Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“Crayer?”

“I knew you would ask. Crayer is in Washington, D.C. at some street fair, selling his donuts.”

“So he’s got them all accounted for.” I thought it was a neat trick, but it was nothing like the story I had to tell James.

“Oh, I poured him another drink, and he gets two beers and now we’re doing shots and beer. And he isn’t done with the organizer. He says ‘now look. I can go back to whenever you want, and these guys will always be in my system.’ ”

“It’s a good system, but what does it prove.”

“Stay with me, amigo. So I said, can I see the organizer. And he hands it to me. Just like that. He’s so proud of this thing. And I punched in the day that Fred Long was shot in Washington. He couldn’t see what I was doing.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”

“And?”

“Everybody is accounted for. Mug is in maybe Oregon. Dusty is in Ohio, Henry is in Georgia, I think, and Sailor was in Key West.”

“You said everyone was accounted for.”

“They were. So I change the screen, and go to hand it back to him and he’s passed out at the table. Skip, I actually drank this guy under, man. I could have walked out with the organizer or anything else he had.”

I took a swallow of the bitter coffee, and clapped him on the back, gently. Every move I made reminded me I had a head injury.

“He didn’t have much, but I could have.”

“James,” Em was terse. “You said everyone was accounted for.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“It’s a game he plays, Em. I’m sure he’ll tell us before the sun comes up.”

“I’ll tell you right now, pard. I kind of thought maybe you’d figure it out yourself. Stan and Bruce Crayer were in Washington,D.C"

We were quiet for a minute. I thought about the ramification.

“Doesn’t necessarily prove anything, does it? Crayer as much as admitted he’d been there. Remember? He told us he was there when the senator was killed.”

“Nope. Doesn’t prove anything. But it means there were only two people in the full-time group that had the ability to kill the senator. If a full-timer committed the murder.”

I leaned back on my elbows and saw just a hint of color in the sky. It was probably my imagination. “So Stan and Crayer were in D.C.?"

“They were.”

“So was Styles.”

“Styles didn’t kill Senator Long.”

“You never know. Em and I have some thoughts on who he might be.”

“Oh, come on.” James sounded put off.

“And Styles, Crayer, and Stan weren’t the only ones in D.C. on that weekend.

“Who else?”

“Em.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Hey, Skip.”

“Yeah, James.”

“I drank that son of a bitch under the table.”

“Hey, James?”

“Yeah, Skip.”

“You owe that son of a bitch seven hundred bucks and I don’t know where you’re going to get that kind of money.”

T he three of us sipped at the coffee and listened to early morning birds chirping in the trees that lined the parking area. I could hear a little more water traffic on the Intracoastal Waterway and the South Florida humidity was already building, even before the sun surfaced.

We told James about the FBI and, even though he seemed a little confused, I think he got the gist of it. Somebody thought we worked for the FBI, and somebody else thought the FBI was after us. We told him about Styles being mentioned as a suspect in a murder and theft, and the entire story about Michael Bland.

“And you could even think that I’d work for the FBI? Dude.” James, in his drunken state, was still miffed.

It was just about five a.m. and we’d slowed down. I’d been up for a long time, and we still had lunch and the evening meal to serve. I decided on a quick shower in the block building, and Em had decided to go home.

“I’m taking off, Skip. I hope you guys will be all right.”

“I’d love to join you.” I really wanted to.

“You’d join me in a good sleep, and that would be about it.”

“And I could use one of those.” Trying to figure out how safe James and I were. That and where his buddy had disappeared to. I may have mentioned that Daron Styles was good at getting out of jams. He’d just disappear.

I grabbed a towel and an old bar of soap and eased myself off the truck.

“Watch your face.” She walked me to the building. “Don’t want to touch that cut or get it wet.”

We watched the black limousine as it slowly drove up the road, past the vendors’ trucks and trailers. The parking lights were on, but no headlights, as if the driver didn’t want to telegraph his presence. Em and I stopped to watch it as it reached our truck.

“What’s that all about?” She was whispering again.

“I don’t know. Cashdollar is the only one I know with a limo.”

The car turned left in front of our truck and drove through the grass and disappeared around the side of the yellow tent. I saw the license plate. CSHDLR1.

I motioned to Em, and we quickly walked to the truck. James was standing in the shadows, his eyes cast in the direction of the departed vehicle.

“Did you see who it was?”

“Yeah. It was Cashdollar and LeRoy. And a couple of bodyguards. A little early for those two.”

“Want to take a little walk?” James looked at me.

“Back to the office?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Just kind of ease our way back there, just taking a walk. I’d like to see what they’re up to.”

Em grabbed my arm. “You’ve skated on all kinds of problems tonight. Don’t put yourself out there. I’m serious, Skip. They already think we were involved in the break-in.”

James gave me that look. Are you a man or a mouse?

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Then I’m out of here.” Em shook her head in disgust and walked toward her car, shaking her head.

“Come on, pard.” Still some alcohol in his bravado. “Let’s just see what they’re up to.”

“Let’s leave it alone, James.”

“They think we’re FBI, amigo. As funny as that may seem, they killed the last guy who was FBI. Don’t you think we should find out if we’re going to live or die?”

“My guess is die.” He stepped out from behind the donut trailer, the gun pointed right at me.

“Bruce?”

“You keep asking questions and fucking around with this operation, somebody is going to kill you.”

He kept coming, the gun never wavering.

“Look, I’m all for just leaving right now. Let us get our food straightened up and we can be out of here in twenty minutes. Right, James?”

James was frozen, not moving and not talking.

“You broke into the office, you stole files from the computer, they’ve taken Dusty to the hospital in serious condition, and kid, it’s time to put a stop to it. You’ve fucked up this operation for the last time. Comprende?”

“Look, Bruce — ”

“No, you look. You’ve screwed this whole thing up. In the short time you’ve been here, you’ve gone totally overboard. To put it bluntly, I’m tired of your interruptions.”

He stood toe to toe with me. He pressed the barrel of the gun into my stomach and I closed my eyes. I sincerely thought my time had come. The Lord’s Prayer came to mind and I remembered the first line. Our Father, who art in Heaven. I couldn’t remember anything else.

“Mr. Crayer?”

He spun around, and Em swung the cast-iron frying pan as hard as she could. In the dim light I could see her damage. Crayer swung around, facing me. The front of his face was a grotesque configuration of broken nose, smashed lips, bloodied gums, and broken teeth. His hand dropped the gun and he staggered several steps, finally falling on his face. She’d saved my life, and all I could think about was how much Crayer’s face had to hurt.