The Dimes of Port Haven - Day 3

Detective Avery Nichols studied the coffee stand that bore a much closer resemblance to swiss cheese than a dispensary of caffeine and scantily clad baristas. According to witnesses the stand had been attacked by a lunatic dressed as a superhero who had taken the owner hostage after assaulting a customer. The barista, who had inexplicably escaped, called a group of friends she knew were nearby and these four trigger happy rednecks had proceeded to attempt a rescue that ended predictably in a hail of bullets and the perpetrator’s escape.

“You know what doesn’t make sense to me?” Nichols asked his partner Pete Quimby.

“Oh Jesus, Nichols! Don’t start that big brain of yours churning on this one. If Evan Smith and five more stand up local guys say it happened the way the bikini girl says then that’s the way it happened.” Pete shook his head exasperatedly. Nichols had recently transferred from working the inner city of Chicago and his insistence on considering all the possible angles of a crime scene infuriated the complacent Quimby who had been on the Port Haven Police Force for more than twenty years.

“There aren’t any shotgun blasts,” Nichols said, ignoring his partner’s jibe.

“No shotgun blasts,” Quimby mimicked mockingly and rolled his eyes.

“This is a small town-” Nichols began.

Quimby interrupted. “As you’re so fond of pointing out every five minutes, Mister Fancy-Big-City-Pants!”

“I’d expect more shotguns or at the very least rifles or large caliber revolver rounds. You know, the weapons a typical small town hunter or gun enthusiast would have on hand.” Nichols inspected his notes from the witness interviews.

“Just spit it out, ya hoity-toity bastard and call them hillbillies like we all know you want to!” Quimby turned and spat.

“Twenty-two caliber pistols, all six of your upstanding local guys were carrying, even the ones who never got to fire them. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that they all had the same guns on hand?” Nichols asked again.

“No, it doesn’t seem odd to me. It’s a very popular gun, for Christ’s sake! Now can we wrap this up so Mr. Smith can get on with his life and rebuild his business?”

Something was missing, Nichols could feel it. He continued ignoring his partner and traced the masked man’s path out the back window of the coffee stand towards where the getaway car had been parked. Something sparkly caught Nichols’ eye at the edge of the nearby woods and he went over to investigate. He found a pair of high heels, one with the heel broken. They did not appear damaged by an extended stay out in the rainy Port Haven weather.

“Hey Pete!” Nichols called. “The barista we interviewed still had her shoes on, right?”

“Of course she did, you damn idiot! You think I’m such a shitty cop that I don’t notice a girl’s shoes are missing?” Quimby shouted back. “Besides, they were the same sparkly high heels that all Smith’s girls wear while they’re working!”

Nichols frowned. Just as he suspected, these high heels matching the witness’ wasn’t a coincidence. “We have a problem then!”

“What the hell is it now?” Quimby grumbled.

“The assailant took a barista with him and all your supposedly reliable witnesses failed to mention it.” Nichols held up the broken shoe with a pen for his partner to see.

+

Arthur stood outside Thomas Varner’s office at the back of Tom’s Supermarket and tried not vomit into the box of dimes he was clutching. Not only was he still nursing a wicked hangover, but he was damn near shaking from nerves at the prospect of bringing Varner bad news. Arthur had spent the rest of the morning minting dimes and had still needed to take some of what he had set aside for Lester in order to put together what he owed Varner. If he kept this juggling act up Arthur knew that eventually something was going to get dropped and he was going to land himself in a world of trouble.

“Mr. Knob,” Varner’s chilly voice called from inside. Varner was in his early fifties, still quite fit, and he wore a neatly trimmed grey beard. Varner’s office was simply decorated and very neat. An orchid sat in the windowsill and clearly labeled file cabinets and shelves lined the walls. “Hank said you wished to speak with me in addition to dropping off your usual delivery.”

Arthur nodded. Hank was Varner’s right hand man as well as the enforcer when people stepped out of line. “I heard about what happened to Mr. Smith’s coffee stand and I thought he would appreciate his delivery a day early to help with the expenses of rebuilding,” he explained.

“How thoughtful of you. I’m sure Mr. Smith was delighted,” Varner said evenly. His blue eyes always seemed to be boring into you, reading your thoughts, and it creeped Arthur the hell out.

“Not at all, actually. He accused me of spying on him on your behalf,” Arthur told him.

