Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Em patted my leg. “You know, Skip, we’ve given them a great reason to shoot you.”

“What’s that?”

“Somebody broke into their office. I suppose in the course of trying to find the culprit they might have to shoot — ”

“My God. Have you both lost your minds?” This just wasn’t registering. “I’ve played cards with these guys. While I wouldn’t trust any of them, any more than I’d trust Daron, I don’t think they are murderers.” Really.

“Well, there’s a chance you could be wrong.” Daron kept his gaze steady, looking at me through narrow slits. “And I think we should all be worried about James. Let’s make that the primary focus. James. I don’t want to find him this morning with a needle sticking out of his arm.”

James would be proud. He’d elevated himself to a top-tier position, and he’d had nothing to do with it.

“I can tell you with some certainty, that someone on the full-timer roster is a killer. Bland was killed to protect that person’s identity. He apparently had information about the senator’s killer.”

“You don’t know that. Not for sure.”

“Skip,” It was the first time he’d called me Skip instead of Skipper so I figured he was serious, “Michael Bland died not twenty feet from my tent. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t that he accidentally took too many drugs. Someone fed him too many drugs. And I have a good idea of who it was. A newcomer to the group. Someone who was brought in to get rid of the plant. They knew Bland was the plant. And remember, they think you are a current plant.”

“Who was it?” I had my favorites, but I wanted to hear it from him. “Who fed him the drugs? Who was brought in, because whoever it was, they’re still here? There aren’t any new full-timers are there? And whoever it is might be planning my demise.”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Come on, Daron. Who do you think killed Bland? If we know who to look for, we might pull James’s ass out of the fire. Jesus. I’ve just told you that my life is on the line. James’s life is on the line. And you can’t give me a hint?” I couldn’t believe I said it. My best friend was in a whole lot of trouble, I was in a whole lot of trouble, and I had no idea how to save us.

“I’m sure you’ve figured it out. I can’t get any history on this guy, but he’s on the top of my list.”

I knew nothing about Sailor. I knew nothing about Stan. I knew, surprisingly little about Crayer even though we’d talked. He said he’d made a lot of donuts in his day. That was about all I could remember. No history. Henry was a former tool and die maker, Dusty was a schoolteacher, and Mug had three felonies. I had no idea how long Mug had been with the group, but my money was on him. It made sense. Unless you knew that Crayer was in South Beach when the radio host was gunned down. Unless you knew that Stan seemed to run the full-timers. Almost like a mafia organization. Unless you figured that Sailor was quiet, lurking in the background. And then there was Dusty. Styles figured he was a schoolteacher and couldn’t be involved. But I wasn’t sure. And what about the tool and die maker? I knew nothing about him.

“I’ve figured it out.” I turned to Em. She looked at me with wide-eyed expectation.

“Who? This is great.”

“After working it over in my mind, I’ve got it.”

Styles shook his head. “I don’t believe you know squat.”

“Wrong. I’ve narrowed it down.”

“Ahhh.” Styles smiled a sly smile.

“One of six.”

“Smart move, Skipper.”

“But one of those assholes has James.”

“But there’s Cashdollar or LeRoy. So let’s narrow it down to eight.” Styles pulled one of those brown little cigars from his patterned shirt pocket and struck a match. The ember glowed in the dark. “Can I say something that is the truth but won’t set well with you and your beautiful girlfriend?”

I nodded, looking at Em. She nodded. Anything at this point. Anything that would help us find James.

“I don’t want to upset anyone, but three years ago, in those three days I was here, a lot of shit happened.”

Lies or truth, I knew that a lot had happened three years ago when Styles sold his trinkets.

“And I still remember all of the players here. Stan, Henry, Crayer, Sailor, Mug, and Dusty. And of course, Michael Bland, may he rest in peace.”

“Get to the point.” My head was aching and every time I raised my eyebrows I could feel the stiffness in my forehead where the blood was drying and the skin was already trying to knit.

“Somebody killed Michael Bland. If that person suspects James is trying to find him, and he has James as a prisoner, there’s a good chance he’ll take care of him too. And if he takes care of him — ”

“Oh for crying out loud.” Em was exasperated. “No one is going to ‘take care’ of anybody. James is probably having another beer with one of the vendors. And if all of this crap is true,” she shot a disapproving glance at Daron, “if they believe that Skip and James are with the FBI, then there’s an easy way to fix it.”

My eyes snapped open, causing my forehead to wrinkle, causing me to wince in pain. “And what is that?”

“Convince them that you’re not.”

T he idea had merit. Go down and tell them that we know what they think. But there were a couple of problems with the concept.

“All we know is that Thomas LeRoy suspects you.” Styles had jumped up into the truck and was sitting on James’s upside-down pickle barrel. “We don’t know that the full-timers even have a clue.”

“Although you think they do.”

“I think they probably do.”

“So what’s wrong with just marching down to Stan’s or going over to Crayer’s tent and telling them that they’re crazy. Telling them there’s no way in hell that we’re associated with any law enforcement agency.”

“Number one, they probably wouldn’t believe you. If you worked for the FBI would you admit it? No.”

“I’ll give you that one.”

“Number two, they may not even be suspicious.”

“I know. But we think that they are.”

“Number three, they are going to want to know how we know. And it’s going to come out that I walked into the rev’s office and rifled through LeRoy’s computer notes.”

“They know somebody did.”

“They also know somebody smacked their security guard and probably gave him a concussion. I don’t think I want to admit to that just yet.”

We were all quiet. I could smell the lingering odor of fried burgers in the truck, mixed with the scent of dew-dampened grass and trees. And when I breathed deeply I thought I could pick up the scent of the water flowing in the Intracoastal, a briny, iodine smell that reminded me of the expanse of the ocean and a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean. I’d never been somewhere in the Caribbean. I just hoped that I’d live long enough to take the trip. Maybe to the Bahamas or the Virgin Islands.

“There’s one other thing to consider.” Em had been taking it all in, and I could tell she had a different angle. “They think you’re plants with the FBI? Well guess who the FBI thinks I am.”

“They think you are somebody who was involved in the killing of a United States Senator. You were in Washington at exactly the right time. And now you show up here.”

“And you were there at the same time, and now you’re here.” Em was smug.

“So, some of us are suspected killers, some of us are suspected informants, and the truth is, nobody is anything.”

“Except you.” I couldn’t let him just skate on that statement. “You’re guilty of breaking and entering and assault, my friend.”