The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“A story?” Charlie asked warily. “What kind of story? What’s it about?”


“We’ll call it The Silver Dollar Bush. We’ll say, of course, that dollars don’t grow on bushes and you can’t pick ’em off like picking peaches off the trees. But the new Darling Dollar pays big dividends when you spend it at home, right here in Darling, your favorite town.” Duffy’s voice rose energetically. “We’ll say something like ‘You earn your money here at home because our local merchants support home industries—the sawmill, the Academy, the prison farm.’”

“The prison farm?” Charlie asked, half amused.

“Sure. It’s a big employer, and most of the staff live right here in Darling. A lot of folks wouldn’t have jobs if it weren’t for the prison farm.”

And if it weren’t for the prison farm, Bodeen Pyle wouldn’t have any customers, Charlie thought to himself. He didn’t much like Bodeen’s whiskey but it might be the only brand available, now that Mickey’s was defunct—at least until whiskey was legal again.

Enthusiastically, Duffy went on with the article he was sketching out. “Tell people that we are now using Darling Dollars, printed right here on good old Ben Franklin Boulevard. Hometown money for hometown folks. They may not be silver, but they’re dollars.”

“Street,” Charlie said. “Franklin Street. Not boulevard. We don’t have any boulevards in Darling.” He began ticking the streets off on his fingers. “Robert E. Lee Street, Jeff Davis Street, Camellia, Mimosa, Larkspur—”

“Okay, street, then.” Duffy looked annoyed. “Say something like, ‘If these Darling Dollars help you, turn around and help your Darling businessmen by buying from them.’ And run that slogan at the top of the article. ‘Hometown money for hometown folks.’” He tilted his head. “Pretty jazzy, huh?”

“Businesspeople,” Charlie said. “Not businessmen. Mrs. Hancock at the grocery is a woman. Two women own the Darling Diner and half the Telephone Exchange. Mrs. Hart owns the laundry with her husband. Fannie Champaign—” He stopped. This wasn’t the first time today he had thought about her, but saying her name out loud gave him a wrench.

“Make it ‘Darling merchants,’ then, and stop quibbling.” Duffy smacked his fist against his palm. “We’ve got to pump some cash back into this town. Get people to stop hoarding, start spending. Get them to realize that the dollars they spend for things they want go right back into their neighbors’ pockets.”

Charlie regarded him thoughtfully. “What’s the difference between saving and hoarding? And what if they don’t actually need something? Are you telling them they should buy it anyway? What if it wrecks their budget?”

“Just whose side are you on?” Duffy returned the look, steely-eyed. After a moment, he pursed his lips and said, “This train is leaving the station, Dickens, and it’s leaving now. Do you want to get on board, or stand in the middle of the track where you can get run over and smashed flat?”

Charlie sighed. Duffy might be just the cheerleader Darling needed, especially since he was the new top man at the bank and—once the bank was open again—was presumably willing to put his money where his mouth was. But the man was a pain in the you-know-what.

“Okay, Duffy,” he said sourly. “Have it your way. I’ll write your story, under your byline. It’ll be on the editorial page. At the bottom, under ‘Letters to the Editor.’”

“It’s news,” Duffy said. “Put it on the front page. No byline.”