“Interesting. And now here you are reporting to me on your meeting with him. While I am sure there is a subtle and important distinction between what you are doing and spying for me, I doubt very much that our friend Mr. Smith will see it that way.” Varer steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his fingertips thoughtfully.

Arthur winced and cursed internally. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, sir.”

“Nevermind. What’s done is done. Why did you feel the need to report back to me what occurred during your meeting with Mr. Smith?” Varner asked.

“He thinks you hired that lunatic to dress up and attack him so he would be distracted and you could ‘muscle him out’ as he put it,” Arthur explained hurriedly, as though saying it faster would make the news less bad.

“Unfortunate,” Varner said pensively. “I assume a series of vulgar threats followed?”

Arthur nodded.

“You may leave now.”

Arthur set the dimes down and rushed back to the Festiva as quickly as possible. His main goal had been to relay the information to Varner and not be held responsible. Not that Varner had a reputation for killing the messenger, but Arthur had not wanted to be the start of a new trend. Seeing as he was walking, well running, out alive then he considered the meeting a success.

No one had come looking for Desiree. Bartlebee had not returned with further bad news. Other than his hangover, this day was starting to look like it might end up being not quite terrible. Arthur headed home to keep cranking out dimes. He was going to have another late night if he hoped to get everything done for the Mayor’s brother Mason by tomorrow. Mason owned a slew of vending machines all over town. By himself Mason was harmless, but his girlfriend Priscilla was another story. Priscilla was convinced that Mason could be as successful as his brother and would stop at nothing to make that a reality no matter how lazy and stupid Mason was. Naturally, when she had discovered Arthur’s dime minting business he had been given no choice but to add Mason to his growing list of clients.

Arthur was in the middle of minting when Desiree knocked hesitantly on the living room door frame. “I don’t want to interrupt you, but do you have any food?”

“Nothing good, but as long as you’re hungry enough it will do the trick.” Arthur stopped the presses and led her into the kitchen. “You’ve got your choice of stove top canned soups, Hot Pockets, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as long as the bread hasn’t gone moldy.

“Thanks,” Desiree said and she seemed to mean it. She was still wearing Arthur’s pajamas and her thick makeup was smeared after her long nap. She wisely chose the soup.

“Hey man, have I got some great news!” Arthur’s other friend Duke burst in without knocking, just like he usually did. “Oh wow. A chick? Nice!”

“Shut up, Duke. It’s not like that, Desiree here just had a...uh, a bad run in with her boyfriend and needed a place to stay last night,” Arthur explained on the fly.

“Shit, you didn’t even get laid, did you? Nah, I can tell you didn’t. Man, I just don’t get you.” Duke helped himself to a beer from the fridge. “Is she cool though? Can I talk crime stuff in front of her?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Arthur said, knowing full well that Duke was going to talk about it anyway. Duke was a beefy idiot whose day job was selling crappy used cars to pay the bills until his dream career of mob hit man paid off. Arthur hated guys like Duke, but on occasion he needed some muscle and Duke had loved Arthur ever since he and Sam had kicked the shit out of him for harassing girls in Sam’s bar.

Duke looked Desiree over, lingering of course on her ass, and shrugged. “She looks cool. You know Priscilla, right? Well get this, there’s this new cop in town and his wife has a serious history with Mason. Like, drive across the country shacking up in every motel along the way kind of history. Guess they were in love way back when and Mason is keen to give the old flame another go. Obviously, Priscilla wants the cop’s wife out of the picture so she came to yours truly to take care of it for her.”

Arthur stared at Duke with his mouth agape. “Why in the name of God would you tell a complete stranger that? Hell, why would you tell me that?”

“I know you won’t talk. You got more secrets in that bony skull of yours than anybody I know!” Duke laughed.

Arthur threw up his hands in disgust. “I can’t talk to you right now! How you and Bartlebee could both be so stupid at the exact same time, I’ll never know!”

“Hey, I’m not stupid!” Duke protested. “I’m a real hit man now, I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“I’m so proud. So proud that I’m kicking out out of my house so I can go have a drink across the street.” Arthur grabbed his jacket and shoved Duke out the door in front of him.

“Awesome. I’ll come too so we can celebrate!” Duke chugged the rest of his beer and threw the bottle into Arthur’s rhododendron bushes.

“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon, you’re usually kinder to your liver than this,” Sam said by way of greeting when they entered the bar.

