The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“No room,” Charlie said. It wasn’t just Kinnard’s raid and the death of Rider LeDoux. The story about the white-sheeted men who had vandalized the Johnson house had to go on the front page, along with the article about the crash of the U.S. airship Akron, which was torn apart in a thunderstorm and crashed into the ocean off New Jersey, killing seventy-three of the seventy-six people on board.

Oh, and Libbie Custer, the widow of George Armstrong Custer—she had died at the age of ninety last week, after spending a full half-century burnishing the image of her fallen Yankee knight. He ought to put that on the front page, too. Custer was not remembered fondly for his role in the Appomattox campaign, capturing twenty-five guns and burning three Confederate trains loaded with provisions for Lee’s army and witnessing his surrender, the very next day, at Appomattox Court House. It rankled, rankled still, and there were quite a few folks in town who recalled Custer’s last stand at the Little Big Horn with something akin to pleasure and thought, one way or another, the damn fool had got what was coming to him. They would want to know that Mrs. Custer was gone, too.

“It’s the editorial page, with your name on it,” Charlie said firmly, “or not at all.” Duffy might swing some weight with the city council and the county bosses, but at the Dispatch, Charlie was top dog. He stood up and stretched. That little nap had been just what he needed. “What else did you have in mind?”

“I came to pick up the scrip you printed. I told Mrs. Tidwell I would help her set up her county payroll disbursements.” He grinned expansively. “You just watch, Dickens. We are going to pump some money back into this town.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.” Feeling the need for nicotine, Charlie fished for a Camel, lit it, and dropped the match into the overflowing ashtray. “Got any news on the bank opening?” He filled his lungs with smoke and blew it out. “If you have, I could make room for that. Front page. Above the fold.” He’d bump Libbie Custer to page two.

Duffy grunted. “Not yet. Working on it.”

A no-answer answer, Charlie thought. “Well, is the holdup here, or in New Orleans?” He eyed Duffy through the curling smoke, and a new thought came to him. “Is there a chance that your bank will pull out of the deal?”

Duffy pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Off the record?”

“Absolutely.”

“How the hell should I know? Nobody tells me a damn thing.”

Charlie considered that. Duffy hadn’t said, “No, there’s not a chance we’ll pull out.” And his “Not yet” had sounded down, dejected. Charlie felt his newsman’s nose begin to twitch. Something was going on here.

“Seriously,” he said. “And still off the record. Just when do you think you’ll be able to announce that the bank is definitely going to open again?”

Duffy made a disgusted noise. “Lay off, will you, Dickens? I don’t have all morning. Just get me that scrip and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Charlie considered that a no-answer answer as well, added it to the first and second, and knew that his newsman’s nose was right. It sounded like the New Orleans bank might be getting cold feet on the deal. If that happened, what would become of the Darling Savings and Trust? Would it be bought out by some other bank? Would it stay closed forever? He shivered. If that happened, they could kiss the town good-bye.

“Come on, stop stalling,” Duffy said brusquely. “You may have time to sleep off last night’s bender, pal, but I’ve got work to do.”

Charlie frowned. Was it that obvious? He had shaved and changed his shirt, but there wasn’t much he could do about the bags under his eyes. Stung, he pushed himself out of his chair and went to the wooden counter, where he had stowed the leather satchel full of scrip. He reached down for it, didn’t feel it, and bent over to pull it out. It wasn’t there.