Charlie swallowed hard as he re-read the letter.  He had only been with Hed a few times, but had enjoyed their time together more than anyone else he could think of.  A wealth of stories accompanied the old man—particularly war stories of his time in France as an ambulance driver during World War I.  Charlie had been heartsick when he learned of his Uncle’s death the previous summer.

He recalled the last time they were together after a day catching sunnies at Lake of the Isles.  Just before leaving to return to Chicago, Hed laid a hand on Charlie’s shoulder and said, ‘Here’s hoping that as you slide down the banister of life, Charlie, the splinters are all facing the right direction.’  Charlie giggled at the remembrance.

Now, he gazed down at the shiny pennies beneath the cellophane covers with sadness.  I miss Uncle Hed.  I wish he was still around.  I bet I could stay with him…

         Charlie rubbed his fingers over the coins and looked up.  The bus slowed as it turned on to Hennepin Avenue.  Just a few more blocks, Charlie thought.  He refolded the small coin packet and slipped it carefully into his book bag along with the letter.

         “Harmon Place,” the driver called out.  “Next stop, Harmon Place.”

          Charlie rose from his seat and walked carefully to the front of the bus.

          “Getting out here, Son?” the driver asked.

          “Yes.”

          The bus slowed, then came to a stop.  “Thank you,” Charlie said and skipped down the steps to the sidewalk below.  He stopped and checked out the street number.  He was on Twelfth and Harmon, so he turned left and walked down the block.  Before long he reached 1101 and looked up.  ‘The Heritage Coin Company- Leonard Massimo, Prop.’

          Charlie hesitated, not convinced he should proceed.  He peered in the window.  Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and entered the coin shop.  A small bell tinkled, announcing his entrance.  The door closed with another tinkle.  Charlie glanced at the interior of the shop in one quick look.  Glass cases were line up on either side of the central pathway.  A pair of dusty brass lamps coupled with light from the front window provided little illumination.  The smell of the small shop reminded Charlie of his great grandfather’s house—stale cigar smoke and the pervasive body odor of age.  He wrinkled his nose and stepped toward the high counter directly ahead.

          As he approached the ancient wooden counter, he noticed a small man wearing a green eye shade sitting behind it, hunched over a scarred desk.  A bright desk lamp shone directly above his workspace, and he was looking through a magnifying glass at something. Charlie waited for the man to look up-- to acknowledge his presence. 

          The man had coal-black hair swept straight back and plastered to his skull—a style fashionable ten years earlier. His dark, bushy eyebrows appeared as one single line above a pair of squinty eyes. He took a fast peek above his reading glasses at the boy and returned to his work.

Charlie shifted his weight from one foot to another, laid his book bag on the counter, and coughed—politely.

Without looking up, the man behind the counter said, “Can I help you?”

“Yes… uh… I’m here to see… Mr….uh…Leonard Massimo.”

Again without a direct stare, the small man said, “And what would be the nature of your business, young sir?”

“Are you Mr. Massimo?”

“No, I am not.  I am Seymour Wenzel-- the proprietor.” 

Once Charlie had a close look at the man’s face, he realized that his skin was the color of some of the mushrooms he learned to pick at Cub Scout camp.  It was as if the man had never left the dusty shop to venture into the sunlight. “Uh, isn’t this the Heritage Coin Company?” Confused by the man’s reply Charlie looked around for a sign.

Wenzel laid down the large optic, covered up the coins he had been studying, and said, “It most certainly is.  However, Mr. Massimo is no longer with us.  He met with an… unfortunate accident two months ago, and I now own the Heritage Coin Company.”  Wenzel folded his arms and stared across the scarred counter at Charlie.

“Oh, uh… what happened?”

“What do you mean, ‘What happened?’”

“I mean, what happened to Mr. Massimo?”

“Oh.  Well, he had the misfortune to step in front of a passing freight train—no one knows why.  The local police ultimately concluded that Dear Leonard must have tripped.  He was always a bit clumsy and absent minded, don’t you know.  Very tragic—very un-timely.”  Wenzel sported a pencil-thin mustache that Charlie swore twitched as he described the grisly accident.

Charlie wanted to leave—immediately!  Something about the place, the man, and his words made him uncomfortable.  He had come a long way, however, and would not have the opportunity to return, so he forged ahead.  Reaching in his book bag, he withdrew his small coin packet, set it on the counter, and opened up the letter.  “I was told to show my collection to Mr. Massimo…”  Charlie hesitated. I suppose it’s all right.  If he was Mr. Massimo’s partner or something… He spread the letter on the counter.

