“You don’t say? That’s quite a network. Why hasn’t the FBI been called in?”
“They have, although only recently. I’m afraid they won’t be of much help, however.”
“Why’s that?” Sterling asked.
“I don’t believe they understand the situation.”
“Situation? Clearly, it’s a syndicate of sorts. Organized crime, it sounds like to me.”
“Organized, yes.”
“Who do you think is behind it, Mr. Stryker?”
“You might say, currency manipulators.”
“I knew it!”
Stryker grinned. “You did, did you?”
“Bankers, Wall Street, the Fed, international consortiums and the like, right? Why, I bet they were behind the assassination of JFK too!”
“Um, er, no. I mean, such persons might be behind a lot of criminality in the world, but not this.”
“Oh,” Sterling muttered, deflated. “Then who is it? Do you have any suspects?”
“Indeed I do. A very wily nickel.”
“Nickel? … Nickel…?” Sterling said, turning the name over in his mind. “Never heard of the guy.”
“Few have.”
“Not even the FBI?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then why don’t you go to them with what you know about this Mr. Nickel fella?”
“They’d never believe me,” Stryker said.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t either,” Sterling replied, his suspicions reignited.
Stryker smirked. “That doesn’t matter to me one way or the other, sir.” He walked to the window, which overlooked the backyard and a swimming pool. “Tell me, was the window open at the time of the robbery?”
“No, closed and locked. All of them.”
“Doors?”
“The same. And the police discovered no signs of jiggering or break-in. They were baffled.”
“I noticed from the street that you have a chimney.”
“You don’t really think—?”
“Show me,” Stryker said.
Mr. Sterling led the PI through the house to the den. Beside the hearth sat Sterling’s cat, Princess, as if she expected a mouse to charge out at any second.
Sterling scratched his head. “Princess has been a little preoccupied with this spot since the burglary,” he admitted.
The PI grunted. “Would you mind?” He indicated with a wave of his hand to remove the cat.
Sterling picked up Princess, who let out an indignant squeal. He dropped the cat in the adjoining room and closed the door.
Stryker kneeled, stuck his head inside the firebox, and peered upwards. “Is this real or for show?”
“Both. I only use it a couple of times a year. This is Southern California after all.”
Stryker ducked his head back out and stood. He scanned the room and noted the ripped-up sofa and two stuffed chairs that Mr. Sterling had mentioned would require reupholstering. He strolled over to the furniture and removed both chairs’ cushions.
“What are you—?!” Sterling exclaimed, too late.
The first cushion revealed a pipe cleaner, a ballpoint pen, and the cause of Mr. Sterling’s red face.
“Must be my nephew’s,” he stammered.
Stryker picked up the girly magazine with pinched fingers, as if handling a dead rat. He offered the magazine to Mr. Sterling, who snatched it away and tossed it unceremoniously onto a nearby table. The magazine slid across the table’s smooth top and fell open onto the floor, revealing the centerfold, Miss September, in all her unclad glory.
Mr. Sterling cleared his throat and said testily, “What could you possibly be looking for?”
The sleuth removed the second cushion. He handed Sterling a bookmark, two M&M’s, an Ace of Diamonds, a coupon for a dollar off at Luigi’s Pizza and Subs on Fremont Street, and a toothpick with a speared piece of rancid pepperoni on the end.
“If you have a maid, Mr. Sterling, I’d fire her.”
The man grimaced, and then squinted as the private eye snapped on a rubber glove.
Stryker lifted two exposed coins: a penny and a quarter.
Sterling put out his hand to collect the change.
“Finders keepers,” Stryker said.
“It’s my house, may I remind you.”
“Evidence,” Stryker explained.
“Evidence of what?” Sterling said, incredulous.
“Foul play.”
Sterling pulled his bifocals from his pocket, put them on, and leaned in to inspect the coins. “A 1959 penny and a ’58 quarter? They aren’t even rare. What could they possibly have to do with the burglary?”
