The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Sure thing.” Charlie gestured to the only straight chair in sight. “Take a load off. Better dust it first, though. That’s ink dust on the seat. You don’t want to sit in it.”


Of all the people in Darling, Charlie had the greatest respect for Benton Moseley. He wasn’t just the best-liked lawyer in Cypress County, he was the smartest, with the most political savvy, having survived a tour of duty on the front lines in the state legislature. What’s more, he came from a long and distinguished line of Darling lawyers, his Moseley father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him all practicing out of the office upstairs, above the Dispatch. To Charlie’s certain knowledge, many of the legal secrets in Cypress County—and there were plenty of them, some of them inconsequential, some momentous, some even murderous—were neatly filed away in those wooden file cabinets upstairs.

Or in Bent Moseley’s brain, under that good-looking head of curly brown hair, where he carried even more secrets and pulled out one or two of them when they were needed to get something done. Not blackmail, of course. Bent was too much of a straight shooter for that. But he was a master of the sharp, crafty use of relevant information, dropped like the right card out of the right hand at the right moment in a poker game.

Bent brushed off the chair, took off his hat, then sat down and pulled out his pipe, regarding Charlie critically. “You’re looking a little the worse for wear. Have a big night, did you?”

“Wish I could remember,” Charlie said with a rueful grin. “Afraid I can’t offer you a drink, though. Finished the bottle last night and God knows when I’ll get another one as good, at least until whiskey is legal.”

Maybe he should quit, he thought, not for the first time. That business with the satchel—not being able to remember what the hell he’d done with it—was bothering him. A good bottle of whiskey, savored the way you savored a good woman, was one thing. But when the night’s drinking screwed up the next day’s work, it was time to cut back, or quit cold turkey. Yeah, it was time. But could he do it? Could he?

“Bad business, that raid on LeDoux’s still.” Bent took a leather tobacco pouch out of his jacket pocket. He had a deep voice, slow and thoughtful, richly Southern flavored, and he didn’t use words idly. When he said something, you knew he meant it. “The kid was just fifteen. No excuse for shootin’ in a situation like that.” He shook tobacco into his pipe and tamped it down with a forefinger. “Damn near criminal.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Charlie said. “Nothing to be done, though.” He paused, and added hopefully, “Is there?”

“I doubt it. But on the off chance, I called a fellow I know who swings some weight in the district office in Birmingham. I gave him the straight of it. There’s no telling what Kinnard will put in his report—ambush, exchange of fire, self-defense—to try to make it look good. This isn’t the first time his bunch has pulled something like this, you know. They raided a still up near Selma a few weeks back—another shooting. I don’t reckon my call will change anything, but we’ll see what happens.” He put his pouch away. “Say, Charlie, I’ve got a story for you, my friend. For Friday’s paper.”

“You and half the damn town,” Charlie said grumpily. But he reached for his pencil and pad. Bent rarely brought him a story, because most of the time, he didn’t talk about his work, protected by attorney-client privilege, of course. When he did offer Charley a story, though, it was a doozy, like the time he had lifted the lid on the bribery scandal involving old Judge C.L. Lewis. It had almost torn the roof off the courthouse.

“Half the town?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Charlie picked up the pencil. “So what’s the story?”

“It’s George Johnson,” Bent said, putting a match to his pipe. “You heard about the vandalism at his place last night?”