Wenzel shifted his position and clucked as if he were losing patience with the boy’s intrusion.  He focused on the letterhead printed in bold type.  “I can assure you. Uh, pardon me, but you haven’t introduced yourself.  You are…?”

“Oh.  I’m Charlie, Charlie Nash.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure, Master Nash.  Now, about your collection.  I worked for Mr. Massimo for thirteen years—in fact I was his only trusted employee.”  Wenzel puffed out his invisible chest and continued, “And as such, I learned a great deal from the gentleman.  I can assure you with every confidence, that whatever business you intended with Mr. Massimo can certainly be conducted with me-- the current proprietor.  I am bonded, and my reputation is beyond reproach.  Now, time’s wasting, young man—what is it to be?  Shall I cast an eye on your prized collection, or shall you retreat back through the same door from whence you recently passed, without availing yourself the opportunity to permit my trained eye to appraise your apparently modest packet?”  Wenzel raised one eyebrow, waiting for Charlie’s response.

Charlie hesitated. 

“Come, come, Master Charles.  Be quick about it.  What shall it be?”

Charlie reached for the packet, and slowly unfolded the three cardboard sections. 

Wenzel watched with obvious disinterest.  He had wasted far too much time with the boy and was anxious to return to more lucrative endeavors.

Once the contents had been revealed, Wenzel reached out and turned the coins around, “May I?”

“Yes, I guess.”  Charlie waited as the new proprietor studied his collection.  He watched as the man’s bony index finger hesitated just beneath the first two coins on the left side.  Three fingers slid back and forth across the covers.

Wenzel looked at the boy sharply, then brought the bright desk lamp over to the counter.  With the same hand, he reached for the large magnifying glass.  His finger never left the two coins.  Once the lamp was in place, he picked up the glass and bent over the coins.

Charlie’s collection consisted of 21 pennies—all United States coins.  Ever since Charlie had received the collection, he had never taken the coins out of their individual slots.  Most were Lincoln Head coins in fair to excellent condition.  The first two—the ones that had so captivated Wenzel, were a shiny, bright brass color. The first coin was positioned face up, Lincoln’s head and shoulders facing to the right.  “In God We Trust” arced across the top of the coin—the letters in relief.  The word, “Liberty’ appeared to the left of Lincoln’s neck, and to the right, the date the coin was minted—“1943.”

Wenzel did his best to remain calm—disinterested even-- but he struggled to control his uneven breath.  His heart pounded and a thin bead of sweat broke out beneath his mustache.  He gathered himself, and without daring to say a word, he reached under the counter and withdrew a thin pair of cotton gloves.  “Ahem… an interesting little collection you have here, young man.”  Wenzel’s voice rose an octave and he cleared his throat.

Charlie had already decided that he didn’t like the man, but the dealer’s obvious interest had him curious—particularly so as he watched the man study the first two coins.  “Can you tell me what the collection is worth?” Charlie asked.

“Just a minute, Master Nash.  I need to study the complete assortment.  I can tell you that other than the first… ah… two coins here, the balance is rather pedestrian—nothing special, really.  The first two Lincoln head’s have… ah… captured my interest as you may have noted.  Do you mind my asking where you got these?”

Wenzel removed his glasses momentarily and fixed a glazed stare at the young boy.

“Uh, my great Uncle Hed gave them to me… along with this letter.  I was to show them only to Mr. Massimo.”  Charlie needed money, as much as he could gather, but now wasn’t sure he should even have shown the set to this peculiar man.

“I see, I see.  And your uncle is where?”

“He died last summer.”

“Oh, dear.  I am sorry.  Please extend my sympathies to his widow—and her name is?”

“Aunt Marie.”

“Of course.  Now, let’s take a closer look.” Wenzel replaced his glasses and looked back at the coins.  He reached for the packet and as he did, spun Hed’s letter so it faced in his direction.  He memorized the name and address. “Mind if I remove these from their slots, Charles?  I really must, you see, if I am to give them a fair and complete appraisal.”  Wenzel held his breath waited for Charlie’s reply. 

“No, I guess not. I’ve never had them out of the sleeves, though.”

Wenzel turned away and scribbled a note on a pad sitting on his desk.  He hurried back and said, "I can assure you that I handle valuable coins frequently, Young Sir, hence the gloves.” His retort was sharp and cutting.