“Nothing, maybe.” Stryker bobbed his eyebrows. “Or, they could be witnesses to the crime.”
Monroe Stryker pulled out his billfold, unzipped the coin compartment, and dropped in the two potential witnesses.
“Wit—? Are you mad? You are, you’re mad as a hatter!”
“Please, sir, there’s no need for name calling.”
“Get out of my house!”
Stryker smiled, touched the brim of his fedora, and headed for the door.
“Hallelujah, Quimby!” exclaimed the penny. “Commerce City here we come!”
“Not so fast,” the quarter cautioned.
“Whattaya mean? We’re in a wallet, aren’t we? We’re just one transaction away from freedom.”
“You heard the man, Porter. He thinks we’re witnesses to a crime.”
“But that’s nuts. We were under a stinking pillow. What could we possibly have witnessed?”
“Think back, Porter.”
“Huh? … You mean that nickel who squirmed his way past us?”
Quimby Quarter nodded. “Darnedest thing we ever saw, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but what does that have to do with us, or the human slob?”
“Not him. The other fella, the guy who pocketed us. He seems to know more than he’s letting on.”
“You think he knows about Coinworld?”
Quimby shrugged. “Crazy as it sounds, how else would you explain what he told Mr. Sterling?”
“Like the slob said, maybe the guy is mad as a hatter.”
“We thought the same about ourselves when that four-cent nickel came crawling over, didn’t we?”
“I still think we were hallucinating,” Porter Penny said. “I never felt quite the same ever since that pepperoni went moldy.”
“We both saw him, Porter. We both talked to him. He was real, all right. And what did he tell us?”
“That we’d soon be free.”
“That’s right, and here we are!” Quimby said. “Just like the nickel predicted. Amazing, right?”
“Heck of a coincidence, I’ll give you that,” the penny said. “But if you’re right, what do we have to worry about?”
“I didn’t like the sound of the man’s voice,” Quimby answered. “And what was with the glove? It gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I’ll admit that creeped me out some too.” Porter Penny shivered. “So, what do you think he’s up to? Do you think he’s a collector?”
“Could be.”
“But you and me aren’t worth collecting, Quimby. We aren’t old, and we aren’t rare. Me, I’m not even a wheaty!”
Although Porter’s obverse side held the same face of Abraham Lincoln as every other penny, Porter Penny was not a wheaty. As of February 12, 1959, in commemoration of the 150th anniversary of Lincoln’s birthday, a new reverse design depicting the Lincoln Memorial had replaced the previous wheat stalks.
“And besides,” Porter continued, “either we smell like an Italian deli, or I can’t get that pepperoni stench out of my nose.”
Monroe Stryker closed the door to his car and pulled out his billfold. He unzipped the coin compartment and peered in.
“Hello, boys,” he said.
Porter Penny and Quimby Quarter exchanged mystified glances.
“You don’t fool me, fellas, as you’ll soon find out.”
Stryker snickered and zipped shut the coin pouch.
Porter Penny gulped. “Quimby, did you hear that?!”
“I heard the same as you.”
“What could he mean?”
“I don’t know, but it sounded like a threat.”
“But-but that’s crazy. We’re just coins. And besides, he can’t hear us even if he wanted to, can he?”
“I’m not aware of it ever happening,” Quimby answered. “Then again, I’m not aware of any human ever acknowledging the existence of Coinworld before either.”
“Who is this maniac and what does he want?”
“Something tells me it has to do with that nickel we saw.”
“The four-center?”
“Think about it, Porter. A four-cent nickel must be worth a lot of money. There’s no telling what extremes a collector might go to to get such a rarity in his grubby hands. And a self-propelled nickel at that!”
Quimby’s words trembled the pillars of Porter Penny’s Lincoln Memorial.
“But we only saw the nickel for a minute,” Porter said, “and he didn’t even tell us what he was doing under that cushion.”
