Stuff Dreams Are Made Of (18 page)

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “But I don’t want this to get out.” He took a puff on the cigar and the hot tobacco burned brighter. “I had a visit from a guy when I worked here. On the last day he convinced me that I didn’t want to work here any more. He suggested that if I had any outside relationships with the rev and his crew, I break it off with them. He suggested that his organization was looking into the possibility that I was involved in the Washington murder.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “They could easily check and see if you were in Washington at the time.”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“I was.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I’d been up there working the Georgetown area. Selling some knockoff bags and stuff. Actually, it was a pretty sweet deal. A bunch of us were making some really good scratch. We’d set up a folding table and two guys would do lookout. We could be gone in thirty seconds if we saw any cops or suits. Anyway, somehow they knew that I’d been in the D.C. area.”

“So they threatened you?”

“I’d call it a threat. You see, I think they wanted me to know they suspected me. To see how I reacted. To see if I ran back to Thomas LeRoy or Cash, or whoever. I mean, it must have struck a chord with them — you know, me being in Washington, then me joining Cash and company.”

And I wondered the same thing. Were we hanging with someone who could be a murderer? I wished James was back to hear this story.

“Once you quit, what happened? Did they keep checking on you?” Em was into it now.

“For a while. I’d see a car, catch somebody walking behind me. I didn’t sell any knockoff shit for a couple weeks, because I thought they might arrest me for that.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So it finally ended?”

“I think they realized I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a killer. Although, they desperately want to pin it on somebody.”

“Well, neither of us was in Washington, D.C. three years ago.” I’d never been there in my life. “We were still in school.”

“That’s not true, Skip.” Em put her arm around my neck. “Daddy and I went to some hearings on contracting laws. It was in the summer of that year and I went along to keep him company. I’m pretty sure it was at the same time that the senator was shot.”

“Unbelievable.” I thought back, trying to remember Em being gone. Must have been a couple of weeks when we were out of touch.

“The car that followed Emily was owned by the FBI. I feel pretty certain that my visitor was from a government agency. Em, you and I were both in Washington that summer, so there’s a good chance they’re looking at you.”

“You know, if I’d stayed away just another week, this crap never would have happened.” She took her arm off my neck, stood up, and walked to the truck. She looked it up and down, touching it with her hand. “This damned truck of James’s, it’s already caused its share of problems hasn’t it?”

“Em, it’s not the truck.”

“No. I know it. It’s your roommate. I swear to God, Skip, he gets us into more hot water.”

Em and I talked. It was late, and the feelings and the words came slowly. A little about where she’d been for the last three months. Mostly up in the panhandle, staying with a girlfriend. She was disappointed that I’d stayed with the security company. I couldn’t blame her, I was disappointed too. We talked about her job with her father, and we talked about the future. Well, actually we discussed what tomorrow would bring. But in our relationship, it has always seemed to be one day at a time.

“How long are you going to hitch your wagon to James’s star?”

I looked up and could see the stars, dazzling in the Florida sky. “I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Skip, you’re bright, you’re intelligent —”

“I’m up to my ass in college loans. I have applied for other jobs, but with my grades and lack of experience, it just hasn’t happened, Em.”The same argument, the same answers. Emily is a rich bitch and she will never understand the other side of the tracks.

“And I’m still not sure what we’re doing here. We could get into so much trouble.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Daron is the one going in. We’ll simply stand outside and be the lookouts.”

“Still —”

“You were followed by the FBI.”

“We’re to believe that scumbag, Daron Styles? Jeez, Skip, do you remember him in high school? He was a liar, a cheat —”

“Yeah. And you wouldn’t believe what he’s up to now.”

“Don’t even tell me.”

I didn’t. I would have lost my lookout partner if I had.

“The stuff he said makes sense. You know it, I know it. The fact that you really were in Washington, it’s enough to be concerned that they’re checking you out.”

“Being checked out by the FBI —”

Styles came walking back from the Buick, carrying a shoe box. “Hey, Em. Know anything about Loeffler Randall shoes?”

