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Scrooge McDuck always took his nephews to the most interesting of places. Interesting, however, was a distinctly different word from nice, or pleasant, or not inhabited by the evil spirit of a dead magi looking for a host, to pick a recent example. Goldie O’Gilt took Louie nice places. Generally that was as part of a hair raising scheme to defraud some pasty of millions of dollars, but for all they occasionally found themselves running for their lives it didn’t make the location itself any less pleasant.
Although, it was going to be a few years until he could show his face near the Louvre again.
Louie scrunched his beak, idly sipping at a glass of Pep that was at least three times more expensive than it had any right to be. The little cafe charged through the nose, and got away with it due to the impressive location overlooking the casino square at Monaco. It was a beautiful day. He and Goldie sat in the shade to escape the brilliant Mediterranean sun. The sea was just visible as a ribbon of shining pearls through the gaps in the buildings. Sea birds raised a distant chorus, and the steady rumble of million dollar engines announced the arrival of the rich and powerful to one of the most famous casinos in Europe.
Compared to one of Scrooge’s adventures, that were either boiling hot, freezing cold or pervasively damp in ways it was hard to describe, there was no contest.
“That’s him,” Goldie said, suddenly, peering over her two thousand dollar shades. A young bull, a red sweater tied across his shoulders like a cape, rose out of his open-top Ferrari. With a negligent flick he tossed his keys at a valet and strode into the building like he owned the place. From the way the staff scurried around him like ants he was not the only one buying the act.
“Cool.” Louie took another long sip of his Pep. “So we’re going in?”
“In a half hour or so. A lady can’t look too desperate, after all.”
Louie rolled his eyes. There was another difference between the two unimaginably rich ducks. Scrooge had apparently settled on his wardrobe in the twenties and it hadn’t been particularly up to date then. Goldie was always wearing just the right outfit for the job, no matter the cost.
Running a finger around the elastic off his hoodie’s wrists, Louie found his thoughts drifting back to a familiar question.
“Hey, Aunt Goldie.”
“Still not your aunt,” Goldie shot back, not taking her eyes from the door.
He snorted. Goldie was not his aunt as much as she and Scrooge weren’t in love. That was a story older than dirt, however, and one he had no interest in sticking his foot into. He’d probably loose it.
“I wanted to ask you a question about money.”
Goldie scoffed, reached into her purse and handed him a twenty Euro note. “Don’t spent it all at once.”
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Louie continued, pocketing the bill before she could do anything rash like try and take it back. “I wanted to hear your take on something.”
Finally, Goldie turned to face him, pushing her shades up onto her head. “And what has old Moneybags done this time?” she asked, a weary fondness in her tone. “Did you just find out about how he treats teabags?”
“Jeez, no, Webby tells everyone about that if you stand still long enough.” Louie paused, wondering suddenly when Goldie had been around long enough to learn that titbit. “How do you know about it?”
“Ha!” Goldie shook her head, smiling to herself. “Sharpie, who do you think started him on that awful habit? He used to drink water for breakfast, just to be contrarian. He said, ‘Ack. The only thing a good Scotsman needs to boil are oats!’.” Goldie’s Scrooge impression was alarmingly on point. “I gave him one, that’s one, teabag as a trial and a full month later he came into my store to complain the dratted thing had worn out, and he wanted his money back.”
She chuckled, Louie joining in. He loved his Uncle, but the old duck was cheep beyond all reason sometimes. It would have been funny if he wasn’t the richest duck in the world. Or—Louie fingered the elastic on his hoodie again.
“This is a five grand hoodie,” he admitted. It felt good to finally say it.
Whatever Goldie had been expecting it hadn’t been that. She paused just a moment, running a practiced eye over his outfit. It was the same expression she wore while searching for someone’s wallet.
“You got ripped off,” she said simply.
Louie rolled his eyes at her. “Scrooge got ripped off. Like, a week ago he came in while I was watching TV and told me I needed a new outfit. Which… fair, I’ve been seeing my wrists for months but my hoodie is a kids size and I’ve been looking for something that fits but teenaged fashion is just—“ He pulled a face.
“Tacky, faux rebellious, or ugly?”
“Exactly. So, nothing happens for a day or two but then I wake up with a package on my bed. And it has this.” He tugged on the hoodie’s strings. “No note, no label, and I spent the rest of the day pulling on that thread until I found out where the heck it came from.”
Goldie sighed. “Scrooge?”