“Hiding from the cat.”
“Okay, but what was he doing in the house?”
“We assumed he was part of the numismatist’s collection, but that he had somehow escaped.” Quimby chuckled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?”
“A locomotive nickel that escapes some collector’s collection? A man who talks to us like he knows we’re listening? Maybe you’re right. Maybe there was more to that pepperoni than we thought.”
“This is no time for jokes, Quimby. We’ve got to do something!”
Quimby bust out laughing. “Do something? You see? We’re talking like a couple of lunatic lire. Coins can’t do anything, not without the help of a human anyway.”
“That nickel could,” Porter reminded him.
“Yeah, well he wasn’t a real nickel. He was a four. Who ever heard of a—?” Quimby’s jaw smacked his rim.
“Quimby, you okay? What’s wrong?”
“The Four. Porter, that was The Four!”
“Who?”
“How long were we stuck under that cushion?”
“I’m not sure,” Porter answered. “You were here before me. What’s the last news you remember?”
Quimby thought back. “Senator Kennedy had just been elected president, people were singing Will You Love Me Tomorrow by The Shirelles, the Russkies sent the first man into outer space, The Apartment won an Oscar for best picture, saddle shoes were popular, and at the time I fell out of his pocket, Mr. Sterling was reading some book called Catch-22. When was all that?”
“1961, I think,” Porter answered.
“And you dropped in on me about a year later?”
“I believe so. The Cuban Missile Crisis had the world on edge. The Yankees beat the San Francisco Giants in seven to win the World Series, and people were talking about some British rock group called The Bugs. No, wait. The Beatles.” Porter snorted a laugh. “As if a group of floppy-haired youths with a ridiculous name like that would ever catch on. I’ll bet no one knows who they are now! But, Quimby, what does any of this have to do with us?”
“I had forgotten all about it, but about a month before I got wedged in behind that cushion I heard some coins talking at the barber shop where I came into Sterling’s possession. I was in the register there, and this 1957 dime was going on about some marvelous four-cent nickel he’d heard about. A ’51 penny chimed in that he had heard such rumors too.”
“And you never mentioned it to me before now?” Porter said.
“I had forgotten all about it. You know coins. They’ll say anything for a little attention. Anyway, get this. The penny said that the four-cent nickel wasn’t the only coin who had somehow achieved locomotion. He told us that he ran into a silver dollar who swore that he had seen a bunch of coins hopping and flying around the lobby of a Memphis hotel back in ‘58.”
“Flying?”
“Can you believe it? I couldn’t, of course, and so like any rational quarter, I dismissed the stories at the time as preposterous whoppers. I didn’t give them another thought, until now.”
“You certainly never mentioned it to me,” Porter said. “I’d have remembered. I love a good fairy tale. But like you said, we did see him with our own eyes, Quimby. So it wasn’t a whopper after all. Do you think the other stuff they said could be true too?”
“You mean locomotive coins?”
“That would explain some of the ruckus we heard that afternoon when the nickel showed up, wouldn’t it?”
Quimby thought back. “He did call out to someone, didn’t he?”
“That’s right! Someone named Holly, or Hailey, or—”
“Hannah!”
“Good memory, Quimby!”
“Most likely a half dollar then, right? And you know what half dollars have on their reverse.”
“Eagles,” Porter said.
Quimby nodded, waiting for the penny’s penny to drop.
“Whoa… Quimby!”
Ch-ching.
“That could explain that business about flying coins, right?” Porter said.
“Nothing else would.”
“Wow, a lot sure can happen while you’re lost under a cushion, eh, Quimby?”
“Not much of it good, I’m afraid. I think we’ve gone from the fart cushion into the fire.”
5
better off dead
Riverside, California — An hour earlier…
From their chimney perch, Ned Nickel and Hannah Half Dollar observed the black, ’54 Hudson coupe turn into the cul-de-sac and park in front of the house below them.
