Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Stan squinted at me. “I told you, you can’t be a weekend vendor and make any money. It’s a full-time commitment. You take Henry over there.” He pointed to lemonade-and-hotdog Henry. “Henry, how long did you go before you were full time with the rev?”

Henry studied his cards, moving them around, never looking up. “ ’Bout a month.”

“See, Henry worked in a tool and die shop, did this part time, but he realized he needed a full-time commitment.” Stan reached out and touched Dusty’s arm. “Tell ’em I’m right, Dusty.”

“Right as rain.” Dusty looked up, apparently realizing he might anger the rain god again. We all looked up. The god remained quiet. The former schoolteacher let out a sigh.

James took the pot. With two pair. And just like that he was up $150. Then he took another one and he was flirting with $400.

The rain had washed the grease smell from the air, and had hosed down some of the more offensive odors of two of the poker players themselves, so I could smell pine trees on the cooling night air. A hundred feet or so away, I could hear the soft lapping of the Intracoastal Waterway, and there were murmuring voices coming from the community of tents, trailers, and campers where the faithful and the vendors lived for the weekend.

I looked around while James played, and I tried to figure out if one of these full-time vendors had taken our money. Stan and Crayer, with their cryptic threats, Mug, who may have done jail time for theft, Dusty the school teacher who didn’t look like he could hurt a fly, Henry the tool shop guy, and the silent man sitting to my right. Any one of them could have done it. All they had to do was pop open the truck, bang the door behind the passenger seat, and it usually popped right open, even when it was locked. There’s a false wall there and a narrow closet. I’d just put the cash box there. If someone had seen me do it, stealing it would be a snap. It could have been any one of these guys, but I had suspicions about Crayer. He was right next door, and he’d probably seen me open that little closet several times. I watched him, thinking maybe I’d see something. A glance, a guilty look. Obviously, I’m not a detective. I had no idea what to look for.

The night grew quiet and I could hear crickets. Crickets and the sound of someone walking down to Stan’s pizza wagon. The footsteps made a faint sucking sound, as the soles of the shoes walked through the wet dirt and gravel left after the day’s downpour.

Somebody called from the dark. “Yo.”

Stan stood up and walked out onto the dark path. The game came to a halt and I could see James’s eyes darting around. He was on a roll. Don’t fuck with Mug? Heck, don’t fuck with James.

I struggled to see who the man was in the dim light. Taller than Stan, someone with a jacket on.

In a minute, Stan walked back to the table. “Men, the collection tonight was pretty good.”

James and I looked at each other, wondering how Stan knew.

“Share was a little up from last time.” He held a canvas bag in his right hand. “You see boys,” he looked hard and long at James and me, “for the full-timers among us, Cash shares the wealth. Like he says, if you give, the Lord will give back.”

The assembled, as one, murmured, “Amen.”

I knew who the visitor was. Thomas LeRoy.

James looked at the bag, then up at Stan. “How much?”

“Tonight? About $800 per man.”

“No shit?”

Stan stared down at James. “No shit.” He held James with his eyes, as if daring him to make another comment. Just a little tension, bubbling beneath the surface. Stan didn’t seem to like us too well.

“Bruce,” I looked at the donut man sitting next to James, “you never told us about this.”

“Are you ready to be full-time vendors?”

We spoke in unison. “No.”

“Then there was no reason for you to know.”

“Will somebody deal?” Obviously irritated, James had lost all patience.

Henry dealt the cards and James won the pot. Three more times. I know it sounds crazy, but we walked away from the table with $620 in cash and three free beers for each of us.

Stan stood up, stretched, and picked up the canvas bag of cash. “Gonna get some air.” He reached into the bag and pulled out prewrapped bundles of cash, handing them to the full-timers. No one bothered to count it. They just shoved the bundles into their pockets as if someone gave them $800 every day of their lives. Stan surveyed the assembly then pulled a silver-looking palm-sized item from his shirt pocket. He used his thumbs like he was text messaging, nodded, and put it back in his shirt. “Well,” he nodded to the guys, “right now I need to get rid of some of this beer.” He walked away from the group, heading up the path toward the row of portable johns.

The others stood, picking up chips and counting their remaining money from the poker table. Crayer, Dusty, Henry, Mug, and the guy who had been stone-cold silent both nights. I could barely make him out in the dim light.

Crayer tapped James on the shoulder. “Got kind of lucky tonight, didn’t you?”

“I’ve played a lot of poker. When I should have been working, when I should have been studying.” James smiled. “I hope it was more than just luck.”

“Yeah. Well, we’ll see how it goes tomorrow night, okay?”

“It’s a date.” It would have been like stopping a runaway train, trying to get James not to show up.

“We’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Mug mumbled.

Finally, James turned to me. “I’ll make up the other five hundred tomorrow night, pardner.”

“James, did you notice Stan, after he handed out the cash bonuses?”

“What about him?”

“He pulled out a pocket organizer and punched some stuff in.”

“Yeah? So what?”

“He and Thomas LeRoy. They really depend on those.”

“It’s like I told you, we’ve got to get us one of those.”

“I just thought it was a little strange that they both use the same — ”

“Skip,” he jumped in, “I swear you are worrying this thing to death. Just drop it, man.”

I thought about the night. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was paranoid. I felt like we were surrounded by crooks, thieves, and murderers. And I was even wondering about the card game. All I had done was watch, but it just didn’t feel right. It was as if they were setting him up, hoping tomorrow he’d lay it all out. So they could take it all away. Because when James thought he was hot, no one could convince him he wasn’t.

“Okay, you’re right. I’ll get it under control. And by the way, quite a comeback, James.” I nodded. At that point, I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Tomorrow night would be a different story.

“I’m the comeback kid, Dude. Remember that.”

And in some ways, he really was.

W e walked back up the muddy path, past the pasta wagon, Henry’s hot dog stand with the picture of a pooch in flames, the Freedom Fry cart, and other assorted grease traps.

“So all the poker players down there are full time except us?”

“There’s what? Six? Must be.” James still had the cash in his hand, rubbing his thumb over Franklin’s face.

“James, I’d put that money away. Somebody here is not above taking it away from you.”

“But there are people who are also giving it away. How about that cash bonus down at Stan’s?”

“Yeah. Cashdollar pays them back when the collection is good? What’s that all about.”

“Well, if you think about it,” James said, “he needs these vendors. Without us, he wouldn’t keep the flock. Knowing there’s food, a little community can stay here for three or four days.”

“Yeah. Just seems strange. I wonder how the congregation would feel if they knew that the money they gave to Cashdollar went out to the food vendors who are overcharging like hell for their product.”