“Let her be. She’ll be OK.” David said calmly.
A few seconds passed and Tracy woke up. “What… time is it?”
“You just like passed out a minute ago.”
“I feel like I slept… hard… all night. Wow, weird dream.”
David looked at her intently, “What sort of dream?”
“It was my parents… my dad and mom in my room… my dad was apologizing, said it was the only way to tell me what I needed to know… that’s about all I remember.” They helped her off the floor.
“Can I give you guys some homework?” David said.
“Ugh. That reminds me we’ve got those essays to write!” Tracy said.
“Oh yeah you’re still in school--that sucks! Anyway, this is the assignment. Start poking around in the library. Most of it won’t make any sense at all. Certain things will speak to you more than others. Oh, and you might want to write down what you remember any time you zonk out like that and what triggered it, or any dreams you might have.”
“Sure.”
“You guys, it’s been great meeting you as almost-adults.” He hugged each of them. “Do you think I could get a lift to my parents’ before it gets dark?”
Chapter Twenty Two
Tracy puttered around in the library later that night. She had fuzzy slippers on and was wearing a sweater and sweat pants. She had a big mug of cocoa in her hand. Its steam wafted up and disappeared in the air. The silver disk of a nearly full moon was visible through the big picture window. The house was creepily quiet, so she went around and bolted all the doors, and turned on the TV in the kitchen for some noise. It droned in the background as she wandered the shelves.
She’d barely paid attention to the library before. She hadn’t noticed the labels on the shelves. Some were carefully carved from wood and gold lettered. Newer ones were taped on and she recognized her father’s handwriting. The labels seemed to mark categories. The shelves held a mish-mash of materials. Some old leather bound books, some legal pads that were faded with age, some photocopies and few black and white photographs.
A black ledger book was leaning against the end of each shelf row. The book had handwritten notes with dates stretching back into the 1830s. In some cases the notes cross referenced other works. Sometimes they were just terse statements like, “Agricola’s De Re Metallica is the source.”
She read late into the night, and finally just passed out in her favorite chair in the library. She slept soundly until the morning sun illuminated her face.
“Oh man!” She woke up with a start. She rushed into the kitchen and popped her laptop open. She dashed off an essay on friendship with Cuba. She threw on some pants and ran to the printer. She was in school ten minutes later.
Chapter Twenty Three
Keith parked in front of a dive bar in Parkman. “MIKE’S” was written in black letters on a small sign over the entrance. It was just a bit after noon, and the place was almost empty. An older man with bushy white mutton chops was mopping the floor and a couple of customers were eating burgers. Lizzy Cantoe was sitting on a bar stool at the back of the building, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke out the cracked door. The light of the day was brilliant compared to the dismal darkness of the place.
Keith walked up to her. He was just an average looking man, but he exuded energy and confidence, and women usually warmed up to him after some conversation.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Oh Sugar, maybe some coffee, no booze yet. I am still feeling last night.” She chuckled then frowned and held her hand up to her head.
She had a pretty, oval face with big blue eyes, but she’d lived a pretty rough thirty-two years of life. A couple of the teeth on the right side of her mouth were dead and gray. Her hair was a little frizzed from years of tanning and coloring--it was currently dark red. Her skin was still tight and smooth as moonlight on cream and her clothes accentuated her curves. She wore a gray hoodie that was open to her stomach. Underneath, she only wore a sports bra. It held her large breasts and accentuated her cleavage. She had a cherry tattoo on her chest and a pierced belly button.
“Nice tat. I bet that hurt, though. Kind of a sensitive area.”
“Hell yeah, hurt like a bitch, but the guy’s an artist, so I let him do me there.” She smiled. Not too subtle.
“Is it symbolic? What’s the story with cherries?”
“Nah, I just like how they look. The red pops.”
“Expensive, too, I bet.”
“Yeah, not that cheap shit.”
“I like a woman with expensive tastes.”
“Well, sometimes I like to make a little extra money.” She smiled at him and stumped the cigarette out on the door frame.
“Maybe I can help with an odd job.”
“Not too odd…”
“No, a pretty basic job, want to get out of here?” He held his wallet open and flicked through a stack of twenties.
“Charlie, I’ll be right back.”
“OK.” the guy with the mutton chops waved as they walked out to Keith’s car. They barely sat down and she had his pants open. He’d never paid for it before. She sucked him off like a porn star. He slipped a hand down her pants. She was actually enjoying it. “Do me.” she moaned. They climbed into the back seat and he slipped into her.
“Damn… I needed that. That cleared my head.” She wiped herself with her crumpled up panties and tossed them out the window. “You know, there’s guys that pay for those?”
“I’m sure. Anything that you can imagine, people are into.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me... Well, it’s been real, but I need to get back to work.” she held out her hand.
“How much?”
“Well, how much do you think?”
He laughed. “Do I look like a cop or something? Would a cop fuck you?”
