Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“Wow.” James shook his head. “You usually think of drug overdoses with younger guys.”

“That’s what a lot of people thought.”

“When did this happen?”

“The weekend I was there. The Saturday night of revival.”

“Any idea that he was on drugs?”

“I think it surprised everybody. Well, except Stan. Stan claimed he knew all along that Bland was on something. Used to call him a — ”

“Druggy?” I remembered Stan’s comment.

“How the hell did you know that?”

I said nothing.

“Any investigation into the death?” James jumped in.

“Oh, there was. They never proved anything and I know they never found the money.”

“What money?”

“A couple of hours before he died he’d won a pot load at the nightly poker game. They figured he’d used it to buy the drugs, because no one ever found the cash.”

A n old weather-beaten, white-haired man in a tattered gray jacket sat down at the counter. Fishing in his shirt pocket, he came out with a bent cigarette and tried to light it with a pack of matches that had seen too much moisture. I watched him as the waitress came down the seats, shaking her finger at him.

“Sir, sir, you know there is no smoking inside restaurants. Sir.”

His hands shook as he tried to strike the third match. There was no chance the older gentleman would ever get the thing lit.

“So you’ve got Stan — ” James was writing on a napkin, making a list, “- Bruce, Dusty, Mug, hot dog Henry,” he paused. “Who the hell else is there.”

“Invisible Sailor.” Daron smiled. “I always called him ‘IS’. Sailor is a real quiet dude, just sits there and quietly plays. Wins some, loses some, you never know. He blends in.”

I’d been down there twice, but I couldn’t put a face on Sailor. I’d seen him, but he was a shadowy individual and I hadn’t paid much attention.

“So that’s six. Any murderers in the group?”

Daron took a swallow of his creamy, sugary, caffeinated beverage. “One of the guys has some felony convictions. They’re upfront about him. Mug, I think. I would guess that some of the others have some felony convictions, too, but the rev doesn’t exactly do background checks on his vendors.”

I’d never considered that. Murderers, sex offenders, muggers, robbers, and rapists, after they’d done their time, what did they do with the rest of their lives? Work in a car wash? Fast food? Or work for somebody like Cashdollar? Because you’d almost have to move from your hometown, and you certainly couldn’t work for a bank, teach school, work as an accountant, or for that matter, much of anything else. Maybe you’d have to — and then it hit me. Maybe you’d have to sell security systems or work at a place like Cap’n Crab. Well, hell. We were both on the bottom rung of the ladder with murderers, sex offenders, muggers, and the like. That was encouraging. As far as I knew, no one had ever done a background check on me, or James.

“You know, there are some people like Cashdollar who have backgrounds in murder. I mean, celebrities usually skate on something like that. They don’t do any serious time. Don King, Phil Spector, Snoop Dogg. Major celebrities who’ve been implicated in murder. I mean, look at Robert Blake, O.J. Simpson — it hasn’t stopped most of them from going on with their lives.”

It hadn’t. As far as I knew. Of course, you only know what you read, see on TV, or hear on the radio. And I wasn’t sure that I should believe everything from the media.

The old man at the counter had laid his head down and appeared to be asleep, the cigarette and matches lying on the vinyl surface.

“Sir, sir, you can’t sleep here.” The poor waitress was shaking that finger and I was afraid she’d jam it in his eye.

I half listened to James and Daron speaking intently about the full-time players. I wondered what was happening to the people who were standing at the airport terminal’s Delta counter, asking about their missing luggage. I worried about Em, who was trying to figure out if I was full-time material, if I was worthy of being a husband, a father. I thought about Bruce Crayer and the attempted murder of Barry Romans on South Beach, and I kept thinking about James, the truck, and whether I wanted to get myself into another jam.

“What do you think, Skip?”

I hadn’t been listening enough. Damn.

“Well,” James was staring at me. “Should we have Daron spend tonight and tomorrow with us?”

I’d missed the turn in the conversation.

“Huh?”

“Skip! Give me a sign, amigo. I think Daron could help. He could be our eyes, our voice, and he knows the players.

Putting it to me, right in front of the guy himself.

“We had a good lunch, we’ll have a good dinner. Let’s say we pay Daron a couple hundred bucks,” he glanced at Daron and got a nod, “and he gives us a hand.”

I had no idea where this was going.

“Maybe we ought to kick it around? You and me?”

James frowned. I was embarrassing him in front of a business associate. Well, excuse me. I had an investment in this too.

“Skip, dude, Daron is going to help us.” And that was that.

I watched the counter, as the waitress patted the white-haired man on the head. She patted, then shook his head. He made no attempt to respond. Either he was passed out or dead.

“All right, James. Daron is part of your team. But his salary comes out of your half.” And that was that.

W e snuck into the tent for the late afternoon show. Cashdollar, resplendent in a maroon tux and black cape, came storming out from the wings, the wind machine kicking into high velocity.

“Impressed? Well, you shouldn’t be.” And he went into his opening act for twenty minutes.

“He’s going to mention Romans. You just wait. What was it he said about the senator this morning? God takes matters into his own hands?” James was positive. Positive about the negatives.

Cashdollar worked the crowd, pacing back and forth on the huge stage, working up a personal sweat and a fervor in the faithful as they shouted “Amen” and clapped their hands. The choir chimed in at the appointed moments and when the reverend pointed to the banner behind him everyone screamed.

“Say it with me,” he shouted. “Say it with me.” The voice boomed over the speaker system. “You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion!”

As he thrust the gold Bible at them, waving it in the air, they said it, over and over again.

“Did I say it? No. Did you say it? No. Who says it, brothers and sisters? The Bible says it.” He shook the book. “The Bible. God’s holy word says it.” Now the gold book was the featured visual on the huge screens. “It’s in here, my friends. And not just my Bible, but your Bible. God’s word. God says it. In his very own book. People say ‘reverend, God never talks to me.’ Well listen! Listen. God says, from his lips to your ears, you will be made rich, but there’s a catch. There’s a catch. You must be generous on every occasion.” He paused. That was the important part of his message. “You must be generous on every occasion.”

I glanced at James to see if he was planning on putting any more money in the collection plate. I figured he wasn’t going to be quite as generous this time. After all, we’d paid Brook $200, and he was about to pay his good friend Daron another chunk of change for hanging around. I was right. As the collection plates were handed down the aisle, James’s hand never dipped into his pocket. Daron and I followed suit.

The organ music was loud and shrill and the choir fought to rise above it with a spiritual sounding song. All I knew was, the collection plate was going to be minus by a little more than $8.00.