“I found it in a cane field,” said an unusually tall fourteen-year-old named Ricky.
“You look like a football player.” Webber examined the coin and poked the boy in the shoulder, buttering him up. “I’ll bet you’re going to win the Muck Bowl for us!”
Ricky bloomed with pride. “I still have a year to go, but Coach says I’m a natural tailback.”
“I’m sure you are.” Webber set the coin down on a cloth. “Did you take a look at this? Did you read what it says on the back?”
Eager nodding. “Twenty dollars! But it’s old, and it’s gold!”
“Except you realize that they don’t use these coins anymore. They took them out of circulation.”
“What does that mean?” asked the youth.
“It means I don’t want to give you any bad news. What do you think is a fair price for this coin?”
Ricky pointed. “The back says twenty dollars.”
Webber opened his register and pulled out bills to mollify negotiations. “How about fifteen? That’s more than I should.”
It had the desired effect as the boy stared at the cash and thought: Shit, yeah. I just snatched it off that sissy girl anyway.
“Deal.”
Thus continued a daisy chain of underhandedness.
They shook hands.
The boy pocketed bills as he headed for the door.
“And bring me any others you find,” Webber called out. “I’m good for fifteen dollars each, even though I’m probably losing money. But I can’t help it; I’m just a nice guy.”
Bells jingled again as the door closed.
Webber had just made his whole month. If melted for just the weight in gold, the coin was worth more than a grand. And a 1907 in this condition could fetch double.
An ebullient moment took a slight, sullen hit. Darn, he would have to notify the police as required under the law for anything of this value.
A beat cop arrived three hours later. Webber had sent the declaration fax of his purchase to police headquarters, and normally it would have stopped at that. But he knew the drill. Word of the coins was slowly getting out.
Bells jingled. The officer entered and twirled his nightstick. “So how many does that make now?”
“How many what?”
“Rare gold coins these kids are finding just laying on the ground.”
“I don’t know.” The pawn owner wiped the lenses of his reading glasses. “A few.”
“Seventeen by our count.”
“That many?”
“Imagine the odds,” said the officer. “Seventeen different kids just walking along and looking down.”
“I understand some were under the dirt.”
“Whatever you say.” The officer walked along the glass display cases and resumed twirling his stick. He stopped and leaned over. “Is that the coin? May I see it?”
The owner sighed and handed him the small plastic protective holder.
“Real pretty,” said the officer, turning it over in his hand. “It’s just so unbelievable. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you might be fencing coins stolen from some collections.”
“Really, they’re just kids,” said the owner. “You remember the million juke joints we had around here when the town was big? All those workers getting paid and drunk on a Friday night. I’m surprised they didn’t drop more of these things stumbling around.”
“Okay, I’ll go along. And I’m sure you always pay these kids fairly.” The officer held up the coin. “How much did this baby set you back?”
Webber stood mute.
“Did I stutter?” asked the officer.
“I-I don’t remember.”
“Now you’re stuttering. Come on, it was only a few hours ago.”
Webber was a very bad actor as he searched the top of a cluttered desk. “The paperwork’s around here somewhere . . .”
“I’m sure it is,” said the officer. “By the way, you know my boss’s daughter?”
Webber welcomed the change of topic. “Great girl!”
“She’s starting high school next fall and wow, is she fantastic in the band. Especially the trombone, except she—”
Webber sighed with renewed resignation as he turned to the shelf. “Just had one come in, real cheap. You probably heard the rumors . . .”
The officer nodded sadly. “Slide McCall. Who would have thought?”
“I just feel for his family,” said Webber, handing the instrument across the counter as the daisy chain completed another link.
The officer whistled a merry tune as he headed toward the door with a long piece of brass over his shoulder. “Remember that fencing is a serious offense.”
“They’re kids. Really.”
“Whatever.”
Bells jingled.
Chapter 4
The Florida Keys
Serge slapped his pal on the shoulder. “Look alive. Next stop.”
“Okay.” Coleman headed back to the car.
“Where are you going?” asked Serge.
Coleman grabbed a door handle. “Next stop, like you said.”
“No, this way.”
He led Coleman in the opposite direction, down local roads a couple hundred yards toward the ocean. They arrived in front of an ultra-luxury resort where the first President Bush often stayed during fly-fishing vacations.
“I get it,” said Coleman. “We’re going to crash another rich place and find a business conference reception with free food and booze. I’m down with that. Let me straighten myself up so we can get through security because this shit is worth it.”
“Not necessary,” said Serge. “Act however you want.”
Coleman wiped his nose on his shirt. “What do you mean?”
“Just be yourself,” said Serge. “It is indeed a world-class resort, but we’re allowed to cut through the side of the property because the public has the right to access my next stop.”
“Be myself? Okay.” He pulled a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket and lifted it to the sun as he guzzled.
“Once again, my words were not chosen with adequate care,” said Serge. “Be like other people.”
“That’s different.” Coleman stowed the bottle and stumbled after his friend.
They ended up on a sandy beach behind the hotel as waves from the Florida Straits lapped the shore.
“What the hell?” said Coleman.
“Told you it would be cool.”
Before them stood a white picket fence surrounding a small cluster of graves and tombstones.
Coleman took a furtive swig from his flask and grabbed the fence for balance. “I never expected a cemetery in the middle of a beach.”
“It’s not just a cemetery but a pioneer cemetery.” Serge snapped photos. “You’ve got three main family plots in there. The Pinders, Russells and Parkers, who settled here back in the 1800s and kicked off what this island is today.”
“But how is it allowed on a beach?”
“Because of history lovers!” said Serge. “The die-hard locals knew this stuff here meant a lot, so despite the prevailing wisdom that tombstones are not your first choice for a tourist draw on the beach, they stood firm and dutifully tended the flame of heritage.”