“What?”

“About the value of Loeffler Randall shoes?” He opened the box and showed her these high-heeled somethings with a thin ankle strap.

“What are you doing with women’s shoes?”

Styles looked at me and I frowned and shook my head. He hesitated, watching me closely. “Oh, nothing. I just sort of found them and wondered if they had any value.” He waited for an answer, and when he got none he tossed the box into the truck. “Well, I’d say it’s about time we stroll back to the trailer and see if our security guy has decided to call it a night.”

I kept thinking about Dusty, the full-timer, the ex-school teacher, the gun-toting security guy from the other end of the path. Maybe they switched off and Dusty was security for the office.

Styles leaned into me, a little closer, and whispered. “Some really good stuff in those bags. Three, maybe four hundred bucks on eBay. Find out about those shoes. Okay?”

We acted like we were just out for a one o’clock stroll. Actually, I figured if anyone saw us they’d know in a heartbeat that we were there to break into Cashdollar’s office. I was sweating, glancing in every direction, and wishing like crazy I hadn’t involved Em. She was right. I got into some really bad scenarios because of my best friend. I mean, here I was doing what could arguably be called the dumbest thing I’d ever done, and not only was it sheer stupidity, but I was dragging Em right along.

“I hope you find something, Daron.”

She sounded almost excited, like it was an adventure.

He whispered, softly. “He keeps a record. Of everything that goes on.” Glancing back at me he said, “The incident with the tires? That will be in the computer. He may even write down why they shot them out, and who shot them out. I’ve just got to see if I can find everything.”

“This record of things that happened,” I whispered back, “I don’t understand why he keeps it. And I really question whether it’s that accessible. I mean if this stuff is damaging to Cashdollar, he’s not going to leave it so you can break in and steal it.”

“My friend, trust me.”

“I don’t.”

“In this case, Skipper, I know what I’m talking about. He’s got it all written down. And I told you, he’s got Stan’s notes too. I think he feels that he needs it as security.” He paused for a long time, and we all stopped walking.

“Security?” I had to ask the question.

“I think he’s afraid that the rev may take a hike. And if someone starts looking into the entire mess, I don’t think that LeRoy wants to be involved. Any more than he has to be.”

“He could bargain his way out, with a diary filled with this information?”

“Come on guys.” Styles pointed his finger at me. “Can’t you quit putting words in my mouth? I told you, I’m guessing.”

Softly, she spat the words. “Bullshit. You said there might be information about you in this electronic notebook. You know exactly what they’re doing. Don’t you? You’re not guessing.”

“Yeah.” I needed to stand up for Em. “Why the hell would he write about
you
, and what did he say?”

Styles was quiet. He sucked on his tobacco, my God he smoked a lot, and seemed to be pondering the situation.

“I told you that Michael Bland was a full-timer?”

Em gave me a questioning look.

“Yeah.”

“Well, when he died of a drug overdose he had quite a bit of money on him. His winnings from the poker game.”

I just wished he’d get to the point.

“So, I got word the next day that I was being accused of taking the money.”

It all started to fall into place. The poker group had figured out that Styles was a scam artist, and it made sense that he would be the one to steal the money. But off a dead body?

“So, the next day, after the cops left, Stan, Henry, and Sailor came to see me. I had a little tent, and they pulled the flap back and asked me to come out.”

“Threatening?” Em seemed to be more engrossed than before.

“Not at first. It was just after dinner that night, and I’d had quite a bit of business. I thought they were asking me to come down early to the poker game.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“No.” Styles gazed at the trailer, as if anxious to get inside and find the fabled computerized records.

“What was it?” I needed to know. If I was putting myself on the line, I wanted an answer.

“I came out and they surrounded me. First of all, Stan said they were concerned about my background. I told him I was
concerned about theirs too. That didn’t go over too well. I could tell I’d pissed them off.”

“Never pays to be a smart-ass when there are three to one.”