“Scrooge. He owns the company that made my original sweater, because of course he does, so he talked to the design company. They made me a bespoke pattern especially for me, sent it off to the original factory who put this together overnight, and then got it airmailed straight to the mansion.” Louie fell silent, glaring into space. “Five grand is the conservative estimate,” he said at last.
Goldie nodded slowly. “You have no idea why he did it, do you?”
Sullenly, Louie shook his head.
“Well, I can’t pretend to be an expert in what makes Moneybags tick—“ Which was a filthy lie but Louie knew not to call her on it. “—but I can take a guess. Did he ever tell you the true value of a dollar?”
“Yeah. ‘A dime means more when you have to work for it.’,” Louie repeated in a far rougher attempt at a Scottish accent than Goldie’s. He stuck his hands deeper into his pockets, sulking.
“Work on that pronunciation, kid,” Goldie told him with a smirk. A beat passed. “He’s lying, of course.”
“Scrooge doesn’t lie.” If there was one difference between the pair it was that. Scrooge would speak the truth and dare the world to care, Goldie lied through her teeth until the world believed her.
Goldie let out a trilling laugh. “Oh, Sharpie, I’m disappointed it you. But if you’re going to be sulky all day otherwise here’s a simple truth to get you by. That hoodie didn’t cost your Uncle a dime. He already employs those designers, just giving them an extra task costs him nothing. The factory has to pay labour and material to make a single sweater, but it’s in some Podunk country paying cents on the hour and less for the cotton. And shipping, well, your uncle owns shipping companies. I’m sure as far as he sees it it was practically free.”
“Right…” Louie’s eyes narrowed as she spoke. “And the real truth?”
“Heh.” Goldie’s eyes glittered. “Your Uncle doesn’t know the value of a dollar.”
Louie scowled at her. “He’s the richest duck in the world, I think he’s figured it out,” he snapped. It wasn’t that she was lying that was the problem. He was used to that. He still held out the hope, though, that one day Goldie would come out and say what she meant the first time. It would be the day hell froze over, but with the way their lives went Dewy was bound to do that by accident at some point.
“Scroogie thinks that a dollar is worth what it took to make it. It’s why he cares more for that old dime than he does for all the money in his bin. Taking treasure from some dusty old cave, or closing a business deal, or even finding a penny on the ground is real to him in a way just sitting back and raking in interest ever could be.” Goldie laughed. “It’s why he’s such a tightwad, he hates the thought that someone might get a dollar from him for less work than it took him to get it in the first place.”
“Yeash, well, we’ve found why you drive him crazy.”
“No, I could manage that even when we didn’t have two nickels to fight over.” Goldie ran her fingers through her hair, giving it a dramatic flick.
“Hmm.” Louie wrapped one of the drawstrings around his finger. “So, this is the cheapest five thousand dollar hoodie Scrooge could find?”
“If that’s how you want to see it.”
Louie frowned to himself. In a way it was. Louie liked being rich. Being able to just look at something and make it your own, or to see a problem and make it go away was an addictive power. It was also one he hadn’t taken to well during his brief reign as richest duck in the world and there was a lesson in that. Somewhere, deep down in his heart was the little duckling who’d learned to sew alongside Huey because Uncle Donald couldn’t afford to pay for new clothes when they tore them playing. Whether Louie still wanted to be that duckling or never want to be forced to do that again he didn’t know.
“So, Aunt Goldie—“
“Not your Aunt.”
“—if it’s not what it costs, what’s the true value of a dollar?”
For once, and somewhat to Louie’s surprise, Goldie didn’t have a clever comeback prepared. Her eyes lingered for a long moment one Louie and the faintest glimmer of a tear appeared in her eye. Not that that meant much for a woman who could cry crocodile tears on command, and besides it didn’t last.
“When I was younger than you,” she began, after careful consideration. “My Pappy owned a general store out West. It was back before they struck gold so there was no money in it and though we had good days, most times we barely made enough to get by. Then Pappy got sick, something in his lungs. Although Ma and I sold the store to pay for it he always needed more medicine, we couldn’t get it too him. He died when I was thirteen. That, Sharpie, is the value of a dollar. Worthless when you don’t need it, priceless when you don’t have it.”
She drew in a deep breath, the moment of venerability once again vanished beneath her usual cocksure smile. “Moneybags knows that too, despite all his bluster about hard work. He understands what it means to go without, and how much it hurts to see those around you suffer because you can’t afford to help.”
“Come on.” She stood suddenly. “Our mark will have filled up enough on cocktails by now. Let’s go separate some rube from a fortune he doesn’t understand.”
Louie nodded, leaping to his feet.
It wouldn’t be the last time he asked the question, though.