Don Bruns: Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“Jeez, you’re the business guy. We get two hundred customers a night, sell ’em a meal for ten bucks and — ”

“You’re gonna sell a hamburger, corn, and potato salad for ten bucks? My God, James, those people won’t have anything left for the collection plate.”

“Listen, Daron Styles says that — ”

“Daron Styles? Why would you quote that reprobate?”

“All right, he wasn’t the most trustworthy kid in our class, but he’s done this revival meeting. He says it’s a license to steal.”

“Daron Styles ‘did’ this revival meeting? What does that mean?”

“He had a booth. Sold religious stuff like small Bibles, pictures, silver crosses, statues and stuff. He says the followers come with money to spend. I believe he did quite well.”

“Styles is sleezy. Is that the kind of person we’re going to be working with?”

“He’s not with the meeting anymore. He’s working in South Beach, but Skip, who the hell cares? Listen, pard, we’re in the middle of a campground. These people have been dancing and singing and whatever they do at these revivals and they are hungry, Skip, with nowhere else to go. Ten bucks a meal covers our gas, our time, and our supplies. We can make some good money, pal. Come on, would I steer you wrong?”

He paused, waiting for me to jump at the chance. If this was such a good idea, why had Daron Styles left? And would James steer me wrong? Of course. No question. He’d steered me all over the place since grade school. “James, there has to be a tariff. They’re not going to let us just make that kind of money off of their congregation without some sort of fee.”

James smiled. His charming smile worked on a lot of people, but we went back much too long for it to have any effect on me. “Skip, Skip. I can’t pull anything on you. You’re my amigo.”

“Can it. How much?”

“Five hundred a day.”

“Jesus!”

“That’s why we’re going, son. For Jesus.”

“And if we don’t make five hundred dollars a day?”

“Well,” he studied me as if to gauge my reaction to his next charming statement, “we still have to pay. It’s up-front money.”

“Oh, well let me get my wallet out. I’ve got three days worth of five hundred dollars right here. No problem.” I probably had nine bucks if I was lucky.

His charm went out the window. “Look, damn it. We can make twenty-five hundred a night off this thing. I’ve met with one of Reverend Cashdollar’s business guys, Thomas LeRoy, and he assured me we could do at least that well.”

“Thomas LeRoy?”

“Thomas LeRoy. He handles Cashdollar’s business affairs. His title is,” James pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jeans and opened it up, “Deacon Thomas LeRoy, Division Head of Financial Affairs.”

“Jeez, James. The whole thing sounds suspect.” And then another thought hit me. “And how many other food vendors are there at five hundred bucks a pop?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe two or three.”

“And where did you think we were going to come up with that kind of cash?”

“I’ve already got it. We just have to pay her back.”

“Who?”

“Brook. She took five hundred out of her savings account.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, James. You’ve gone out with her, what, six times? And you’ve already floated a five hundred dollar loan.”

“Charm, Skip. Obviously something you need to cultivate.”

I studied the hot midday sun, the cracked and pitted concrete porch that we sat on in our cheap, faded, plastic lawn chairs. I scratched at the label on my cheap off-brand beer and considered the fact that I didn’t have any idea better than my roommate’s.

“Three nights?”

“Three nights, bro. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. We come back here after each dinner shift, and Sunday after the big finale, we pack it in. Comin’ home with some real cash.”

“And all we have to do is pay one night at a time?”

“Pay as you pray, brother.”

“And you trust this Thomas LeRoy? Division head of whatever?”

“As much as you can trust anyone. He’s a very professional businessman. Suit, tie, very organized, and he’s got this personal organizer with him. I’m talking to him, he’s keeping notes on this thing. I was impressed. We’re going to have to get one of those things eventually. A personal organizer. Pretty cool.” He swallowed the rest of his beer and stood up, his tall lanky frame towering over me.

“James, you’ve already got a personal organizer. And sometimes I get a little tired of being it.”

He didn’t smile.

“And I’m not sure Styles is a good reference.”

“Like him or not, Daron Styles did the show and said it’s a good way to make a nice chunk of change. Skip, a lot of life is just looking for the next adventure. Look at this as our next adventure.”

I’d heard it before. From Uncle Buzz. “You don’t see Styles doing it again, do you?”

“He had a run-in with a couple of the other vendors.”

It didn’t surprise me at all. Daron Styles was always having a run-in with somebody or something.

“That was it? He had a run-in with somebody?”

James was quiet for a moment. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Somebody was killed the weekend he worked at the revival. And maybe Styles was implicated. I don’t have all the information, but it was a one-time thing. No biggy.”

“Somebody was killed, and it’s no biggy? Killed on the campground?”

“Come on, Skip. It had nothing to do with us.”

James was full of bullshit. He could say that now, but when I got involved with him, everything had to do with us. “And Styles?”

“Never arrested, never convicted as far as I know.”

“Who was killed?” He was stalling.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“But you did.”

“Damn it, pard. It’s not important.”

“Who was killed?” I could hold out as long as he could.

“Are you in or are you out?”

I thought about it for a minute. Sixty seconds can be a long time when you’re under pressure. Finally I nodded. James already knew my answer. And I hated that. “All right.”

He raised his empty beer bottle, toasting the venture. “We’re gonna make some serious jack, Skip.”

“Who was killed?”

“May have been an accidental death, amigo.”

“Who?”

“A vendor. A food vendor. Okay? You happy?”

I just shook my head. Why was I always letting him drag me into these things?

I remembered my last revival. I remembered meeting the attractive seventeen-year-old black girl as she walked up to Buzz, basket in hand.

“The Lord took a few loaves of bread and a few fish, multiplied them and fed five thousand. Will you help in the Lord’s work?” she had said.

Buzz reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. In the few times I’d actually been inside a church, I’d never seen anyone give more than a five dollar bill.

“See how far this will go.”

“Thank you,” the girl smiled bashfully.

“I’m Buzz and this is Skip. I was just telling my nephew about the power of your revival meetings.”

Her face lit up as she took the bill and put her hand on his. “I’m Cabrina. Cabrina Washington. The Lord will bless you for this.”

The next day we heard it on the radio, driving Buzz’s Mustang down A1A to the Keys. Cabrina Washington was found strangled to death in a grove of pine trees about one hundred yards from a group of camper/trailers inside the campgrounds. To my knowledge they never found the murderer.

“You’ll be surprised at how powerful these revivals can be.” James smiled, and took a drag from his cigarette.

“No, I won’t be surprised at all.” I popped the cap on another beer and prayed that this would be much less eventful than the last revival I’d attended eleven years ago.