Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Styles sat on the back of the truck, blowing smoke rings from a small brown cigar. He’d pulled his hat down to his eyebrows and he was slowly nodding, taking in our banter.

“The dream is okay. We’ve all got to dream.”

“Then what’s the problem, compadre?”

“It’s the messenger. Remember, you told him how great he was?”

“I did.”

“And he said — ”

“The message is great. The man is weak.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. He pretty much told you what he is. Weak. Personally, I think this guy is a scam artist, probably a crook, and we know of two murders, a drug overdose, and a shooting that may be attributed to him.”

My buddy was quiet for a moment, sucking on his cigarette. “Fred Long, Cabrina Washington, maybe Michael Bland, and now Barry Romans.”

“Can I jump in for just a brief moment?” Styles blew a puff of smoke at me. “Michael Bland, the full-timer… there’s no question in my mind about an accidental overdose. There’s no maybe. He was murdered, boys. They stuffed him with drugs. I’d throw his name into the mix of murdered bodies just for fun.”

So we did. Just for fun. I was starting to wonder if there were more that we were missing. Cashdollar’s little enterprise was littered with bodies.

“Okay,” James processed it, “Michael Bland too. Three murders and a shooting.”

“Exactly.” I nodded to him. “You’re back and forth on the issue, James. You want Cashdollar to be the answer, but I don’t think he is. I think he’s the problem. I don’t want to think that, but I do. I think he’s a crook. Isn’t that one reason you brought Daron along?”

He nodded.

“And what was between you and Cashdollar?” I tapped Styles on the top of his hat. He looked up with a sleepy expression on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“The look he gave you? You, usually full of bravado, you backed up like you thought he was going to bite.”

“We’ve met before. He was probably just trying to place me, you know.”

“Bullshit. You said something back at the coffee shop about being warned by Bruce Crayer? You said that he tried to throw you out?”

“It was nothing, okay?”

I let it go.

“Skip,” James was standing, talking with his hands, in full sales presentation, “I’m fascinated with this guy. With this place. The more I see, hear, smell, and taste, the more I want to know. I can’t believe tomorrow is the last day. Hell, we’re learning more here than we picked up in four years of college. Dude, this is a primer on how to go big time. If we take this business model and legitimize it, there’s no telling how big we might grow.”

I wasn’t sure I could buy that, but then neither of us had done that well in college, so he could be right. I still wasn’t sure how you took a revival evangelist and turned the concept into another business, but I’m sure James had given it some thought.

“James, I think you’re riding with the wrong guy. You may be impressed with his business skills, but Cashdollar and company may be criminals. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Yeah, I want to know if he’s a killer. I guess, the more I look into it, I want to know if you have to break the law to control your own situation.”

“What?”

“I mean, when you get to be as big as this guy is you’ve got to control things. This guy is so much bigger than I realized. Does he have to manipulate things to keep them going?”

I stared at him. “Manipulate things? Break the law? We’re talking murder here. Pretty severe stuff. Have you lost your mind, James? If he’s killing people to keep the faith, then I want out right now.”

“I know. Dude, I just want to get as much information as I can.”

“Maybe Cashdollar should write a book. Answer all your questions.”

James considered that for a moment. “It would be the next logical step, pardner. I’d stand in line to buy it, wouldn’t you?”

Styles jumped down from the truck bed, stretched his legs as if he’d been working hard all afternoon, and pointed to the restrooms. “Got to get rid of some of this beer.”

Our beer.

He walked away with almost a swagger. Over his shoulder he shouted back, “Oh, and by the way, James, your namesake, the disciple? He was doing Jesus’s work when Herod cut off his head. Just for the record.”

We watched him slowly walk to the building.

“We ought to get more beer.”

James put his hand to his neck and stroked it.

W e showered, and put on the same clothes we’d had on last night. James called Brook and begged off their date, Em called me and said she wanted to see some of the revival nightlife and James and I both decided that either Styles or Em could take us home tonight and bring us back in the morning. No matter how crappy our accommodations in Carol City, we wanted the comfort of a real bed — much more preferable than the bed of James’s truck.

Of course, I had designs on a different bed. The night would be interesting.

“I’m playing cards, pard.”

“For whatever reason, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Look, I want to learn whatever we can.”

When I glanced down the path to the road that ran beside the campground, the police cruiser stood out like a sore thumb, slowly driving up the one-lane paved road that led to the parking lot, the tent, and the vendor trailers. No flashing lights on, but the car looked ominous nevertheless.

“What the hell do the cops want?”

James was not a fan of organized law enforcement. He had vivid memories of the day they came to arrest his old man. They handcuffed him in front of his family, shoved him into the back of a black and white, and according to James, roughed him up after they got him to the station. I had no cause to doubt him. You know how some people blame everyone else and everything else for their predicaments? They act like it just couldn’t be their fault? In the case of Oscar Lessor, it really wasn’t his fault. His partner took the money from their business and ran, and Mr. Lessor was left holding the proverbial bag. He did the time for something he had no control over, and he came out a broken man. James never forgot it. Ever.

“Just a patrol, James. No big deal.”

He’d seen the car and his fists were clenched.

I noticed Styles quickly ducking behind the truck, heading toward one of the concrete shelters that line the shore of the Intracoastal Waterway on the other side of the tent. He made a point of staying out of the view of the two officers inside the car. I guess selling stolen and counterfeit merchandise was against the law in Miami, and Styles was a little concerned about being recognized. And then I had another thought. We’d been with him since the Miami Airport. The three stolen airport bags were in his trunk, with who knew what else. Was there an all-points bulletin out for a Buick with three white suspects? Styles’s Buick was in the parking lot, parked right by the road the cops were traveling. James and Styles weren’t the only ones who weren’t happy to see the cops. I had some serious concerns too.

The car stopped about thirty feet from us and two uniformed officers stepped out. I stood there about one second longer than I should have.

“You.” One of the officers pointed at me and strode over to the truck. His partner stayed where he was, his hands on his hips, the sun reflecting off of his dark sunglasses.

“What?”

He glanced at the truck, and at James standing in the rear of the vehicle. “You work with the reverend?” He was about my age, cocky, and full of himself. I could hear the self-importance in his voice.

“We’re vendors.”

“So, you work for the reverend.” Smug.