The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush (8 page)

“It’ll all come out if you just let the man tell his story, Charlie,” Mr. Tombull said in a schoolmasterly tone.

“Excuse me, Mr. Tombull,” Jed Snow put in, “but I’d like to hear the answer to that question.” He was frowning. “Nobody told the town council that our Darling bank was being taken over by some foreigners. If we’d’ve known, we wouldn’t have—”

“New Orleans is hardly a foreign country,” Mr. Duffy interrupted.

“Sez you,” Charlie muttered. His Camel in the corner of his mouth, he went to the desk and picked up the bottle. He eyed it for a moment, then put it down with an expression half of longing, half of distaste. Catching the look, Verna thought it would be good if Charlie could quit drinking.

Mr. Moseley took his pipe out of his mouth, rapped it on the heel of his shoe, and began to fill it with tobacco from the pouch he took out of his pocket. Verna waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she spoke.

“When the auditors from Delta Charter began work . . .” she prompted, bringing them back to the issue at hand.

Mr. Duffy regarded her again, this time with interest. One eyebrow went up, one corner of his mouth quirked.

“Thank you, Mrs. Tidwell. Yes. Well, when they got started on the books, they found quite a number of delinquent loans—far more than Delta Charter had anticipated. To put it simply, the bank may not have enough assets to cover its obligations. As a result all accounts are necessarily frozen and will remain so until we have it straightened out, which the auditors have told me may take quite some time. I am not suggesting that there’s been any criminal activity.” He cleared his throat and added, slowly and deliberately, “Although it is entirely possible that this bank will be unable to reopen.”

The words hung in the air like a sword, light glinting along the unimaginable sharpness of its blade. Verna drew in her breath. She had read about the bank failures that had been happening all across the country since the stock market crash in ’29. Most people didn’t understand the role of the bank in their town. They just took it for granted—until it failed, that is. And then they saw, pretty quickly, that a town without a bank was a dead town, a town where people were unable to do business. A ghost town.

“In the meantime,” Mr. Duffy was saying, “I am deeply concerned about the emergency situation that is likely to develop here in Darling, when people realize that not only are their bank accounts frozen, but they’re not going to get their paychecks, because their employers’ accounts are frozen, too. So I have a proposal to make. I’ve discussed it with Mayor Snow, and we think—”

“You can forget that ‘we’ business,” Jed said sourly. “I already told you what I think, Mr. Duffy. The idea of passing that phony stuff off like it was real money is going to stick in folks’ craw. They won’t have it.”

Verna covered her astonishment with a made-up cough. So Myra May had been right after all! The shadows in the corners loomed more ominously and the smoke lowered and swirled around them, eddying in the greenish light. Why didn’t Mr. Moseley say something? Surely he couldn’t approve of anything like
this
!

“But it
is
real money,” Mr. Tombull asserted. He picked up the bottle and took a hefty swig. “Leastwise, it’s real, far as this town is concerned. O’course, we don’t aim for folks to take it over to Monroeville or down to Mobile, or anywheres else. They’re gonna keep it right here in this town, where it’ll pay the rent and buy the groceries people need to keep on feedin’ their families. That’s the good thing about this idea, seems to me. People need to be reminded to keep their money right here at home, ’stead of buyin’ from the Monkey Ward catalog and sendin’ their good, hard-earned cash money up to Chicago.” He set the bottle down with an emphatic thump.

“Exactly,” Mr. Duffy said, with evident satisfaction. “And if their currency is spent right here in our community—”

“It’s not
your
community, Duffy,” Charlie put in heavily. “You’re from New Orleans.” He said the words with distaste.

Mr. Duffy’s face tightened and he spoke tersely. “If this bank survives, I am here to stay, Dickens, whether you like it or not. As of last Friday, I am the president of the Darling Savings and Trust. And I’m willing to lay odds that I have a bigger stake in this town than you do. The bank has hundreds of property loans on its books, more than half of them delinquent. I intend to see them paid off.” His voice took on a new authority. “What’s more, I intend to see this bank succeed. And nothing is going to stop me.” With a severe look at Charlie, he leaned back in his chair. “Nothing.”

The new president! Verna let out a long stream of blue smoke, feeling that the entire picture had just changed right in front of her very eyes. No wonder Voleen Johnson had left town. Now that her husband was no longer a bank president, all her social prestige had melted away, like a crust of morning ice on a March puddle. But you wouldn’t think a newly minted bank president would want to get himself mixed up with a counterfeit scheme. She hazarded a glance at Mr. Moseley. He was smoking his pipe unconcernedly, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half closed.