Ned said, “I told you he’d show.”
“Business must be bad. He’s wearing the same duster coat and gray fedora as the last time we saw him, and he’s still driving the same car too, only more dinged up and in need of a paint job.”
“A better mustache, though,” Ned remarked. “It suits him.”
“I don’t like this, Four. It’s too dangerous.”
“A little investigating, Hannah, that’s all. The others are safely on their way to the Death Valley base. Mission accomplished. We’re due for a little R & R.”
“You call hanging out on a roof for three days fun?”
Ned grinned. “It is if I’m with you.”
Hannah rolled her eye. “Yeah, well I’m bored stiffer than a freshly-printed greenback.”
“Look, I owe you, okay? You know I always pay my debts.”
“Not good enough, Ned. You’re not the one who has to put up with Deirdre’s wrath. The last time we did something like this she threatened to tether Emma’s talon to a stinkweed.”
Ned chuckled. “Deirdre packs some thunder, but you got her by forty cents, ten grams, two arms, two legs, and an eagle.”
“Yeah, well, she’s got the chief, Two Loons, and an island of buffaloes and loyal Lincolns to back her bluster.”
“Look, just some harmless spying, okay? It’s time we go on the offensive, Hannah. I’m tired of running from all these threats.”
“But you heard the chief, our business isn’t with Stryker. It’s Nicolai Nickel that we have to worry about. He’s the one holding Franny, not this crazed collector.”
“I get that, but there’s a connection somehow. Stryker is on to us. He was in Memphis when The Six grabbed Franny. He must be learning more about us all the time, and I want to find out what he knows.”
“If there’s a connection, don’t you think the chief would have made it by now? None of his visions have mentioned this Stryker fellow.”
“The visions come like puzzle pieces. Just because that piece hasn’t appeared doesn’t mean it’s not part of the picture. The chief sees what he’s ready to see, and even then, he only reports to us what he thinks we can handle.”
“What are you saying? That the chief purposely hides things from us?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ned said.
“I don’t like such talk, Four. We’ve got enough problems without you stirring the pot.”
“I don’t mean any harm. I love the chief—you know that. I’m just saying he can be a little over-protective sometimes. Deirdre too.”
“Because they understand the perils we face,” Hannah said. “Unlike you, who thinks saving Coinworld is some sort of game.”
“I’ve kept my side of the bargain. The chief ordered me to ignore The Six’s messages about Franny and I have. I think I’ve been a pretty good boy.”
Monroe Stryker got out of his car, tugged the brim of his hat, and made his way up the driveway towards the front door.
Hannah shot Ned a side glance. “As for holding back, you’re not one to talk, Ned Nickel. I know what you’ve been up to.”
“You do, do you?”
“And if I know, you can be sure that Deirdre knows too. Nothing gets by that keen dime. And if Deirdre knows, then so does the chief.”
Ned blinked innocently. “Knows what?”
“Don’t play coy with me, you four-cent phony. Pete Penny.”
“Pete Penny’s gone, Hannah. He drowned in the Colorado.”
“And I’m a Russian ruble.”
Ned squinted into Hannah’s eye. “You know?”
Hannah grinned. “Gotcha! I do now.”
Ned spun and stomped his rim. “You crafty fifty-center, you! How did you figure it out? Did Kipp Quarter tell you? He’s the only other coin who knows. Wait till I see him next time, I’m gonna—”
“No, Kipp didn’t tell me, and that’s not all I know either.”
“Okay, you win, Hannah. Out with it.”
“You first.”
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to fall for your tricks twice.”
“Fine,” she said with a smile. “I know about Pete, and I know about his pals too.”
“But how do you know?”
“You’re not the only one with secrets.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that as your personal bodyguard, I’ve had to develop my own contacts in the field.”
“What kind of contacts?”
“Informants. Pennies, nickels, dimes…”
The Amazing Adventures of 4¢ Ned (Coinworld: Book Three) Page 4