“My other friends are trying to get me killed,” Arthur groaned as he sat down. “Do you think you could make two copies of yourself so I can replace Duke and Bartlebee?”

“Honey,” Sam smirked playfully, “you couldn’t handle two of me. If there were three of this,” she gestured to her chest packed into her favorite tip-generating t-shirt, “your sorry ass would burst into flames!”

“Sam, do you ever fool around with other girls?” Duke asked, clearly ogling Sam.

Sam grabbed the soda fountain without saying a word and doused Duke with Dr. Pepper. “No!” she said firmly just like she was training a dog.

“Not cool man. This is my favorite fedora,” Duke muttered as he wandered off to hide.

“That’s not a fedora, you asshole, that’s a trilby and it looks terrible on your giant head!” Sam shouted after him. She poured Arthur a tequila sunrise and slid it over to him.

“You always know just how to brighten my day,” Arthur told her.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m amazing. So should I be worried about tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb actually getting you killed or are you just being dramatic?” Sam asked.

“You should probably actually be worried this time.” Arthur drank deep from his sunrise.

“What’d they do now? You probably can’t talk about it here, nevermind. I’ll come over tomorrow morning. How are things going with Abby?” Sam smirked.

Arthur groaned. “Oh, don’t even bring up that trainwreck today. I don’t need any more disasters in my life right now.”

“Wow, things are going that well, eh? I’m surprised, really. Even you ought not to crash and burn that hard all in one go. Usually you like to drag these things out.” Sam laughed.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, I do. You ready to play the game?” Same grabbed three shot glasses.

Arthur grabbed her hand as she was setting the shot glasses on the bar. “I don’t think my liver can take it tonight, why don’t we just skip to the end?” He kissed Sam on the mouth, slugged the last of his tequila sunrise, and went home to get some sleep.

The Dimes of Port Haven - Day 2

Arthur woke up to pounding coming from his front door instead of inside his skull, which made him curse because he had obviously been woken up before the hangover he had earned last night kicked in. “Dammit, Sam,” he mumbled as he stumbled to the front door where someone was eagerly knocking.

When he pulled open the door Arthur was greeted with a highly unusual sight. His good friend Bartlebee Bean, the incredibly aptly named diminutive accountant stood on his front step dressed in some kind of Batman-esque getup complete with some of Bartlebee’s martial arts weapons. Stranger still, Bartlebee had his arm around a skinny young woman dressed only in a thong and stickers on her nipples. Sadly, knowing Bartlebee for as long as he had, Arthur found the young woman to be the more unlikely development in Bartlebee’s life.

“Whatever the hell this is, get inside and explain yourself slowly. I’m still drunk from Sam playing the Tequila Game last night.” Arthur stepped aside and ushered them into his modest kitchen. He filled the tea kettle with water and set it on the stove. “What time is it anyway?”

“Four-thirty. Do you have a coat or a sweater that Desiree can wear?” Bartlebee asked.

“Over there.” Arthur pointed to a winter coat he’d thrown over the back of one of his kitchen table chairs back in March when he’d worn it last. “Care to explain yourself?” Arthur asked as he set out three mugs for tea.

“I may have done something stupid last night,” Bartlebee began. He draped the coat over Desiree’s shivering shoulders. She had bleached blonde hair and obviously spent a good deal of time in tanning beds since she had no tan lines. Arthur tried not to stare though, judging by the scared look in her big brown eyes she had been through quite an ordeal.

“You don’t say?” Arthur chuckled.

Bartlebee ignored his comment. He adjusted his thick spectacles and continued. “I’ve been training for a long time to be able to fight back against the people who take advantage of others in this town. After old Mr. Silberberg retired last year I became the only accountant in town. I see everyone’s books and I’m smart enough to know who’s making most of their money illegally and trying to cover it up with creative book keeping. Well last night I finally did it. I went to one of Evan Smith’s bikini coffee stands and caught him abusing Desiree. Only…” he trailed off as Arthur poured tea for the three of them.

“Only it didn’t go according to plan,” Arthur prompted.

“Not at all. Actually, at first it did. I snuck up behind Smith’s bodyguard and knocked him out. But I didn’t count on the other barista helping Smith once I got inside and was fighting him. She slapped me so hard one of my contacts came out and I could hardly see a thing. Smith got in some good hits before I subdued him. I thought it was over then. I started explaining to Smith how I was going to clean up this town so that scum like him would have to live in fear instead of the rest of us.”

