Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“What do you mean, distance his comments?” James gave me a funny look.

“I brought up the murdered girl, and he immediately wanted to tell me that he hadn’t meant anything about his comments the other night. I mean, he practically accused Cashdollar of killing Fred Long.”

James continued to wipe his hands. A little soap would have helped. “Now that you mention it — ”

“So I’m thinking that’s one of the reasons he came over here.”

“What? To tell us the rev was not the killer?”

“Yeah. And he made a big deal of telling me that the vendor death was an accident.”

“Oh, come on. It came up, pardner, that’s all.”

“And when I asked him about Cabrina Washington, he said he didn’t remember much because it has been so long ago.”

“So?”

“And right away he remembers her last name. He says ‘Oh, you mean the Washington girl?’ Like it was on the tip of his tongue. I thought that was a little strange. And he doesn’t want to admit he was working the revival show back then. And finally, he almost warns me about asking too many questions. Did you hear that?”

“Maybe he was right, pard. You were coming down pretty hard on Cashdollar. Was he ever implicated and all that? Maybe it’s best to just drop it.”

“It was a question. That’s all it was. And I never even asked him what he meant when he said ‘I was there when Long was shot.’ What did that mean? Was he there, standing right there? Was he in D.C.?”

“Skip, what’s the last movie you and I saw?”

I stared at him for a moment, thinking. “What the hell does that have to do with the current conversation?”

“Just humor me. What was the last movie we saw, pard?”

“We rented Disturbia. And we were talking about it and — ”

“Yeah, kind of weak.”

“- and you decided to rent Rear Window, the Hitchcock movie. You said Disturbia was a really weak copycat movie of Rear Window.”

James smiled, shoving his utensils in a drawer beneath the stove. He latched the drawer, took off his apron, and sat down on an upside-down plastic bucket that previously contained thousands of pickles. “I like the fact that you’re one of only three people in the world that like pizza-flavored chips.”

Stupid quote, stupid movie. “ Disturbia had some weak quotes. I’ll give you that.”

“But Rear Window — I love that movie. Jimmy Stewart, Grace Kelley.” For a moment he was lost in his James world.

“They’re trying to convince themselves that the lady has been murdered and Lisa says to Jeff, ‘What’s a logical explanation for a woman taking a trip with no luggage?’ ”

I had no idea where he was going with this scenario, but I did know Jeff’s next line.

“That she didn’t know she was going on a trip and where she was going she wouldn’t need any luggage.

“And Lisa says — ”

We both said it together. “Exactly.”

“What’s the point of this exercise, James?”

“I’ve got to get you to more comedies, son. You’re taking this conspiracy, this clue thing way too far. The guy is our neighbor. He’s just being friendly. Hell, you’re replaying Rear Window and trying to make somebody a killer. You’re spooked about a girl who died ten years ago and a senator who could have had hundreds of enemies. Come on, Skip. Take it easy, my friend.”

“I was there. The night Cabrina Washington was killed. Right here.”

“So?”

“You told me the story of Daron Styles and the food vendor. My God, James, a vendor, just like us, died. Right here.”

“Oh Christ. Give it up. Come on, amigo. They were stray moments. We aren’t a part of that scenerio.”

I nodded. “You’re right.”

“We’ll rent The Producers. The original, with Zero Mostel. We’ll drink some beer and laugh our asses off. Man, you are getting way too serious, amigo.”

I saw him approach the truck from the corner of my eye, his stomach preceding him. He was puffing on a big brown cigar and carried a beer bottle in his hand.

“Hey, boys.”

“Stan.” James nodded. Stan had quite a bit of James’s money from last night and I could tell from just the way he said “Stan” that James was thinking about getting that money back.

Our poker buddy leaned on the back of the truck, studying us. “Heard you went into the tent this evening.”

James looked at me. “We did.”

“Who told you?”

“Hey, kid, don’t take offense. Thomas LeRoy noticed you in the crowd. Wanted to know who the new guys were and how you were doing.”

“Tell him we’re doing fine.” James smiled.

“So, you saw the rev. Pretty good show, eh?”

“Well,” I watched him take a swallow of beer and realized we didn’t have any. What the hell were we thinking? “we didn’t stay for much of it.”

“Still, you saw some pretty powerful stuff. You make sure you come down to the trailer in ’bout half an hour. We’re playin’ some poker and I think you’ll have a good time.”

More free beer? Sooner or later they’d make us pay for the privilege. Of course, the way James played, the beer wasn’t free.

And, of course, James had the same thought I did. “We’ll be there. Looking forward to it.”

Stan kept his elbow on the truck bed, watching us and blowing out puffs of gray smoke from his cheap cigar. It smelled somewhat like wet rags in a trash fire. “What do you boys do when you’re not selling food?”

“You mean for fun?” James asked.

“No. What are your day jobs? Some of us do this full time. I travel with the rev. Crayer pretty much works with the rev full time. Now Dusty, he’s a retired school teacher if you can believe that, and Mug is a three-time convicted felon who has his own catering business. You don’t want to fuck with him. Is that what you boys do? Cater?”

“No, sir.” James got off his bucket and stepped to the rear. “I work for a seafood restaurant and Skip here sells security systems.”

“And neither of us is a felon,” I added.

James nodded. “Not yet.”

Stan pursed his lips and frowned, almost as if he didn’t believe us. “That’s what you do, huh? A little sales and food.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bruce tells me you had some questions about the rev and this operation.”

I could feel James’s eyes shift toward me. “Just heard some things and wondered.”

“You got questions, ask me.” Straightforward. The horse’s mouth so to speak.

“They weren’t important. I’d just been here a while back and remembered an incident — ”

“The Washington girl?” He said it in a low, guttural voice.

“Yeah.”

“Sad story. They never found the killer. Reverend Cashdollar,” he paused, “and his wife felt terrible. You know Gwena? Anyway, any time someone in this unit has a problem, the rev and his wife get personally involved. He even paid a private detective to look into the death, but they never got the first clue.”

I was tempted. I wanted to say, “Hey, I heard she was Cashdollar’s girlfriend,” but I didn’t. There was a menacing tone to Stan’s voice and I didn’t even want to go there.

“You listen to me, kid. I’ve been here longer than anyone. Got it?” He puffed on the cigar.

“Got it.”

“Michael Bland, he was a druggy. Guy overdosed. It’s on the record, so you can drop your questions about him.”

“Michael Bland?”

He stared at me, his eyes burning holes in my retinas.

“He was a vendor. Just like you.” There was a long silence.

“Ah.”

“I just think it’s better if you get a straight answer from someone who knows what’s going on.”

I nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Well boys, I hope you do well in your day jobs, that sales and fast food thing, because this right here is a tough racket. And to be honest, we don’t need more competition.”