Stuff Dreams Are Made Of (15 page)

He nodded.

“And what was between you and Cashdollar?” I tapped Styles on the top of his hat. He looked up with a sleepy expression on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“The look he gave you? You, usually full of bravado, you backed up like you thought he was going to bite.”

“We’ve met before. He was probably just trying to place me, you know.”

“Bullshit. You said something back at the coffee shop about being warned by Bruce Crayer? You said that he tried to throw you out?”

“It was nothing, okay?”

I let it go.

“Skip,” James was standing, talking with his hands, in full sales presentation, “I’m fascinated with this guy. With this place. The more I see, hear, smell, and taste, the more I want to know. I can’t believe tomorrow is the last day. Hell, we’re learning more here than we picked up in four years of college. Dude, this is a primer on how to go big time. If we take this business model and legitimize it, there’s no telling how big we might grow.”

I wasn’t sure I could buy that, but then neither of us had done that well in college, so he could be right. I still wasn’t sure how you took a revival evangelist and turned the concept into another business, but I’m sure James had given it some thought.

“James, I think you’re riding with the wrong guy. You may be impressed with his business skills, but Cashdollar and company may be criminals. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Yeah, I want to know if he’s a killer. I guess, the more I look into it, I want to know if you have to break the law to control your own situation.”

“What?”

“I mean, when you get to be as big as this guy is you’ve got
to control things. This guy is so much bigger than I realized. Does he have to manipulate things to keep them going?”

I stared at him. “Manipulate things? Break the law? We’re talking murder here. Pretty severe stuff. Have you lost your mind, James? If he’s killing people to keep the faith, then I want out right now.”

“I know. Dude, I just want to get as much information as I can.”

“Maybe Cashdollar should write a book. Answer all your questions.”

James considered that for a moment. “It would be the next logical step, pardner. I’d stand in line to buy it, wouldn’t you?”

Styles jumped down from the truck bed, stretched his legs as if he’d been working hard all afternoon, and pointed to the restrooms. “Got to get rid of some of this beer.”

Our beer.

He walked away with almost a swagger. Over his shoulder he shouted back, “Oh, and by the way, James, your namesake, the disciple? He was doing Jesus’s work when Herod cut off his head. Just for the record.”

We watched him slowly walk to the building.

“We ought to get more beer.”

James put his hand to his neck and stroked it.

We showered, and put on the same clothes we’d had on last night. James called Brook and begged off their date, Em called me and said she wanted to see some of the revival nightlife and James and I both decided that either Styles or Em could take us home tonight and bring us back in the morning. No matter how crappy our accommodations in Carol City, we wanted the comfort of a real bed — much more preferable than the bed of James’s truck.

Of course, I had designs on a different bed. The night would be interesting.

“I’m playing cards, pard.”

“For whatever reason, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Look, I want to learn whatever we can.”

When I glanced down the path to the road that ran beside the campground, the police cruiser stood out like a sore thumb, slowly driving up the one-lane paved road that led to the parking lot, the tent, and the vendor trailers. No flashing lights on, but the car looked ominous nevertheless.

“What the hell do the cops want?”

James was not a fan of organized law enforcement. He had
vivid memories of the day they came to arrest his old man. They handcuffed him in front of his family, shoved him into the back of a black and white, and according to James, roughed him up after they got him to the station. I had no cause to doubt him. You know how some people blame everyone else and everything else for their predicaments? They act like it just couldn’t be their fault? In the case of Oscar Lessor, it really wasn’t his fault. His partner took the money from their business and ran, and Mr. Lessor was left holding the proverbial bag. He did the time for something he had no control over, and he came out a broken man. James never forgot it. Ever.

“Just a patrol, James. No big deal.”

He’d seen the car and his fists were clenched.

