Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“No. It’s silly.”

“You didn’t think so a couple of minutes ago.”

“What car?” Styles asked.

She shrugged. “Someone’s following me.”

“In a Cadillac.”

“Does that have to do with this situation?”

Styles leaned up against the truck, flicking his cigarette butt into the dark.

“It didn’t happen until I saw Skip this morning.”

“You didn’t recognize anyone?”

“No. I got the license.”

“Give it to me.”

She reached into her pocket and handed him a piece of paper. Without saying a word, Styles walked around the truck and I lost sight of him in a few seconds.

“What good is that going to do?” She looked up at me.

“I just think that everyone needs to put their cards on the table.”

“Speaking of which, is James going to be all right by himself?”

“I’m sure he will be. There are six other guys down there. And when did you start worrying about James?”

“Skip, you told me there was a note that may have threatened your lives.”

“I know. But I don’t really think there’s anything to it. It’s a long way from shooting out someone’s tires to killing someone.”

She sat down on the wooden bench between the donut wagon and our truck. We didn’t speak for a couple of minutes. Then, as quietly as he’d left, Styles reappeared, folding his cell phone and holstering it to his belt.

“FBI.” He sat next to Em on the bench.

“What?”

“It’s an FBI car.”

“Em’s car?”

“The car that’s following her.”

“Daron, why the hell is an FBI car following Em?”

“I have no idea. A guess, maybe. And I’m not supposed to know it’s them, but there’s no question about it. It’s the FBI.”

“As in the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” I wasn’t sure that this made any sense.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

Em spoke up. “Tell us why the FBI would follow me.”

“I can only guess.”

“Guess.” I stared at him, tired of his games.

Styles pulled the hat down and peered out from under the brim.

“Three years ago, somebody gunned down a senator in Washington,D.C."

“We’ve been over that. Fred Long from Nebraska. Walking to a favorite lunch spot and somebody shot him. What does that have to do with Em?”

“Killing a senator constitutes a federal crime.”

“And?” We almost said it together.

“It’s federal, brother. That means the government gets involved. The FBI has jurisdiction and they’ve been watching this sideshow ever since.”

Em looked at me for clarification.

“I told you, Em, there were rumors that Cashdollar was behind the killing of Fred Long.”

Styles nodded. He was almost a shadow in the dark, but I could see his head bob up and down. “The FBI thinks it’s more than a rumor.”

“But,” Em sounded totally confused, “why me? I’ve been gone for three months. I just got back.”

“This shooting was three years ago.” I waited for Styles to reply.

“It makes no sense.” She sounded mad.

“Hey,” Daron raised his voice. “You said guess. I’m guessing, okay?”

“Go ahead.” I didn’t want to stop him. Actually, some of what he was saying made sense.

“The Feds have been watching the rev’s tent meetings for all this time. For three years. There were even some rumors that the FBI had planted an informant or two with the traveling troupe. The government thinks that the rev’s rant on the senator was responsible for the murder. When I was here, selling my religious artifacts, there were subtle intrusions.”

“Intrusions?” It was obvious Styles loved word games.

“Intrusions. The FBI kept monitoring the events. They’d occasionally send agents to record the services, interview people like Thomas LeRoy, stuff like that. It was pretty quiet, unobtrusive. But I think most of the people associated with this carnival know that they haven’t given up. And, the FBI thinks that everyone who is new to this camp — this freak show — might be a link to the murder.”

“New to the camp? Why wouldn’t they look into all the old-timers? After all, this happened a while back.”

“I think they’re watching the old-timers, too. But if you’re new, they’re definitely interested in you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Conspiracy stuff. Like maybe you worked on the outside, now you’re working on the inside. Who knows what goes through the little brains these guys have? All I know is that the FBI watches anyone who works for the rev. I’m not guessing. That I know.”

I studied his face in the fading light. I never knew how much to believe.

“Okay, but what about the shooting this morning? Somebody taking shots at Barry Romans? Explain that.”

“Explain what?”

“That wouldn’t be a federal crime.”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it matters.”

Styles lit another brown cigar, the flame from his match dancing in the dark.

“Anything that might lead back to the senator’s death is fair game.”

“So the FBI can investigate anything they want to?”

“Son, they are the FBI.”

“But why me?” Em looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Probably just curious. And you two were right near the shooting.”

All this time I’d been thinking about Crayer being near the shooting. Em and I were there too. And Styles was telling me that a federal bureau was following my girlfriend because we had breakfast this morning? Or because I was new to the traveling freak show? Or maybe because she’d come back to town? It was too cryptic for me.

“My God, Daron,” I was in awe of the situation we might be finding ourselves in, “you’re telling me that it’s possible I got Em roped into this because we are doing a three-day tent meeting? Selling burgers and brats is reason for the Federal Government to put a tail on us?”

“Friend,” Daron stood up from the bench, “you asked me to guess.”

“With some degree of certainy.” Em spoke up.

“I have no degree of anything.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

“All right,” I urged him on. “You sound like you know one helluva lot about this for a guy who just spent one three-day meeting with these guys.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “But I don’t want this to get out.” He took a puff on the cigar and the hot tobacco burned brighter. “I had a visit from a guy when I worked here. On the last day he convinced me that I didn’t want to work here any more. He suggested that if I had any outside relationships with the rev and his crew, I break it off with them. He suggested that his organization was looking into the possibility that I was involved in the Washington murder.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “They could easily check and see if you were in Washington at the time.”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“I was.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I’d been up there working the Georgetown area. Selling some knockoff bags and stuff. Actually, it was a pretty sweet deal. A bunch of us were making some really good scratch. We’d set up a folding table and two guys would do lookout. We could be gone in thirty seconds if we saw any cops or suits. Anyway, somehow they knew that I’d been in the D.C. area.”

“So they threatened you?”

“I’d call it a threat. You see, I think they wanted me to know they suspected me. To see how I reacted. To see if I ran back to Thomas LeRoy or Cash, or whoever. I mean, it must have struck a chord with them — you know, me being in Washington, then me joining Cash and company.”

And I wondered the same thing. Were we hanging with someone who could be a murderer? I wished James was back to hear this story.