 He slid back the clear cover on the first coin and gently removed the coin.  With great diligence, he turned it over and placed it on a piece of velvet.  On the reverse side of the coin, ‘E Pluribus Unum’ arced across the top.  In the center of the coin in large letters were two words, (one on top of the other), “ONE CENT.”  Beneath the coin’s declaration of value was stamped “United States of America.” And to either side were curved wheat stalks that filled out the left and right sides of the coin. 

         Wenzel picked up a small piece of metal and held it just over the loose coin.  He waved it back and forth.

“What’s that?” Charlie asked.

Wenzel remained silent.  He groped for a logical response. After tossing the metal aside, he finally replied, “Oh, it’s… uh… a dioptric—a common tool utilized by all numismatists.”  Wenzel didn’t bother removing the second coin.

“What’s it do?”

“Huh?  Oh, it verifies metallic content—uh… specifically the presence of zinc and steel.  A trained eye, such as mine, can detect a slight change in color on the surface of the dioptric when it…uh… senses the presence of either or both of those minerals.”  Without looking at the boy, Wenzel replaced the coin in its slot, slid the cover over it, and said,   “Just as I feared.”

Charlie was started by the dealer’s tone.  He tore his eyes from the dioptric and fixed his eyes on the small dealer. “What?  What’s the matter?”

          “Well, Young Man, for a moment there, I thought perhaps some of these coins fell into a category we term, “Exceptional.”  But, alas, while in very good shape, and considering that they were from a relatively small minting, they do have some value, but not a great deal.”

          Wenzel removed his glasses, turned out the light, and refolded the packet.  He picked it up and carried it over to his desk, as if he didn’t want to let it out of his sight.  He opened a book, punched some numbers into a noisy calculator, and leaned back in his chair.  “Tell me, Master Nash.  Why are you in need of funds at this point in your life?  Hmmm?”

          “I… ah… well, I’m going away on a trip tomorrow.  I have my paper route money, but might need more.  Can… can you tell me what the collection is worth?”

“Certainly, Dear Sir.  Because of your need, and because it’s been something of a slow day, I’m prepared to offer you, ah… let’s see…”  Wenzel looked at his notes.  “Oh, I’d say somewhere in the neighborhood of, let’s say, two hundred and fifty dollars—for the complete set.”

          Charlie didn’t know what to say.  He had no idea the coins were worth that much.  He needed the money, as he only had seventy-nine dollars in his Prince Albert can, but still… He reconsidered Uncle Hedwig’s words of caution, ‘I strongly urge you to resist showing the coins…’  Charlie was already sorry he had even opened up the packet for this strange little man.

          The boy kept his eyes of the packet which still sat on Wenzel’s desk.  “Uh… no thanks.  I think I’ll keep them.  Could I have my coins back, please?”

          Wenzel’s eyes blazed.  His face reddened.  He had to think fast as an opportunity was about to disappear onto Harmon Place.  “I’ll tell you what, Master Nash.  I’m feeling in a generous mood today, let’s say three hundred and we have a deal.  Will that suffice?”  His hand covered the packet.

          “No, I don’t think so.  I’m sorry for taking your time, but I’ve decided not to sell them.  I think my uncle Hedwig would want me to keep them.  May I have my coins back, please?”  Charlie held out his hand.

          Wenzel didn’t want to let the coins out of his sight.  Think!  Quick!  He picked up the coins and laid them in front of the boy.  “Why don’t you leave me your address and phone number, young man.  If, perhaps I can find another, well, more motivated dealer than I, well, I could call you at a later date.  Would that suffice?”

          Charlie picked up his coins and turned the book bag over to the flap on the reverse side.  “I don’t think so.  I have to be going.  I don’t want to miss my bus.”

As he did, Wenzel noticed Charlie’s name, address, and phone number written on the outside of the back.  He quickly memorized the numbers.  “Very well.  Good day to you, Master Nash.  Take good care of your coins.”

“Thank you, I will.”  Charlie picked up his bag, turned around, and walked to the door.  The bell tinkled as the door swung open, and before he could pass through the doorway, Wenzel called out to him.

“By the way, Charles, where are you going on your journey?”

Charlie stopped, spun to face the interior of the shop, located the dealer who by now was off to one side, and said, “Oh, uh… Montana.”

“I see.  Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you, I will.”  The door closed but this time Charlie could not hear the bell.  He rushed away, anxious to be out of sight of the strange coin dealer.