“Attaboy, Alvin!” Mr. Tombull boomed. “And that’s ’xactly why scrip is the answer.” He laid the wet, chewed butt of his cigar on the glass ashtray so he could gesture with his fat white hands. “We can call it Darlin’ Dollars. Every soul in town will understand that the scrip comes d’rectly from the payroll of our local merchants, like Musgrove’s Hardware and the diner and the Old Alabama Hotel and the Academy. And the county, too, o’course.” He nodded at Verna. “You got that, Miz Tidwell? You follow me?”

And suddenly, for Verna, it all made sense. Myra May’s initial misunderstanding of what she had overheard had sent them both down the wrong road. This wasn’t a counterfeit scheme. Mr. Duffy and Mr. Tombull were talking about creating an alternative currency, the way it had been done over in Atlanta, and out in Clear Lake, Iowa. And down in Key West, Florida, too, where retailers had organized a “home dollar” campaign, reminding their customers that when they bought from local businesses, they were creating local prosperity, and the money they spent in their hometown improved conditions for everybody. “The dollar you spend at home stays at home and works at home,” they’d said, and most people understood and agreed—except for a few holdouts, like Jed, who didn’t like the idea of being told where they could spend their money.

“I do follow you, Mr. Tombull,” Verna said. “You’re talking about issuing scrip in anticipation of the county’s prospective tax receipts. Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Mr. Tombull beamed proudly. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d climb on board with us.” He scowled at Jed. “You hear that, Mr. Mayor? Miz Tidwell sees the picture. She’s got horse sense.”

Mr. Duffy chuckled approvingly. “Good for you, Mrs. Tidwell. I’m glad you understand the importance of this.” His glance at Jed Snow suggested that it was time Snow got on board, too.

But Jed wasn’t so eager. “Let’s see if I got this right.” He sat forward in his chair, clasping his hands between his knees. “On Monday morning, Hiram Epworth pays me in scrip for the laying pellets he buys to feed Mrs. Epworth’s flock of leghorn chickens. And on Saturday, Mrs. Epworth sells her eggs to Mrs. Hancock and gets a pocketful of scrip in return.”

“You got it,” Mr. Tombull said with satisfaction. “And then Mrs. Epworth goes over to the Five and Dime and gives Mr. Dunlap some scrip for a spool of thread and a yard of cotton dry goods. It goes around and it comes around. Ain’t that a beautiful thing?” He appealed to Jed. “Ain’t that a beautiful thing, Mayor?”

“Yeah, but that ain’t all,” Jed said gravely. “Purina Mills won’t take scrip for that sack of laying pellets I sold to Hiram Epworth, and the company that supplies that thread and yard goods to Mr. Dunlap is gonna laugh like crazy when he sends ’em some of your Darling Dollars. And the railroad—you think the good old L&N is gonna take scrip to haul in our freight?” He shook his head from side to side. “Not very damned likely.”

“That’s a problem,” Mr. Tombull agreed amiably. “But if you’re plannin’ to stay in business, you’ll have to take that risk. I’ve got creditors myself.” Mr. Tombull owned Tombull’s Real Estate and had a fifty-fifty share in Lem Bixler’s gravel pit, as well as several other local ventures. “I’ll be frank with you, Mayor Snow. I don’t like to do this, but I am fixin’ to ask my creditors to hold off awhile, until we see this thing through to better days. Which they’ll do, because they want to stay in business, too. I’ll bet Purina Mills will see it the same way, when you tell ’em what the alternatives are. And anyway, you can use that scrip to pay your property tax, so when you do get your hands on some cash, you can send it to Purina.” He chewed on his cigar. “If we do it this way—and if we all of us hang together on this—we’ll still be in business when this bad patch is over. If we don’t, Snow’s Farm Supply will be history. And we might as well kiss Darlin’ good-bye.”

Verna thought of the deserted streets around the square. For once, Mr. Tombull was right. Many days without money and Darling would be a ghost town. But there was still a lingering question that had to be answered. She turned to look at Mr. Moseley.

“Is it legal?” she asked.

“You think we’d be wastin’ our time if it wasn’t?” Mr. Tombull demanded.

Ignoring Mr. Tombull, Mr. Moseley took the pipe out of his mouth and answered Verna’s question.

