quicker today because—instead of the usual mind-numbing club meetings and weddings and obituaries—Charlie was working on a real newspaper story, a story that everybody would read and talk about for weeks to come. Headlined Federal Agents Kill Local Youth, the story reported the death of the youngest LeDoux boy, Rider, at the hands of the revenue agents, who had crept past the lookout and up the trail to attack Mickey’s still without warning. With no provocation, they had fired on the unarmed crew, killing Rider and slightly wounding Tom-Boy. Now, Mickey and Tom-Boy were both locked up in the Darling jail on the second floor of Snow’s feed store building, awaiting arraignment when Judge McHenry convened court on Thursday. They would be tried right here in Darling and if convicted (make that “when convicted,” Charlie thought), they would no doubt get the maximum sentence: two years in the state penitentiary. The agent who shot the boy dead would likely get a commendation. Kinnard himself would probably be booted up one pay grade.

And all Kinnard had to say, when Charlie showed up with his notebook and pen that morning and asked for a statement, was “The shooting was unavoidable.” He was sitting with his feet up on the desk in the sheriff’s office, his fedora pulled low over his forehead, picking his teeth with a wooden match whittled to a point. He’d looked straight at Charlie and added, coolly, “But it wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t been making moonshine, now, would it? Gotta teach these boys that when they break the law, they are gonna pay the price.” He’d tipped his hat back with his forefinger, hooked his hands into his belt, and growled, “I want you to quote me on that, Dickens. Word for word. Folks around here need to get the message. No shining in my district, long as I’m agent.”

Charlie needed no encouragement to feature the quote prominently in his article. In his opinion, Kinnard’s unfeeling response showed his utter callousness to a young boy’s death, and Charlie depicted him as cold as ice, entirely unemotional, and intent only on getting the job done as expeditiously as possible, whatever the cost.

In contrast, there was Mickey, sitting in his jail cell with his head hanging down and his face streaked with tears and grime, his brother’s blood soaking one leg of his jeans. “If’n I’d know’d this was gonna happen, I’d’ve never let Rider come on the crew,” he’d said desolately, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “He was a good boy. A real good boy. Liked to go fishing, hunting. Had him a good ol’ coon dog, too. That dog is gonna miss him.” Charlie quoted that, as well, and added that Mickey’s Model T, Sweet Bess, had been confiscated and would be broken down for scrap. It was, after all, a human interest story.

Charlie got to the end of his article, realized that he lacked one more piece of information, and picked up the candlestick telephone that sat at the corner of his desk. When Violet (he recognized her chipper “Number, please”) came on the line, he said, “Violet, get me Noonan’s Funeral Home, would you, hon?” While he waited, he slugged a gulp of Hires. Booze always gave him a mighty thirst.

A few minutes later, after talking to Mrs. Noonan, Charlie was able to type the last couple of sentences:

Noonan’s Funeral Home is handling final arrangements for Rider LeDoux. Services are set for 2 p.m. Saturday at Briar’s Chapel, with interment in the family cemetery. Mrs. LeDoux says there’ll be a potluck after, at the house. Bring what you want to eat, and plates and forks.