Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“James. Skipper.” He had a two-day growth, the flowered shirt, and a funny round porkpie hat that made him look like Kid Rock. And he still called me Skipper. “Hop in, boys. I’ve got a brief stop to make at the airport, then we can grab a cup of coffee and talk.”

Styles and James bullshitted each other for twenty minutes, talking about girls and schemes, and generally catching up. I kept quiet and thought about Em being back in town. Twenty minutes later Styles pulled off onto the access road and parked in front of terminal H.

“You guys hold down the car, I’ll get Aunt Ginny and be back in just a minute.” He left the engine running, jumped out, and popped open the cavernous trunk. I watched him stroll into the terminal. James and I looked at each other.

“Aunt Ginny?”

“Hey, James, he’s your friend. Did he say anything during the trip about picking up his aunt?”

James shrugged his shoulders and we waited. Maybe three minutes later he came bustling out, an overnight bag strapped to his shoulder, and two large suitcases that he pulled behind him. His pace picked up as he approached the car, and he tossed the three pieces of luggage into the trunk, slammed it closed, and stepped into the car. He closed the door, hit the gas, and shot out onto the access road.

“Daron.”

“Dude.”

“Didn’t you forget something?”

“What?”

“Aunt Ginny?”

He shook his head. “Nah. That’s just for airport security if they asked you why we were parked there.”

I glanced at James. “There is no Aunt Ginny?”

“No. I just needed you guys to cover the car. There’s no security on the luggage carousel. All you’ve got to do is go in and grab a couple of bags off the belt. If someone says you’re taking their bag, you apologize, tell them they all look the same, and put it back. Ninety percent of the time no one says a word.”

“What? You steal luggage on a regular basis?”

He pulled out of the airport, checking the rearview mirrors.

“Depends on what you mean by regular. When I can get someone to watch the car. You’d be surprised what you find in people’s luggage. There’s usually something that you can sell. I bet I average fifty bucks a bag. One trip to the airport, you can make one, two hundred bucks.”

James smiled. I closed my eyes. Now we were accomplices to a crime. Hanging with James was always an adventure.

“I sold a GPS for four hundred bucks last week. It was right on top of this lady’s underwear. And that stuff was pretty kinky. She had a vibrator in the suitcase too. I couldn’t sell a used vibrator.”

Ten minutes later we were inside a coffee shop named Miles’s. Styles sat across from us, breaking open multiple packets of sugar and shaking each one into his creamed coffee.

“I told Skip that you used to work for Cashdollar’s traveling circus.”

“I did. Nice little business. I sold cheap little crosses, some Bibles that I got from China, wooden charms, wall plaques, and statues. You’d be surprised what kind of junk is made for the religious trade. Christ, napkin holders with scripture engraved on them, flower vases that look like the tomb Jesus was buried in, and everything in the world in the shape of a cross.”

“Good money in those things?”

“A gold mine, my friend. And speaking of that, I found out about the gold Bible that the rev always carries with him. He’s rumored to never go anywhere without it. So I got some little keychain gold Bibles and those sold like hotcakes.”

“But you’re not with him anymore? Even though you made good money?”

“Obviously, no.”

James and I waited. Finally, my roommate asked the question. “Why?”

He hesitated. “Couple of reasons. I guess the best is it wouldn’t have been a good business decision. The rev works these things about six times a year, mostly in the South. If you want to work for him you’ve got to commit to full time.”

There it was again. Full time.

“When you get called, you show up.”

“For his shows, right? Six a year?” James was eagerly eating it all up.

“His shows, and whatever else he wants.”

James looked at me. I looked at Styles. “What else does he want?”

“I never found out.” His eyes left us and he stared over my shoulder, out the window.

James took a swallow of his coffee, while Styles kept stirring his sugary drink with his finger.

“Daron, what the hell are you talking about?”

It took him a long time to answer. I figured he was going to make something up, or it was difficult for him to talk about it. Finally, “There were seven full-time guys with him three years ago. All I know is that I heard they could get a call at a moment’s notice, and they’d all have to drop whatever they were doing and meet with Cashdollar, or Thomas LeRoy. You’ve met LeRoy?”

James nodded.

“Thomas LeRoy has the exact location of all the full-timers. He keeps it in this personal organizer he carries with him.”

“He knows where all these guys are?”

“Seems to be important to the operation. Me, I can’t figure out why you need to know where a pizza guy is at two in the morning or a hot dog guy on a Sunday afternoon. Unless you’re at the ballpark and you want a dog or some pizza.” He sipped the sweet coffee. “Anyway, LeRoy has his organizer and if he wants you, you drop what you’re doing and show up. I wasn’t ready to do that.”

“So LeRoy is more than just finance?”

“Yeah. He’s the business manager, you know? And I tell you he’s a guy with no personality. I’d play with him a little, tell him I was having an off day and see if I could get a deal on the day’s rent. Man wouldn’t even smile or appreciate my attempt. I learned you don’t mess with him.”

“Some people just have no appreciation.”

“Oh, he’d just frown and walk away. But the donut guy, Bruce, came down and told me to either shape up or they’d ship me out. Apparently they thought I was trying to run a scam on them. So I learned that Thomas LeRoy gets some of the boys to do his dirty work.”

“Imagine that,” I said.

“So you got threatened?” James leaned halfway across the table. “We did, too, dude.”

“It was some stuff I did, and some stuff I thought I saw. It’s a long story and kind of confusing,” said Styles.

“You want to tell us exactly what it was?” Here was a guy who’d been asked to leave. Maybe he could give us a clue.

“Not right now. It’s something I haven’t talked about. Not a big deal, just better left unsaid.”

“Something about the accidental death of a food vendor?”

Styles frowned and gazed at James.

“What the hell happened?” I needed to know.

“I really don’t know. I heard stories, but — ” His eyes drifted off to a spot on the far wall.

I shrugged my shoulders. Sooner or later.

“Daron, what could be so important that you’d have to be that available twenty-four-seven? I mean, Cashdollar has a nice business, but why would the vendors have to be on call all the time?”

James sipped his black coffee.

“I don’t know, boys. I told you. I never went full time.”

“Well,” James stroked his chin, “it’s a big business. I mean, if he needed to meet with the vendors and get their take on setting things up, I mean — ”

I swirled a mouthful of Miles’s coffee, understanding why Daron had put so much sugar in his cup. The strong, acrid beverage almost took the enamel off of my teeth. “You said there were seven full-timers?”

“There were.”

“There are six now.”

“I heard. They never replaced Michael.”

“What happened to number seven?” I was still trying.

“Michael Bland. Nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He’d had a sandwich shop in Denver. He sold it and came to Florida. Guy was about sixty-two years old, seemed to be well adjusted, then, supposedly” he leaned on the word supposedly, “up and died of a drug overdose.”