Arthur shook his head and took a sip of tea. It tasted fine, but he could feel himself sobering up, which meant that hangover of his was fast approaching. “Monologuing, it will get you every time.”

“Yeah, I guess so. That other barista had run off during the fight with Smith and she must have called in reinforcements. Four guys showed up with guns. They kicked down the door while I was still lecturing Smith,” Bartlebee said.

“How the hell did you not get shot?” Arthur asked.

Bartlebee bit his lip abashedly. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I used Smith as a human shield. They wouldn’t shoot at their boss and I was able to get close enough to them, they weren’t very bright you see, and take two of them out. That still left two of them though and those guys opened fire. Smith got shot in the leg and the coffee stand got riddled with holes, but I was able to grab Desiree and dive out the back window. We ran and the two thugs chased us. I’m afraid they saw my license plate when we reached my car. That’s why I brought her here instead of my place.”

“You idiot, you’re lucky you didn’t get the two of you killed.” Arthur groaned. He was right in the middle of the ring of illegal activity that Bartlebee had uncovered and getting involved in a war with Evan Smith was the last thing he wanted. Smith had all of Lester’s temper combined with Varner’s violent tendencies, but none of Varner’s subtlety.

“It’s only a couple hours until the DMV opens and I’m afraid Smith will bribe someone to tell him who owns my car,” Bartlebee explained. “Can Desiree stay here? I have a contingency plan for a safe house, but it isn’t exactly meant for cozy living.”

“If my place is cozy compared to your contingency plan, then by all means don’t torture the girl further by subjecting her to that.” Arthur drained the last of his tea. “Desiree, I bet you could use some sleep. The bedroom is at the back of the hall. There should be clean pajamas in the second drawer of the dresser.”

Desiree got up without a word and headed for the bedroom.

Arthur turned back to Bartlebee once she was gone. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I’ve been telling you for two years that I wanted to do this!” Bartlebee insisted.

“And I’ve been telling you for two years that if you do it you will get killed,” Arthur retorted. “Whatever you do, don’t touch Varner. Screwing around with Smith and Lester and whoever else you have planned will just amuse him, but if you even get near his business interests Thomas Varner will kill you slowly and no one will ever find your body.”

“But Varner is the key to the whole town’s corruption!” Bartlebee protested.

Arthur grabbed the stupid collar of Bartlebee’s Batman costume and shoved him out of his chair and up against the wall. “Listen to me, Bartlebee. I’m not joking with you here. Varner knows we’re friends. He knows we both have family in town. Hell, by the end of today he’ll know about Desiree and assume she’s important to you too. He—will—kill—us—all. Do you understand? Nod your stupid bean counter head to say you understand.”

Bartlebee nodded.

Arthur sighed. He almost never got angry and he did not like it when he did. “Go get your Bat Cave prepped or whatever you have to do.” He let Bartlebee go and watched him leave. He knew he shouldn’t get involved. He knew it, deep down in his gut. But Bartlebee was one of his only friends. “Shit,” Arthur muttered as he went into the living room, grabbed Evan Smith’s box of dimes, and loaded it up with a majority of the dimes he had spent yesterday making. Smith wasn’t due for a delivery until tomorrow, but this was the only way to get the inside scoop on what Smith was up to.

Arthur hopped into the Festiva, now completely hungover rather than still drunk. He drove over to Smith’s office and was not surprised to find the lights on despite the early hour. An armed guard stopped him outside.

“Hey boss, it’s the Dime Guy. Should I let him in?” The big man called through the doorway.

“Varner’s little prick counterfeiter? Bring him in!” Smith bellowed from inside. The guard grabbed Arthur and dragged him into the office. All the furniture in Smith’s office was gaudy and expensive looking, but not quite a good enough replication to avoid looking cheap once you saw it up close. A giant painting of Smith wielding a sword was hung right behind the enormous office chair Smith sat in. Smith tried to stand when Arthur was dragged in, but he winced and sat back down, no doubt due to the recently bandaged bullet wound to his leg.

“I got a lot of work done yesterday and want to get ahead on my deliveries,” Arthur explained.