“No. Then Henry, who is usually real laid back, says, ‘Did you have anything to do with Michael’s drug overdose?’ ”

“And you said?”

“Of course I said no. I’d seriously thought that his group, the full-timers, may be responsible.”

Styles had been with the group for two days. He’d already figured out they were capable of murder? Then it hit me. In two days, James and I had come to the same conclusion. This could be a group capable of almost anything.

“So Sailor, who never says a thing, walks up and literally bumps my chest with his and says ‘Where’s the money?’ ”

“They thought you killed this guy and took his money?”

“I was the new guy. They didn’t know me. The other vendors who weren’t full time had been there more than once. The other guys were local, trusted, and the full-timers knew who they were.
I
was the one they didn’t trust.”

We were whispering, but getting louder. Em shushed us, putting her finger to her lips.

“Somebody may be guarding this place or listening. Let’s keep it down.”

Softer now. “Anyway, I tried to move away but they wouldn’t let me. They kept crowding my space. They wanted to come in and search the tent.”

“For?”

“What do you mean ‘for’? For drugs and money.”

“So what happened?” Em asked.

“I was getting a little noisy, hoping someone would come out of his tent or camper and scare these three guys away.”

“Didn’t happen?” I asked.

“No. Not right away.”

“So what happened?” Em was in his face, asking her same question again, anxious to get to the end of this tense story.

“They told me they believed I may have had something to do with this guy’s death. And they thought I probably lifted his cash. He’d been found not more than twenty yards from my tent.”

“Did they threaten you?” I needed to know.

“That’s when they said that this entire scenario was being recorded in Thomas LeRoy’s electronic diary. His organizer. And that I should leave and never return.”

“So you got thrown out by the vendors and the FBI? No wonder Cashdollar gave you a nasty look. Nobody wanted you back here.”

“Yeah. But it’s a free country, Skipper.”

“It may be, but you certainly take advantage of it.”

He smiled at me. “I’ll admit it. I do.”

We were all quiet for two minutes. I was even more aware that we were in deep shit. And James was down at the poker game, with these threatening people, probably losing his ass.

“So,” Em wanted closure. “Did they ever find out who killed him?”

Styles shook his head. “No. There’s never been anyone even suspected to my knowledge. Other than me, and they had absolutely nothing to go on when they looked at me. You want my guess?”

“If that’s the best we can do.”

“I figure it was one of the full-timers. He’d done something to piss them off. I’m not sure what, but they wanted him gone. This guy wasn’t a drug user. At all. He very seldom even drank.”

I tried to grasp the entire story. “And yet —”

“He died of an overdose. Somebody set him up. No question.” I saw Styles pull his hat down over his forehead.

“Which one did it?”

“Skipper, I told you. This is all a guess.”

“Who?”

“One of them who didn’t show up at my tent. I think whoever it was sent them up to talk to me.”

It was obvious that he was getting anxious to go into the trailer. But not to find out if Em was in LeRoy’s computer. Not to find out about the FBI. He wasn’t going in to see who shot our tires out. Styles wanted to know what had been said about him regarding the death of Michael Bland. He wanted to know if Thomas LeRoy had actually accused him of being a murderer in the precious, tell-all computer diary.

“So, did they search your tent?”

“No. I’m not sure why. I thought for sure they’d come into the tent and tear it up. Maybe they were afraid the people around me would start to be suspicious about what was going on. Maybe they figured I would have covered up any evidence. I don’t know. But they gave me the warning and walked away.”

If they already knew who had killed Bland, they would have no reason to search Styles’s tent. Whatever had happened, it had happened a long time ago and by now any evidence had probably disappeared. I asked the question casually. I didn’t want to sound accusatory. “You never saw these notes that Stan and LeRoy took?”

“No.”

“But you’re sure they exist?”

“I’m sure.”

“And you don’t know for sure what these documents say about you?”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

I didn’t believe that for a minute. I looked at Em, in the dark shadows, and I could tell she wasn’t buying into it either.