Brendon parked his Lexus at the Sunflower Hotel in Alto, Kansas. Little had changed since he was a kid. Main Street two blocks long. Red brick grain elevator at one end. White frame church at the other end. Run-down stores in between. He hated being here. But the attorney’s letter said he’d inherited either a brass spittoon or a coat from his uncle.

He’d never cared about Uncle Liam. Liam had always favored his cousin, Owen—Owen who’d listen endlessly to Liam’s boring talk. Owen’s parents and his own parents had died in a car crash years ago. So he and Owen had shared a life of poverty with their only relative—Uncle Liam. Ragged clothes. Shoes with flapping soles. Beans on bread again and again.

But Brendon cared a lot about inheriting Uncle Liam’s brass spittoon—perhaps an antique he’d brought here decades ago from Ireland. The spittoon could be valuable, and Brendon needed some bread. He’d lost his license after the cocaine incident and the lawsuit over Mrs. Snodwell’s nose job. It was getting harder to keep up appearances.

     He stubbed his toe on cracked linoleum as he entered the Sunflower. A green-shaded bulb dangled on a black cord from the lobby ceiling. Warily, he approached Father Time behind the reception desk.

“Dr. J. Brendon O’Toole. I have a reservation.”

     “Good afternoon, Doctor.” The old man waited while Brendon signed in. “Your cousin’s upstairs. Attorney Curtis says, according to Liam’s will, you and Owen will share the rooms Liam occupied for over fifty years.”

“But, ... “O’Toole spluttered. “I expected private accommodations.”

The old man ignored his protest, hoisted his Gucci bag, and led him up stairs that creaked like unoiled hinges.

“Heard you coming,” Owen said, opening the door and shaking his hand. “Good to see you, Brendon.”

“Yes,” Brendon muttered, “Good.”

The old man left and Brendon studied the rooms he remembered so well. Owen had claimed the lumpy sofa, leaving him a narrow cot in the closet-size bedroom they shared as kids. The bathroom was down the hall.

“Well!” he said. “That lawyer better talk fast. I outgrew this fleabag years ago and I’m outta here early tomorrow.”

“Uncle Liam liked this place. He lived here most of his life.” Owen relaxed on the sofa and began making charcoal strokes on a sketchpad. “I arrived yesterday. Wanted to look around, remember old times, and sketch some on my work–in-progress.”

     “You’ve sold a book?” Brendon asked, surprised. Owen usually called his scribblings a manuscript.

     “No book contract yet, but I have a promising letter from an associate editor. Want to scan the rough draft? I’d like your opinion.”

     “No thanks. I’m not into kiddie books.” Promising letter.  Associate editor. Owen was never the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“Uncle Liam was always good to us, Brendon. He was a cool old guy. I miss him.”

“You’re kidding!” Brendon perched on the canvas cot. "The crazy old coot. He never shaved. He never worked steady.  We were poor as church mice. And everyone laughed at our tattered clothes. Liam was a disgrace to the family.”

“His attorney called Liam shrewd.” Owen shrugged. “He did odd jobs. He lived frugally. He managed to put us both through college.” Owen shrugged again. “But how’s life treating you, Brendon? Lots of ladies wanting face lifts?”

“Right!” Brendon didn’t mention his lost license. “How about flipping a coin right now for our inheritance?”

Owen smiled. “I wasn’t expecting any inheritance. A spittoon. A coat. No big deal. You have a preference?”

“None,” Brendon lied. “One’s as worthless as the other.”  He figured Owen was too dumb to know the spittoon’s value.

“I’d just like a keepsake,” Owen said. “Let’s stick around and meet the lawyer. They sold the rest of Liam’s stuff to pay for his funeral. Too bad you couldn’t attend.”

“Yeah, too bad.”

That night, Brendon slept fitfully, and the next morning he dressed carefully while Owen pulled on jeans and sweatshirt.

“No breakfast,” Brendon said. “Let’s collect our loot and scram.”

“Suits me,” Owen agreed.

Although Attorney Curtis was a white-shirt-and-tie type, his office smelled of old law books and stale cigar smoke. He offered them pine chairs in front of his scarred desk where a square package and a suit-shaped box lay.

“You know Liam’s wishes.” Curtis’s cultured voice sounded as somber as if he were praying. “I’ll flip this coin.” He held out a quarter. “Since Brendon’s the oldest, he’ll call heads or tails. If he’s correct, he gets first choice of Liam’s packages. If he’s wrong, Owen wins first choice. Ready?”

They nodded. Curtis flipped the quarter, caught it and slapped it on the back of his left hand.

“Heads,” Brendon said.

“Heads it is.” Curtis showed them the quarter. “Brendon, what’s your choice?”

“The square package, please.” What luck!

Curtis handed him the square box and gave Owen the suit box. They returned to the Sunflower to open their packages.

The spittoon gleamed. The coat looked the same as always—threadbare.

“Sorry about this, Owen,” Brendon lied.

“Everything’s cool,” Owen said, grinning. “I just wanted a keepsake.”

Dumb Owen. Growing older hadn’t made him wiser. The spittoon felt smooth and cool to Brendon’s touch. He inhaled its brassy smell. But when he turned it over, he felt his face flush. His stomach clenched like a fist as he read the hallmark. Brassworks  -- 1980.

A worthless reproduction! Unfair! What a rip-off! Brendon slammed the spittoon against the wall. Then, yanking the coat from Owen, he threw it down and stomped on it.

Before Owen could react, the coat lining ripped and stiff parchment protruded from the fabric.

“What the devil!” Brendon grabbed the coat, and turned the paper over. “General Electric—one thousand shares.”

Owen took the coat from him and pulled more certificates from the tattered lining. Then he held his work-in-progress toward Brendon. THE TALE OF THE TATTERED COAT retold and illustrated by Owen O’Toole.

“Enjoy the manuscript, Bren. I have another copy.” Owen left quietly, taking the stock certificates and Uncle Liam’s coat with him.

     Alone, Brendon scanned the kiddie book manuscript until he reached chapter three: The Secret of the Tattered Coat.