“Bullshit. Varner sent you to see if I know he was behind last night. Well you can tell him I’m not fooled by his masked moron! All that self-righteous prattling? Come on! That had Varner and one of his master plans all over it. What’s his end game? Get me distracted chasing some piece of shit in a cape all over town while he muscles me out? You tell Varner I already have that idiot’s license plate and by lunchtime I’ll have that little cocksucker in my hands and I’m gonna make him suffer! And then I’m coming for Varner, you hear me? That pompous old windbag has finally screwed the pooch and I’m going to put him in the ground myself!” Smith’s face was red with rage by the time his rant was done.

The bodyguards threw Arthur out roughly. “I am going to kick Bartlebee’s ass so hard if we live through this,” he growled. Arthur had come here imagining that the situation couldn’t possibly be worse than Bartlebee had led him to believe, but it was easily a hundred times worse! His little accountant vigilante friend had inadvertently started a mob war in their sleepy little town with the two of them caught right in the middle.

The Dimes of Port Haven - Day 1

Arthur Knob checked to make sure he had his paper sack full of dimes in his pocket before shouldering through the door of Big Stan’s Diner. Not that he couldn’t feel the weight of them dragging down the left side of his jacket of course, but he felt that he had to check to avoid potential embarrassment later. Luckily, Big Stan was not in the diner otherwise Arthur would have received yet another lecture regarding the polite way to open a door. Arthur had had one too many bad experiences touching doorknobs sticky from unknown substances while making deliveries to the less reputable establishments in Port Haven to be altogether comfortable with doorknobs.

As always, upon entering Big Stan's Diner Arthur was faced with a dilemma: should he sit in Abby's section and annoy her by being "That Damn Dime Guy" or sit in one of the other waitresses' sections and risk not getting to talk to Abby at all? And as he always did, Arthur chose to sit where he knew he would get to talk to the tall brunette who almost certainly hated his guts.

"Well if it isn't That Damn Dime Guy, come back to haunt my waking nightmare. The usual, I assume?" Abby was already writing down his order before Arthur nodded. She was almost as tall as he was with straight brown hair that was always pulled back in a tight bun to keep stray hairs from landing in customers’ food. She had blue eyes and long legs that drove Arthur crazy. She smiled at everyone but Arthur when the entered the diner and that drove him an entirely different sort of crazy.

"Rough morning?" Arthur asked, hoping to steer the conversation in a new direction.

"What, a rough morning at the diner across the street from the sleaziest bar in town? I've been groped twice, thrown up on once, and had a bowl of gravy dumped in my hair by a guy who was still drunk from last night," she growled as she wiped down the counter.

"At least that's not as bad as last time I was here. You'd gotten thrown up on three times that morning!" Arthur pointed out happily.

Abby glared at him. "Obviously you're good luck," she said dryly before walking away to attend other customers.

"Yes, very smooth. Remind her of the last time she was vomited on," Arthur muttered to himself.

Just when he thought his morning couldn't get any worse, Arthur's hot-headed landlord Lester Gearhart stormed into Big Stan's Diner.

"Get me some God-damned coffee!" Lester bellowed at Abby. Arthur's landlord was a perpetually angry man in his early forties with a pot belly and only a fringe of greying black hair remaining behind his ears. Where some people had laugh lines Lester had scowl lines and he leveled a mighty scowl in Arthur's direction as he sat down beside his tenant.

Abby gave Arthur a look to let him know she considered this newest development in her terrible morning to be entirely his fault. Then she put on her best fake smile and poured Lester a cup of black coffee. "Here you are Mr. Gearhart. Isn't it great that we haven't gotten any rain this week?"

"No," Lester said grumpily. "I wish it would rain and rain until my ex-wife's house was washed away down that preposterous hill she built it on just to spite me after I told what a lousy idea it was!"

"That's too bad!" Abby was great at making all the diner patrons besides Arthur feel like she genuinely cared about their inane problems.

"Speaking of which," Lester rounded on Arthur, "we need to revisit your rent agreement. The ex is bleeding me dry."

"I don't know if I have time to make any more rent..." Arthur tried to tell him. "I'm working a lot as it is just to pay what you want now."

"Oh, so you have time to come down here and ogle waitresses, but you don't have time to pay your bills?" Lester bellowed loud enough to make sure the whole diner heard.

Arthur felt his face turning bright red from embarrassment. Abby was still standing right in front of them, smirking as she watched the show unfold. "Ogling, huh? We charge extra for that, you know."

"I wasn't-" Arthur began, but Lester interrupted.