“You do have that vibe. Why not just give me what’s in there? Call it a tip.”
He handed her half the wad of cash. It was $200. “Could I call you sometime.”
“Like for a date?” she laughed. “I’ve got a boyfriend…”
“Another playdate.” he handed her the rest of the money. Altogether about $400.
“Yeah, I like your style.” She wrote a number on his palm with a pen.
He watched her walk back into the bar before he drove away. The black lace panties rustled in the breeze.
Chapter Twenty Four
It had only been a couple of days since the English class handed in their essays. Tracy didn’t expect to get much of a grade on it, and nobody thought they’d select the finalists so quickly, but the classroom was full of people when she and Chloe tried to get in through the door.
The Rotarians were back, along with Judge Ralph and the Constable. The school newspaper photographer was talking with Saul who held a digital camera with a large lens and a big vivid display. Saul was giving her photography pointers. The Maple Times also sent a reporter/photographer who was chatting with Saul. Saul was keeping them both laughing.
The Judge took control of the room. His voice boomed, “Friends, we are very pleased to announce the finalists for the scholarship contest on ‘International Friendship’: Matty Earnest, Steve Polloy and Tracy Wells. Miss Wells?” He looked around the room.
She made a shocked face at Chloe. Mrs. Rosewater blanched. “Oh wow. That was... unexpected.” She rifled through the stack of graded essays. Tracy got a “D+”. She marked it into a “B+”.
Tracy walked up to the front of the class. Steve and Matty joined her. The photographers took picture after picture. The judge filled them in on the details of the next round of the contest.
As the group prepared to depart, Judge Ralph pulled Tracy aside. “We’d like to take some pictures at your family home later today, if that’s alright with you?” I think the paper is going to do a story, too.
“Wow, um surprising, but sure.”
The group filed out of the class and the bell rang.
“Nice
job!” Chloe punched her in the shoulder.
“That was weird. I wrote that essay in five minutes, maybe. I didn’t think it even made sense.”
“Well, maybe they like your style.” Steve said.
Chapter Twenty Five
Judge Ralph called Tracy on the land line. The kitchen phone rang so infrequently, that at first she thought it was her cellphone ringtone. She dashed into the kitchen and picked it up on the sixth ring. They arranged for the photographer and reporter to come over.
The reporter from the Maple Times asked her some questions. The Judge listened and occasionally asked some too.
“Do you mind if we take a look around the house? I want to find some good lighting.” Saul said.
“Oh sure, no problem. Help yourself.”
He turned the camera on. It was a gigapixel sensor array with a fisheye lens. It recorded everything in the room from the infrared through the visible light spectrum and into near ultraviolet. Later, they would process the images to produce a three dimensional rendering of the house interior in minute detail. They could use spectroscopic analysis of the data to identify chemical properties of the surfaces. He walked all through the house holding the camera at different heights in each room. He walked through the library very slowly and deliberately. The camera drank in the images and archived them on a solid state drive.
“The library is impressive.” he announced when he returned to the kitchen.
“Yes, I’m glad you like it.”
“Let’s do photos there.”
They stood in the library in various groups. Tracy with the Judge. Tracy with the reporter. All of them together. Saul snapped pictures. “I will email those to you. I think they came out well. Such a pretty girl. Such a lovely home.”
They all shook hands with Tracy and left.
~End of Episode One~
EPISODE TWO -- Gresham’s Law
Chapter One
A gentle breeze clanked the blinds into the sliding door of the hotel room. Robbie Wells opened his eyes and propped himself up in bed. He ran his fingers through his short red hair and over his face and beard. Now well into his 40s, waking up took a while and he didn’t rush the process when he didn’t have to. A lifetime of skeletal injuries didn’t make it any easier. He sustained the first major one during high school. He broke his tibia and fibula when he crashed a dirtbike. Whenever the story was told at family gatherings, someone had to point out that his foot was pointing the wrong way when they put him in the ambulance, but he didn’t remember anything about the incident. He just woke up in the hospital in a cast. The bone mended, but he had a slight limp for the rest of his life.
He put on a pair of linen pants and a sweatshirt and put a well worn baseball cap over his bed head. He ordered some breakfast, “and lots of coffee” through room service and went out on the patio. “Morning, Perry.” his golden retriever was lounging on the patio. He got up and moved over next to Robbie who patted his side. Robbie opened his laptop. The battery was duct taped taped on, and the screen sometimes only showed the reds unless he jiggled it back to full color.
He had breakfast, and sipped the coffee. “Damn, that’s good.” He’d been telling the hotel staff how to make it for him for the past couple of weeks, and they were finally getting the hang of it. He liked it brewed strong so there was a slick of coffee oil floating on the surface. He liked it with just a drop of cream to tame the acidity. He dropped some toast scraps on the patio. Perry just lazed his head over and ate them on his side. “Lazy!” he chided.