I noticed Styles quickly ducking behind the truck, heading toward one of the concrete shelters that line the shore of the Intracoastal Waterway on the other side of the tent. He made a point of staying out of the view of the two officers inside the car. I guess selling stolen and counterfeit merchandise was against the law in Miami, and Styles was a little concerned about being recognized. And then I had another thought. We’d been with him since the Miami Airport. The three stolen airport bags were in his trunk, with who knew what else. Was there an all-points bulletin out for a Buick with three white suspects? Styles’s Buick was in the parking lot, parked right by the road the cops were traveling. James and Styles weren’t the only ones who weren’t happy to see the cops. I had some serious concerns too.

The car stopped about thirty feet from us and two uniformed officers stepped out. I stood there about one second longer than I should have.

“You.” One of the officers pointed at me and strode over to the truck. His partner stayed where he was, his hands on his hips, the sun reflecting off of his dark sunglasses.

“What?”

He glanced at the truck, and at James standing in the rear of the vehicle. “You work with the reverend?” He was about my age, cocky, and full of himself. I could hear the self-importance in his voice.

“We’re vendors.”

“So, you work
for
the reverend.” Smug.

“What do you want? We have a license. Board of health, the whole thing.” I signaled James who scrambled to bring it out. He obviously didn’t want any trouble with the officers.

“Forget that. We need to talk to the reverend. Where do we find him?”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. “He actually passed here several minutes ago. He was headed that way.” I pointed in the direction they’d gone.

“How about a Thomas LeRoy?”

James climbed down from the truck bed and handed the license to the officer. The uniformed official brushed him off, and I saw that look in James’s eyes. I prayed he would be cool about the situation.

“We’re here because of a shooting at South Beach. Do either of you have any information about a Barry Romans? He’s a local radio talk-show host. He was the victim of a shooting earlier today. Do you know anything about that at all?”

James stood behind the officer and stared hard at me holding up his hand and shaking his head.

“Uh, no. Reverend Cashdollar may have mentioned it during his service but —”

James continued to stand behind the officer, waving his hands and shaking his head.

“He talked about it? What did he say?”

“I don’t remember. Just that somebody may have taken a shot and —”

“Did he talk about how it happened?”

“No. Definitely he didn’t talk about how it happened.”

He looked at me, the glasses reflecting my disheveled, worried look. After tapping the toe of his highly polished shoe for several seconds, he said, “Look, if you see either of them in the next half hour, tell them to come to this yellow tent.” He surveyed the canvas monstrosity, taking in its size. “We want to talk to them. Understood?”

I nodded. He probably wanted to hear, “Yes sir.” I couldn’t do it. Especially not with James there.

“Do you hear me?”

Intimidation. For no reason at all. “I hear you. And while you’re yelling at me, Reverend Cashdollar is still walking down there.” I pointed.

The officer gave me a hard look through his tinted glasses, spun around, and walked down the path. His partner stayed by the car.

“Assholes. You don’t become a cop unless you’re an asshole.” James whispered it. He glanced back over his shoulder at the other officer.

“What were you trying to tell me? Shaking your head, waving your hands?”

“Jesus, Skip, I know you better than you know yourself. You were going to tell them about Cashdollar’s crusade.”

“And what would have been wrong with —”

“All we heard was Cashdollar saying he didn’t agree with Barry Romans’ philosophy.”

“Oh, I think it was a little stronger than that.”

“Then you would have told them about his comments today and the death threat.”

“I still don’t see what would have been —”

“And because you were on a roll, you would have pointed out that Bruce Crayer just happened to be within a block of the shooting at the
time
of the shooting.”

“James, damn it, you know I wouldn’t have —”

“We know nothing, amigo. Once you start talking, they’ll ask you questions all night long. They’re liable to haul your ass downtown and arrest you on suspicion.”

“Of what?”

“Whatever they want, pally. They can do it. ‘You seem to have information, you come with us.’ I’m telling you, the cops have the power. And they know it. In this country, in this city, you are guilty until proven innocent, and if you don’t believe it, just deal with the cops.”

“You’ve got it backward.”