"Quit trying to change the subject! You owe me twenty percent more at the end of this month! What the hell am I doing sitting next to your ugly, scrawny ass?" Lester stormed off to find an empty booth.

“Do you pay him in dimes too?” Abby asked with a smirk on her angular face.

"Yes,” he admitted. “I wasn't ogling you though," Arthur muttered without looking up at Abby.

"I know, honey. You don't have the courage to do any such thing." She reached across the counter to ruffle his unruly blonde hair.

Arthur ate his omelet when it arrived and stacked his dimes neatly on the counter for Abby when he was done.

"You tip well, I'll give you that. Of course, if you didn't tip well and tried to pay with dimes I'd kick your ass," Abby warned.

"I know. Thanks for breakfast," Arthur told her as he left.

+

Arthur climbed into his 1987 Ford Festiva and started the engine. The mostly blue, except for the yellow and green replacement doors, little car groaned and squealed and wheezed, but it started on the first try. Arthur drove back to the little house on the lot behind Lester's laundromat where he lived. The house had been built by Lester's grandfather back in the Twenties without bothering to get any of the proper permits or have any of those pesky inspections done since. Naturally, that meant the house was in a fairly sad state of repair, but it was free. At least as long as Arthur kept the dimes pouring in.

You see, Arthur did not have a job, per se. During his last year of college Arthur had won a set of dime minting plates from an incredibly disreputable frat guy's even more disreputable father in a wager over who could drink the most tequila shots in half an hour. Tequila consumption was one of Arthur's few enviable natural abilities. After earning his bachelors degree Arthur had returned home and much to his surprise, he had found a thriving demand existed for counterfeit dimes in his little hometown of Port Haven. Most of the local business owners were morally ambiguous and were utterly thrilled to pad their bottom lines by buying Arthur's dimes for pennies and giving them out as change at face value to their customers.

Arthur parked the Festiva in his driveway and left it unlocked. No one in their right mind steals a Festiva, especially not one that looks like Arthur’s. The paint on the house's exterior was a peeling and faded yellow, one of the windows was still broken from when his idiot friend Duke got drunk and threw a beer bottle through it last Halloween, but there were carefully groomed rhododendrons in the yard and the grass was green and neatly trimmed. Arthur enjoyed taking care of his lawn, even if he didn't have any money to fix the rest of the house.

Most of the living room was filled with his minting equipment and boxes of dimes in varying states of emptiness were lined up along the wall. Arthur studied his boxes and realized with a cringe that the only one with enough dimes to cover the cost of new materials to meet Lester’s demands was the one he never wanted to borrow dimes from. People who did not meet their obligations to City Councilman Thomas Varner had the unfortunate habit of having their lives ruined quite thoroughly. Varner was the heavy hitter in Port Haven’s small town approximation of an underworld. His legitimate business was a grocery store, but he had various other interests ranging from moderately classy prostitutes to gambling dens to unlicenced boxing matches. He was Arthur’s primary customer as well as the one who had put him in contact with most of his other clients. Arthur owed his success, such as it was, to Varner and the crusty old bastard seemed to like Arthur for some reason.

“I’ll just have to work all night,” Arthur told himself as he shifted bags of dimes from Varner’s box to Burt Cable’s. Burt owned the local hardware store in addition to his true passion in life: building killer robots and making them fight to the death. As such, Burt was Arthur’s supply line for the necessary minerals to mint new dimes. And just like everyone else Arthur associated with, Burt was paid in fake dimes to give out to his customers as change.

Arthur loaded Burt’s now full box of dimes into the Festiva, which weighed the poor car down severely. The Festiva protested loudly against being started again after such a short rest, but Arthur eventually coaxed it to life and he lurched back onto the road towards Burt’s Hardware. Arthur parked behind the hardware store and entered through the service entrance with his giant box of dimes in his arms.

“Hey Burt, I’m early and-” Arthur began.

“Everybody down!” Burt shouted as he hit the linoleum. The staff, quite used to these sorts of outbursts, did the same as did Arthur. Whatever creation Burt had been tinkering on exploded and bits of robot flew in every direction. “Anybody hurt?” Burt asked when it was over.

A chorus of nos eased the hardware store’s back room back into a state of normalcy. Arthur dusted himself off and waved at Burt.

“Arthur, what are you doing here? You aren’t due for another three days!” Burt had a tendency to shout everything he said. He was a especially exuberant fellow.

