Clifford Simak - The Money Tree

Chuck Doyle, loaded with his earner a equipment, was walking along the high brick wall which sheltered the town house of J. Howard Metcalfe from vulgar public contact when he saw the twenty-dollar bill blow across the wall.

Now, Doyle was well dried behind the ears-he had cut his eyeteeth on the crudities of the world and while no one could ever charge him with being a sophisticate, neither was he anybody's fool. And yet there was no question, either, about his quick, positive action when there was money to be picked up off the street.

He looked around to see if anyone might be watching — someone, for example, who might be playing a dirty joke on him, or, worse yet, someone who might appear to claim the bill once he had retrieved it.

There was small chance there would be anyone, for this was the snooty part of town, where everyone minded his own business and made sure that any uncouth intruders would mind theirs as well-an effect achieved in most cases by high walls or dense hedges or sturdy ornamental fences. And the street on which Doyle now prepared to stalk a piece of currency was by rights no proper street at all. It was an alley that ran between the brick walls of the Metcalfe residence and the dense hedge of Banker J. S. Gregg-Doyle had parked his car in there because it was against traffic regulations to park on the boulevard upon which the houses fronted.

Seeing no one, Doyle set his camera equipment down and charged upon the bill, which was fluttering feebly in the alley.

He scooped it up with the agility of a cat grabbing off a mouse and now he saw, for the first time, that it was no piddling one-dollar affair, or even a five-spot, but a twenty. It was crinkly and so new that it fairly gleamed, and he held it tenderly in his fingertips and resolved to retire to Benny's Place as soon as possible, and pour himself a libation or two to celebrate his colossal good luck.

There was a little breeze blowing down the alley and the leaves of the few fugitive trees that lined the alley and the leaves of the many trees that grew in the stately lawns beyond the walls and hedges were making a sort of subdued symphonic sound. The sun was shining brightly and there was no hint of rain and the air was clean and fresh and the world was a perfect place.

It was becoming more perfect by the moment.

For over the Metcalfe wall, from which the first bill had fluttered, other bills came dancing merrily in the impish breeze, swirling in the alley.

Doyle saw them and stood for a frozen instant, his eyes bugging out a little and his Adam's apple bobbing in excitement. Then he was among the bills, grabbing right and left and stuffing them in his pockets, gulping with the fear that one of them might somehow escape him, and ridden by the conviction that once he had gathered them he should get out of there as fast as he could manage.

The money, he knew, must belong to someone and there was no one, he was sure, not even on this street, who was so contemptuous of cash as to allow it to blow away without attempting to retrieve it.

So he gathered the bills with the fervor of a Huck Finn going through a blackberry patch and with a last glance around to be sure he had missed none, streaked for his car.

A dozen blocks away, in a less plush locality, he wheeled the car up to the curb opposite a vacant lot and furtively emptied his pockets, smoothing out the bills and stacking them neatly on the seat beside him.

There were a lot of them, many more than he had thought there were, and his breath whistled through his teeth.

He picked up the pile of currency preparatory to counting it and something, some little stick-like thing was sticking out of it. He flicked it to knock it away and it stayed where it was. It seemed to be stuck to one of the bills. He seized it to pull it loose. It came and the bill came with it.

It was a stem, like an apple stem, like a cherry stem-a stem attached quite solidly and naturally to one corner of a twenty-dollar bill!

He dropped the pile of bills upon the seat and held up the stem and the bill hung from the stem, as if it were growing from the stem, and it was clear to see that the stem not long before had been fastened to a branch, for the mark of recent separation was plainly visible.

Doyle whistled softly.

A money tree! he thought.

But there was no such a thing as a money tree. There'd never been a money tree. There never would be a money tree.

'I'm seeing things,' said Doyle, 'and I ain't had a drink in hours.'

He could shut his eyes and there it was-a mighty tree, huge of boll and standing true and straight and high, with spreading branches fully leafed and every leaf a twenty-dollar bill. The wind would rustle all the leaves and would make money-music and a man could lie in the shade of such a tree and not have a worry in the world, just waiting for the leaves to drop so he could pick them up and put them in his pocket.

He tugged at the stem a bit and it still clung to the bill, so he folded the whole thing up as neatly as he could and stuck it in the watch pocket of his trousers. Then he picked up the rest of the bills and stuffed them in another pocket without counting them.

Twenty minutes later he walked into Benny's Bar. Benny was mopping the mahogany. One lone customer was at the far end of the bar working through a beer. 'Gimmee bottle and a glass,' said Doyle.

'Show me cash,' said Benny.

Doyle gave him one of the twenty-dollar bills. It was so fresh and new and crisp that its crinkling practically thundered in the silence of the place. Benny looked it over with great care.

'Got someone making them for you?' he asked.

'Naw,' said Doyle. 'I pick them off the street.'

Benny handed across a bottle and a glass.

'You through work,' he asked, 'or are you just beginning?'

'I put in my day,' said Doyle. 'I been shooting old J. Howard Metcalfe. Magazine in the east wants pictures of him.'

'You mean the racketeer?'

'He ain't no racketeer. He went legitimate four or five years ago. He's a magnate now.'

'You mean tycoon. What kind of tycoon is he?'

'I don't know. But whatever kind it is, it sure pays off. He's got a fancy-looking shack up on the hill.

But he ain't so much to look at. Don't see why this magazine should want a picture of him.'

'Maybe they're running a story about how it pays to go straight.'

Doyle tipped the bottle and sloshed liquor in his glass.

It ain't no skin off me,' he declared philosophically. 'I'd go take pictures of an angleworm if they paid me for it.'

'Who would want pictures of any angleworm?'

'Lots of crazy people in the world,' said Doyle. 'Might want anything. I don't ask no questions. I don't venture no opinions. People want pictures taken, I take them. They pay me for it, that is all right by me.'

Doyle drank appreciatively and refilled the glass.

'Benny,' he asked, 'you ever hear of money growing on a tree?'

'You got it wrong,' said Benny. 'Money grows on bushes.'

'If it grows on bushes, then it could grow on trees. A bush ain't nothing but a little tree.'

'No, no,' protested Benny, somewhat alarmed. 'Money don't really grow on bushes. That is just a saying.'

The telephone rang and Benny went to answer it. 'It's for you,' he said.

'Now how would anyone think of looking for me here?' asked Doyle, astounded.

He picked up the bottle and shambled down the bar to where the phone was waiting.

'All right,' he told the transmitter. 'You're the one who called. Start talking.'

'This is Jake.'

'Don't tell me. You got a job for me. You'll pay me in a day or two. How many jobs do you think I do for you without being paid?'