The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

He straightened up, frowning uneasily. He distinctly remembered putting the satchel under the counter after he had talked to Twyla Sue Mann. But he had to admit to having a little too much of Mickey’s joy juice last night, here at the office, because sometimes Mrs. Beedle knocked on his door and demanded to know if he was smoking, which she didn’t allow for fear that her boarders would fall asleep with a cigarette and set the mattress on fire.

And to tell the truth, he’d been so blotto that he didn’t even remember going home—although he knew he must have, because that’s where he woke up this morning, sprawled across his bed with his clothes and shoes on, stinking like a barroom. He had probably stashed the satchel somewhere else for safekeeping and forgotten about it.

In fact, he thought he dimly remembered doing just that while he was under the influence. But where? He turned, looking around the office, which was considerably cleaner today than it had been for some time. Where would he have put it? In the corner, under those boxes?

“What’s the matter, Dickens?” Duffy said impatiently. “Come on. Get me that scrip, will you?”

“I don’t know . . . where it is,” Charlie said, trying to concentrate. “I printed and trimmed it yesterday morning. Bundled it up here at the counter, and put it into an old leather satchel I had after the war. Stowed the satchel under the counter—”

Duffy bent over and peered into the dark space. “I don’t see it.”

“That’s because it’s not there,” Charlie replied shortly.

“Well, where is it?”

Charlie shrugged. “I dunno. Must’ve put it somewhere else. I’ll have a look around.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? It hasn’t been stolen, has it?”

“Well, what if it had?” Charlie rolled his eyes. “It’s not money, you know. It’s just bundles of colored paper that don’t have any real—”

“Of course it’s money, you idiot,” Duffy snapped. “It’s Darling Dollars, thousands of them, coin of the realm, good as gold. Payroll dollars at the sawmill, the bottling plant, the county—” His face was red and getting redder. “In your limited notion of what’s possible, it might not seem to you like anything special, but—”

“Hold your horses,” Charlie said wearily. “Don’t work yourself into a heart attack. That satchel hasn’t been stolen. It’ll turn up, and if it doesn’t, I’ll simply reprint. When do you need it?”

“Today. This afternoon. I’m taking it to Mrs. Tidwell, over at the courthouse, and Hank Biddle, out at the bottling plant. Tomorrow I’m—” He stopped, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know it hasn’t been stolen?”

“What good would it do anybody if it had?” Charlie countered in a reasonable tone. “I keep telling you. It’s phony money. Nobody would mistake it for the real thing.”

“Maybe,” Duffy said between his teeth. “But it’ll spend like the real thing, here in Darling. How much did you print? Ten thousand, wasn’t it? If somebody took it, he can use it to buy groceries, pay taxes, pay for his newspaper subscription, give it away—”

Charlie held up his hand. “It hasn’t been stolen,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “The place was locked when I came in this morning.” He hadn’t remembered locking it the evening before, but he did know that he’d had to use his key this morning, because he’d had a little trouble getting it into the lock. “And anyway, this is no big thing. If the satchel doesn’t turn up, I’ll just reprint. It’ll cost a bit to reorder the paper, but I won’t charge you for my time.”

“That’s big of you.” Duffy’s voice was dry. “How soon can you reprint?”

“Well, let’s see.” Charlie frowned. “If I call Mobile now and order the paper, they’ll put it on the Greyhound tomorrow morning and I’ll have it tomorrow afternoon late. If they have it in stock. If they have to get it from the plant at Pensacola, it’ll likely be Monday. After I get the paper, it won’t take me long to print it but—”