“Lester wants twenty percent more dimes so I need more raw materials,” Arthur explained.

“You ought to be rid of that hot headed heart attack waiting to happen by now,” Burt mused as he ran a hand through his thinning red hair.

“Do you have a place I could rent?” Arthur laughed as he asked.

“And what the hell would I do with an extra helping of your dimes?” Burt shook his head. “No, you ought to get married. It’s good fun, I’ve done it three times!”

Arthur chuckled. “And only two of them have tried to kill you in your sleep.”

“Nah! All three, I just tell people it’s two so the ladies think I have redeeming qualities.” Burt grinned from ear to giant ear. “But don’t you worry, I’ll have one of the boys bring by your things later this morning. I don’t even have to check that box of yours, I’m sure you’ve paid the correct amount, you’re too honorable for your own good. Just because this is a small town, don’t think there aren’t sharks circling out there. Ask Old Man Varner, he’ll gladly tell you. I hear he likes you better than he likes his own children.”

Arthur shrugged. “That isn’t hard, his kids are all spoiled brats who live as far across the country as physically possible.”

“Do you blame them? Varner scares the bejeezus out of me!” Burt shuddered.

“I’ll see you later, Burt.” Arthur nodded goodbye and left the way he came.

+

Arthur worked all day and well into the night minting dimes to make up for the lost dimes he’d paid Burt. He finished up around one in the morning and staggered across the street to his favorite bar. Though to be fair, it was the only bar he went to because he had traded a generous helping of his dimes for free drinks with the owner.

Bill, the Tipsy Slug’s owner, was nowhere to be seen tonight, but Arthur’s good friend Sam was tending the bar. Sam was a spitfire of a redhead who didn’t put up with anybody’s shit no matter how smoothly they talked to her. She and Arthur had gone to high school together and been friends then, but they had lost touch when he went away to college, at least until he had moved back to Port Haven.

“Hey Sam.” Arthur’s eyes were bleary from working all day and he put his head down on the bar before realizing how bad of an idea that was. Rubbing the stickiness from his forehead, Arthur sat up and grinned at Sam.

“You did something stupid today, didn’t you?” Sam asked as she fixed him a tequila sunrise.

“I let Lester raise my rent by twenty percent just because his ex-wife is on his ass for more alimony,” Arthur told her.

“You should come live with me. We have an extra room in the house.” Sam set his drink down in front of him. When she read his mind like this Arthur almost wished he and Sam weren’t just friends that felt incredibly awkward around one another after they got drunk and made out occasionally.

“But I hate your roommates,” Arthur complained. Sam made a damn good tequila sunrise and he took a long swig.

“You hate everyone!” Sam laughed. She poured him a shot of tequila and slid it over to him.

“And you always try to get me drunk! I just started on this.” He gestured to his sunrise.

Sam held up a finger. “First, there is no ‘trying’ to get you drunk. I always get my drunk when I set out to get a man liquored up! Second, take your shot!”

Arthur slurped the shot of tequila she had given him. “There, happy?”

“A bit.” Sam smiled. “Now finish your drink so you’ll be feeling drunk enough to play the game.”

“Oh come on, Sam! I’ve had a long day, don’t make me play the game!” Arthur begged her.

“No one’s making you play.” She poured three shots of tequila in front of him. “But when you do agree to play the game, don’t forget the last part. Your neglected that last time and I was very cross!”

“God dammit,” Arthur groaned.

“You know if you resist I’ll start adding shots to these three,” Sam threatened with a friendly grin on her face.

“Shit. Fine!” Arthur downed all three shots in rapid succession and then hopped up on his stool. “I’ve a little old fashion passion!” He shouted in a semi-singsong voice. “That would make a Hessian blush!” Sam laughed so hard she snorted behind the bar. “I came from behind in the shower, now he don’t sit down so much!” The entire bar burst out laughing and applauding. This was not the first time Sam had made Arthur play the game.

“Yay, that was beautiful!” Sam guffawed.

“You’re beautiful!” Arthur reached across the bar with his long, gangly arms and grabbed Sam by her oversized, stupid, cute ears and tugged her close enough to kiss her on the mouth. Then he tried to sit back down, missed his barstool, and fell flat on his bony ass. “See, I didn’t forget the last part this time!”

Sam laughed and laughed as she walked around the bar. She handed him his drink rather than helping him up. “You are a piece of work, Arthur Knob!”