Take A Penny

I chose Elm Cork and Bottle for its big-spending clientele—midweek, just before closing, after most customers had picked their overpriced vintages and fed the till. That combination meant plenty of cash in the register and, with luck, an empty store.

I was half right. The register was fat, but I wasn’t alone. There was a woman at the counter. Her Lady Dior bag and Gucci knee-high boots suggested she wasn’t there for a bottle with a twist cap. I stood close enough to catch jasmine in her hair.

The register cha-chinged. The clerk slid a bottle of Special Selection cabernet her way. Her eyes drifted—not to the door, but to the Take a Penny, Leave a Penny cup.

The clerk’s follow‑up, “Have a lovely evening,” rang hollow, and the tinny beat from his earbuds told me his attention was elsewhere. Then he glanced at her again—really looked—and something tightened in his face. Recognition. Not the friendly kind.

I was in a hurry—Arnie’s people were waiting. A couple grand would buy time. I tightened my grip on the handgun in my jacket.

She shoved the receipt into her purse, cradled the bottle, and smiled. I smiled back because, even during a robbery, I had a weakness for a pretty face, especially one with cornflower eyes and dimples.

“Ma’am?” The clerk offered a penny between trembling fingers. He let the lone cent fall into her hand—shaken, but not by me. Not yet.

A black Escalade crawled past the storefront—Arnie’s men.

The lady accepted her cent and again eyed the Take a Penny cup—the last vestige of the honor system. Civility comes easily when little is at stake. Pennies are obsolete, and the goodwill gesture’s going extinct with it. That cup’s one of the few things in a store you don’t have to unlock.

I heard the clink of the coin as it dropped. Instead of leaving, the woman fished a pair of wire rims from her purse, rested them on her nose, and leaned in. Had she never seen Abe Lincoln?

I couldn’t wait any longer. I pressed her shoulder—just enough to move her aside. I whipped out my gun. With my free hand, I spread a plastic bag on the counter. “Fill ‘er up,” I said, nodding toward the register.

The clerk staggered back, hands up, but his eyes weren’t on the gun. They flicked to her again—wide, wary, like he recognized her and wished he hadn’t.

I leveled my Saturday Night Special. “Open it,” I said. “Franklins and Grants.”

He pressed a button on the register. The drawer glided open with a whoosh, followed by a cushioned whump.

The lady with the cabernet was still there. I expected a scream. Instead, she calmly said, “Go ahead. Take your money.” Then added, “Excuse me,” and nonchalantly stepped in front of me.

“Are you nuts?” I said. It was more a statement than a question.

She reached inside the cup. “Take a Penny, Leave a Penny,” she said with that dimpled grin.

She removed a single red cent, slipped it into her purse, and glanced toward me. “I can’t see a thing without my glasses,” she said. “Wouldn’t make a good witness.” We were both breaking the rules, just in different departments.

A bell tinkled as she swung open the door and disappeared.

The clerk stuffed my bag. When he finished, he didn’t plead or reach for a phone—he just bolted out the back door, wanting no part of whatever was happening, whether because of me or her wasn’t clear.

Back at my apartment, the hallway was dark. I flipped the switch, and two of Arnie’s boys appeared, hands buried, keeping their pieces company.

“I’ve got the money,” I said, trying to sound steady, though my knees weren’t convinced.

“Arnie’s money,” the big one grunted.

The short one extended an open palm. I dropped the bag into it—no .99 decimal ending this transaction.

***

I checked the newspaper every day—the cops had no leads. The clerk could only describe “a man with a gun.” The woman wasn’t mentioned.

Weeks later, however, another story caught my eye: “Famed Collector Cashes In.” Beneath was a picture of an attractive woman with those same cool, blue eyes and dimples—the customer from Elm Cork and Bottle.

According to the article, Elena Ethering built her fortune on rare collectibles—historic letters, first editions, and postage stamps so scarce they were thought lost forever. The reporter hinted at her “reputation for coercive acquisitions through unconventional channels,” a polite way of saying people knew to stay out of her way. Nothing was proven, but her name had a habit of showing up before someone else didn’t.

She’d recently sold the rarest of Lincoln cents—a 1943 copper penny from the Denver Mint. That was the year the Mint switched to steel for the war effort, making any copper ’43 a unicorn. Few believed her story that it turned up in her change.

The story noted that Ethering’s selling price was a million dollars.”

I’d risked my life for a few thousand. She’d walked out with a penny.

Those penny cups run on trust. Funny how you don’t know what something’s worth until it walks out the door.

Author's Bio: Gregory Meece built a wide-ranging career in education, working across every grade level from kindergarten through college. He earned degrees in English, communications, and education. His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and in more than thirty magazines, including Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Bristol Noir, Thriller Magazine, House of Long Shadows, Blood Moon Rising, New Flash Fiction Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Cleaver Magazine, Fabula Argentia, and Scaffold. He lives in Southeastern Pennsylvania, where he works with the Amish farming community, carves wood, and writes stories. Visit him at MeeceTales.com.

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