Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

He glanced over his shoulder, tugged the brim of his hat down low and put his finger to his lips. “Could you say all that a little louder? Maybe they didn’t hear you over by the Intracoastal.”

I lowered my voice. “So what happened to you? You just walk out on us?”

“I told you I’ve got a friend who gives me heads-up on the FBI.”

“Yeah. The friend who runs license plate numbers and tells you when there’s going to be a raid on your dealer’s warehouse. That friend?”

“Let’s just say I needed to visit her. The friend. Okay?”

“At three in the morning?”

“Hey, I got the information I needed. That’s all that’s important.”

“There’s a lot of stuff that’s gone down since you left.”

“Let’s walk.” Styles looked over his shoulder one more time.

“Walk? Christ, if you only knew what I’ve been through tonight — ”

“Softly, Skipper, tell me what’s happened.”

“You hear the sirens?”

“Couldn’t miss ’em.” They were across the causeway and must have pulled into the campgrounds by now. In thirty seconds they would be in the parking lot.

“One of Cashdollar’s bodyguards tried to kill him, and Thomas LeRoy killed the bodyguard.” I started shaking, the kind of shaking that you can feel in your hands, so if you’re holding a drink you’re afraid you’re going to spill the whole thing.

“Tried to kill the rev? Where did you hear this?”

“We saw it, man. We saw it.” And I still couldn’t get the picture out of my head. Walter’s brains spattered on the car.

“Jesus. Is the rev alive?”

“It appeared he’s okay.”

We’d reached the aluminum camper where James had drunk Stan the pizza man under the table. A proud moment for my friend. The door hung open, and I could see what looked like a green couch or chair inside. Someone was slouched in the chair. I gestured at the trailer. “Stan’s place.”

Styles looked up and stopped. He took two steps backward, then climbed the two wooden steps leading to the entrance.

“Daron, what the hell are you doing?”

“Come here, Skip.” The sirens were ear piercing as they pulled into the parking lot. There must have been three vehicles, and they all shut down at once, the screaming sirens giving off that long, lonely wail when they finally die.

I glanced over at the parking lot and could make out an ambulance and at least one cop car.

“Skip. Up here.”

The last thing I wanted to do was see Stan. Still, I climbed the stairs.

“Seems there’s a lot of this going around this morning.” Styles stood there, looking at the slumped body of the pizza man. Blood stained the green fabric chair, and a pistol lay on the linoleum floor beneath his outstretched hand.

After what I’d seen so far, I should have been shockproof. I wasn’t. It appeared he’d put the barrel of the pistol into his mouth and blown the back of his head off. I closed my eyes and stepped out of the trailer. It was all I could do to keep from heaving.

Styles walked out, and stared for a moment at the vehicles in the parking lot. “A little too late for this one. Put the Glock into his mouth and bang.”

I walked away, Styles following. I needed to put some distance between myself and that picture. We walked to the edge of the trees that bordered the small village. I thought about walking even farther and never going back.

“Skip, he killed himself. It happens.”

“There would have to be one hell of a reason.”

“You never know. It might be something very simple.”

“What was that you said back there? He put something in his mouth. The gun, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t say ‘gun.’ ”

Styles studied me. “What did I say?”

“You said he put the ‘gunk’ or something in his mouth.”

“The Glock.”

“What is a Glock?”

“A nine-millimeter pistol. It was a Glock on the floor. Model 26, I think.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been around guns.”

“And a Glock isn’t a Smith and Wesson?”

He gave me a surprised look. “Two different animals. Why?”

“Because James was here earlier, in Stan’s camper, and Stan’s gun was a Smith and Wesson.”

“Maybe he’s got a couple of guns.”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t believe that Glock was Stan’s gun. He told James that his Smith and Wesson was the only real friend that he had.”

T hey were waiting for us as we trudged back to the truck.

“We were about ready to add you to the list, amigo.” James threw his arm around my shoulder.

“So here’s the guy who ran out on us.” Em gave Styles a look that could kill.

“There was a good reason.”

“First of all, what’s up with Crayer?” James was anxious.

“No sign of him. At all.”

“Dude, we need to find him. Em and I’ve been talking. He’s the only one who can seriously implicate us in this whole mess, and that’s only because Em acted in self-defense. Where would he go?”

“Self-defense?” Daron was puzzled. It struck me that I’d never asked him why he was in Crayer’s tent in the first place.

“He was threatening us with a gun. Em hit him in the face with a frying pan. And I mean, she hit him. We put him in his donut wagon, but when we got back he was gone.”

Styles pushed the brim back. “That’s two we’ve taken out of commission. Dusty and Crayer.”

“And — ” I coaxed him.

“And three that are out of commission. One, permanently.”

“Who?” James needed to know.

“Stan. We found him in his trailer, the back of his head blown off.”

Em grabbed my hand and looked in my eyes for confirmation. “Oh my God. Who killed him? I’ll bet it was the bodyguard. He must have shot him before he tried to shoot Cashdollar.”

“Appears to be a suicide.” Styles sat on the wooden bench and lit up a cigarette. He shook another out of the pack and offered it to James. “Gun was on the floor where he dropped it.”

James took the cigarette and leaned against the truck. “Man, I talked to him not more than three hours ago. In that trailer.”

“Skipper told me.”

“I even saw the gun. He was proud of it.”

“The Smith and Wesson.”

“Yeah.”

I jumped in. “Daron says this one’s a Glock.”

James turned his hands palms up. “A gun is a gun. It still can kill people, right?”

The commotion was centered around the office/trailer. They’d pulled the ambulance around back and I assumed that Cashdollar had first dibs. After all, he was still alive. Two detectives in sport coats and bad haircuts talked to a handful of people who were milling around the scene, but no one claimed knowledge of anything.

Em was still holding my hand and I liked it. “Skip, how much trouble are we in if we don’t say anything?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure LeRoy and Cashdollar will tell the story. I mean, the guy tried to kill Cashdollar.”

“And that gave LeRoy the right to walk up and shoot Walter in the head?”

I rolled my eyes. “Em, how do I know? I’m still not sure of exactly what we saw.”

The news had hit radio and television because there was a line of traffic that backed up to the causeway and beyond. The worse the news, the better the attendance. We’d heard it on the truck radio. It was brief and incomplete, but the basics were in place. Preston Cashdollar had been shot early Sunday morning at Oleta State Park. He was in good condition. One of his bodyguards was found dead outside his office trailer. As an aside, the story stated simply that a worker at the campground was found dead in his trailer. A worker. That’s what we were too. Workers.