Three Dollars

This Saturday was no different than any other Saturday in Hollywood, Florida. A refreshing breeze blew in from the Atlantic on the hungry tourists out looking for a good seafood dinner and a night of jazz. In one particular oyster pub on Harrison Street though, there was a little trouble. It was nothing serious, just another case of one-too-many, perhaps.

Screwdrivers and Rum and Cokes had been flowing for a few hours for three men at the bar. When it had come time to settle up their bill though, an argument started. The bartender couldn’t quite decipher what they were arguing about but they were obviously wasted. She kept an eye on them and busied herself with her regulars while the trio sorted it out. She motioned for the manager to stand by and a minute later she turned to the men and asked if there was any problem.

The clean-shaven man with the penetrating eyes, his voice slurred and scornful, said “No, there is no problem. I am a pilot. I have plenty of money.” He then got to his feet and pulled a thick wad of bills from his pocket, fifties and hundreds, and tossed a few onto the bar. The bartender bit her lip and made their change.

When the men left, the bartender returned to where they had made their little scene. She found three wet dollar bills soaking in a circle of condensation.

And that’s what happened at Shuckum’s on the evening of September 8th. Except, none of this really happened. It could have happened. Maybe it did. Just not on this night. A lot of stories spread after the attacks.

But the day before this story supposedly occurred, Mohammad Atta and his coconspirators were already in Maryland, making final preparations for their fatal mission.

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