He went through the morning routine while his energy level built up. Checked the headline news: as usual, the world situation was grim. The financial news was a waste of time as usual: better off with tea leaves. Looked at the twitter stream, answered some e-mail, then checked the Chardon local news and weather. He laughed when he saw Tracy’s picture. He picked up the phone and snapped the screen and texted it to her, then read the article.
“Nice Job!” SEND.
A few minutes later his phone buzzed. “Thx! Good to hear from you! Where u at?”
He took a picture of the beach and sent it.
“SO JELLY!”
“@ FL Keys” SEND
“How’s Perry?”
“Say ‘hi’ Perry”. He sent a picture of the dog.
“Lazy! Loving life.”
“What was ur essay?” SEND
“LOL. It was terrible.”
“Being modest?” SEND
“No. Honest. Wrote in 5 mins.”
He grunted incredulously. Something didn’t add up. He called her. “Five minutes, really?”
“Yeah, I was running late for school and wrote it that morning in 5 minutes. I was really surprised to say the least. The next round is coming up and I need to give a talk.”
“So, why the pictures at home?”
“There were photographers and a reporter at the house. They were taking pictures of everything. Asking a lot of questions. They were interested in the history.”
“Yeah there’s a lot of interesting history there. Ya know, as much as Perry loves the beach, I think it’s time to head back to Chardon.”
“Great!” She was really enthusiastic. “It’s been too quiet here lately.”
“I’ll take care of some stuff here today then hit the road. See you soon.”
Chapter Two
Robbie started firing off emails. He was helping to bring up an ethanol fuel distillery in the Keys, and had been working for days to help set up local supply and delivery chains. He had his fingers in a few other projects, too, not only in Florida, but all over. He copy and pasted the same apology into a bunch of messages. He apologized for the short notice, but said he had to tend to some emergency family business and would be out of communication for some time.
Before he checked out, Robbie did a lap of the hotel and shook hands with all the staff he had interacted with during his stay. He chatted with them and wished them well. He went back to his room and packed two well traveled duffel bags with all his clothes and gear. He put a wad of cash on the dresser with a thank you note.
Perry waited for him on the bed. “We’re going home, boy!” Perry’s tail wagged and he hopped down.
They went out into the parking lot. His truck was in the shade provided by garden beds that lined either side of a covered walkway into the hotel lobby. It was an ‘86 Chevy Silverado M1008. He’d been driving it all over the country for years. When he got it, the forest camo color pattern was still apparent. But years of travel faded the paint to a uniform dull gray green. The odometer stopped working a little after it rolled over and perpetually read 9,577 miles, but the diesel still ran well, and all the other gauges still worked. He cued up a podcast on the phone and started heading north. Perry put his head out the window for a while, then fell asleep on the bench seat.
Chapter Three
Morgan spent most of the days of his suspension working for his dad at the Klerc Tire and Tune. The shop was actually starting to look pretty clean and organized thanks to his efforts. He even spent a couple of days power washing the exterior of the building and the concrete drive.
The school hadn’t gotten around to sending the repair bill, yet, and his dad wouldn’t pay him until the whole thing was settled. He wasn’t grounded, but since his time was no longer structured by class bells, he fell out of sync with what his friends were up to in just a couple days. When he wasn’t working, he spent his time researching the coin.
The trip to the coin shop had been inconclusive. The owner held firm on his initial $1500 offer, but also offered to connect Morgan with an auction house. In return, he wanted 10% of the sale, on top of a 25% commission from the auctioneer. He strongly implied that $1500 cash was a better deal. Within a couple of days, Morgan’s sense of urgency to sell the coin went away--he realized if it had any value, it would still have it tomorrow or next year.
The coin research was the first time he ever used his mind to do something for himself. Morgan had never b
een interested in school, though he was actually one of the smartest kids in his class. He didn’t ever engage with the arbitrary parade of material and mind numbing standardized tests teachers threw at them every year, and was just a solid C student.
He started the research believing the Internet would just tell him a price. His initial searches took him to precious metals websites, then to numismatic web sites, all dead ends. In frustration, and with nothing else to do, he thought to widen the search, and wandered off on related tangents.
As he amassed seemingly unrelated and useless facts, patterns in the information came alive. It was like happening upon a deer trail while walking through the woods. All of a sudden, a jumble of leaves, branches, and logs reveals a path that leads somewhere.
He sat at the desk in his room. The lights were off except for the desk lamp and the computer monitor cast a pale glow. He put a US quarter next to his gold coin and stared at them. A modern coin is mass produced. It’s meant to be a metallic representation of a number. He read articles and watched YouTube videos about people hoarding nickels and copper pennies and looking for pre 1964 silver coins. The face value, the numerical value could be a lie. He was starting to think his coin wasn’t really currency at all. He spent hours pouring through online images of coins from the era, and hadn’t found a match.