“Depends,” he said. “I’d have to see the details, which haven’t been worked out yet. But in general, yes, Mrs. Tidwell, scrip is legal. In fact, Senator Bankhead has proposed a bill in the U.S. Senate to issue a stamp scrip emergency currency nationwide.” Verna knew that Bankhead, a longtime Alabama senator, had significant clout in Washington. If he said scrip was legal for the country, it would be legal in Alabama.

Mr. Moseley went on. “Bankhead’s scheme won’t go anywhere unless Woodin buys in—he’s FDR’s secretary of the Treasury—and that doesn’t seem likely, at least at this point. Still, the bill is a straw in the wind. It’s likely that the Alabama state legislature will put out some sort of authorization.”

“There,” Mr. Tombull said triumphantly. “You see, Miz Tidwell? Legal as sin.” He chuckled, appreciating his little joke, and said it again. “Yes siree, Bob, legal as sin. Now, all we got to do is hang together—”

“Or hang separately.” Charlie was glum. “That’s the key, isn’t it? Hanging together. But what makes you think that Lester Lima is going to take anything but legal tender for his drugstore prescriptions, for which he has to pay cash to the pharmaceutical supply? And how about Roger Kilgore, over at the auto dealership? How many wheelbarrows of scrip will he accept for that 1932 Dodge coupe he’s got on the lot?”

Mr. Tombull picked up his cigar and jammed it back into his mouth. “Well, the county’s on board,” he said defensively. “And if we can get half of the local merchants to sign on, it’ll probably be enough to get us started. The others’ll come around, when they see that it’s working.”

“
If
it works,” Charlie muttered, under his breath. “Which I doubt.”

Jed sighed, seeming to accept the inevitable. “Just how is it gonna work?” he asked dispiritedly. “Everybody lines up with their hands out and Mr. Duffy here doles it out, so many Darlin’ Dollars per person?”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Duffy replied firmly. “Delta Charter will authorize an issue against employers’ bank deposits, and it will be paid out in various denominations through their payrolls. Some provision will have to be made for a fractional distribution to bank depositors who are not locally employed—the elderly, say. But I’m sure we can work that out.” He took the cigarette out of his holder and dropped the butt into the ashtray on Charlie’s desk, smiling at Verna. “The bulk of the issue will be distributed through the Cypress County treasury, as the county’s biggest employer.”

“And your job,” Mr. Tombull said to Verna, “is to sell the idea to the county employees. Make ’em feel good about the way we’re takin’ care of ’em. Make ’em
glad
they’re working for us.”

Verna did not roll her eyes. Instead, she said, “Who’s printing the scrip?”

Mr. Duffy and Mr. Tombull both looked at Charlie Dickens.

Charlie laughed shortly. “Oh, yeah? You think I’m going to go into business as a counterfeiter?”

“Oh, pshaw.” Mr. Tombull brushed the word “counterfeiter” away, as if he were brushing a bothersome fly. “Who else we gonna get to do it, Charlie? You’re the only job printer in town. And I’m sure you know to the penny how much the county pays you every month to print our legal notices.” He didn’t look at Charlie when he said this, and he didn’t have to spell out his threat to pull the county’s business from the newspaper. The threat was implicit, and Charlie understood.

“Yeah,” he said sullenly. “Yeah, well, who’s paying for the paper and ink? Not to mention the time. That job press doesn’t run by itself, you know.”

“You’ll be paid for the work,” Mr. Duffy said. “There’s an administrative fee for managing the program.”

“Oh, I see,” Charlie said, with some sarcasm. “This so-called money you’re printing up—it’s not free. It’s going to cost something.”

“Your expenses and your time will come out of the fee,” Mr. Duffy continued, as if Charlie had not spoken. “If you’ll stop by the bank tomorrow, I’ll show you the design we’ll be using and we can discuss quantities and other matters.” He pocketed his empty cigarette holder and looked around the group. “Anybody have any more questions?”

Jed raised his hand as if they were all in school and Mr. Duffy was the teacher. “Yeah. When is all this gonna start happening?”

“Not until I talk to your town council,” Mr. Duffy said. “I want to make sure they hear about this from me.” Verna caught his meaning: he didn’t trust Jed to sell the program—he might sell it downriver. “Better call a meeting right away, don’t you think, Mr. Mayor? Like maybe tomorrow?”

Jed’s glance darkened. “Guess you figure on me holding the hog while you cut the throat.”

Verna heard Mr. Moseley chuckle in wry amusement. Charlie gave a loud, rough laugh. “You put your finger on it, Snow. Right on it.”