“Ever been there, pally? He was. My father is proof positive. Guilty. Until proven innocent. And even then, they find a way to fuck you.”

I mentioned it already. Several times. James does not like law enforcement officials. The situation with his father had tainted his outlook on the police.

“Besides, we really don’t know anything. Although tonight our luck may change.”

“And what’s going to happen tonight?”

“We’re going to ask some questions, turn over some stones. I like the idea of this whole thing being kind of a mystery.”

“Besides there being an attempted murder, besides there being a possible connection to a senator’s death, and the death of a black girl, besides there being a drug overdose and a threat on Cashdollar’s life, besides receiving a warning that we should leave, what’s a mystery? And what do you think we can do about it? You, my friend, are crazy. We shouldn’t be within ten thousand feet of this place.”

He looked at me as if I hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Skip, for God’s sake, we’ve been through this too many times already. Somebody blew out our tires. Somebody broke into the truck and
stole five hundred bucks. Wouldn’t you like to get to the bottom of this?”

“James, again I ask, what the hell can we do about it? I’ll hang in here with you, but what can we do? We’re not trained to deal with this kind of stuff.”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“You’re going to tell me what they are?”

“Daron has some ideas as well.”

Oh, Jesus. Daron? His idea was to rip off the luggage from unsuspecting tourists. Daron’s idea was to sell counterfeit watches and purses. This jackass’s idea was to scam a hotel for free food and drinks. My idea was to cut bait and bail. Get the hell out of Dodge. “And if we try to do something and screw this up and upset someone, we may want the cops to be our best friends.”

“Well then, my friend, the object is not to screw it up. Tonight, we will have to be like a midget at a urinal. Stay on our toes.”

I had to think for a minute. It was from
Naked Gun
, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember who said it.

No one came up to invite us, but James decided he would attend the evening’s card game. I gave James a stake, and stashed the rest of the cash in the locked glove box of Daron’s Buick.

“I’d love to sit in on a game, but considering Stan and I didn’t exactly leave on good terms, I probably need to stay away from the full-timers.”

Daron had eased back into camp as soon as the patrol car left. I never saw Cashdollar or Thomas LeRoy interviewing with the cops, but I figured the officers must have gotten what they came for.

We all three sat on the back of the truck swinging our legs, listening to the crickets and night birds in a cacophony of sound. There was a glow coming from about thirty yards to the right, the light emanating from the small camper area, where the residents were watching portable televisions, building small campfires, or running generators for their lamps. The smell of wood smoke was in the air.

“I’m going to play, I’m going to drink some beers, and I’m going to win.” James was having beer withdrawal. I thought
maybe his buddy Daron would offer to run out to a carryout, and even buy the beer, but that hadn’t happened.

“And what else are you planning?”

“I’m going to ask some questions. I’m sure the topic will be Barry Romans and the death threat on Cashdollar. I mean we’ve got some serious topics to throw around tonight.”

“Ask him about our tires. About somebody stealing our money. About the threatening letter.”

“Skip, fuck you. I can’t just ask those kinds of questions. Come on, amigo. I’ve got to be a little subtle.”

“You?”

“I can’t just say ‘who shot our tires? Who sent the threatening letter?’ ”

“I’m half serious.” I was. “I asked Dusty last night.”

“Did you get any answers?”

I ignored him.

“Besides, Stan said to only talk to him.”

“Then fine. You’re going to be with Stan? Then talk to Stan. Ask him those questions while he’s fleecing you for all the money you’ve got on you.” He kept saying one of the reasons we were staying, aside from the money, was to determine who was yanking us around. “James, you know as well as I do, if you want answers, ask direct questions.”

“I should. I won’t. I’ll eventually get the questions answered, okay? But I’ll do it my way. And nobody is fleecing anybody.”

This whole adventure had been done James’s way. I kept thinking maybe we ought to consider doing it someone else’s way. I just didn’t have the answer yet.

“Okay. I’ll probably stop down later.”