Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Em turned pointing her finger at him. “The man put a gun in Skip’s stomach and said he was tired of our interfering. He threatened to kill him. That’s what somebody from the FBI does?”

“My guess, okay?”

“Make it a good one.”

“I don’t think he was threatening you with your life. I think he was trying to get you to either shut up or leave.”

James looked up from the grill. “Why?”

“For the same reason you’ve known since you got here. You asked too many questions. You were stirring things up. Son, Thomas LeRoy and the guys thought you were FBI plants. And you were about to upset the apple cart. The real FBI plant needed some space and you weren’t giving him any.”

“What cart?” I was lost.

“My informant says that Crayer was close to proving somebody in the organization killed senator Fred Long. Very close. And you guys came in and got everybody paranoid.”

Em touched my arm. “That’s my Skip. Scaring the hell out of people.”

“So, Crayer decided to get rid of you.”

“But you don’t think he was going to kill us?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

I had a hard time with it. This group, with millions of dollars at stake, couldn’t figure out who the FBI plant was? Styles could figure it out in one night?

We saw the crowd, staring at the parking lot, talking loudly and waving, pointing, pushing, and shoving to get closer. The four of us jumped from the truck and tried to see over the ever-growing crowd that was spilling from the yellow tent. I watched Styles working his way through the crowd, as if he was on a mission. James, Em, and I stayed back, watching from a distance.

A big black limo was slowly making its way up the small road, inching along as the crowd parted. People were reaching out and touching the car, and it kept coming, up near our truck, then around the tent. For just a moment, a brief second, I saw the Florida license plate. CSHDLR 2.

“Skip?” Em grabbed my arm, squeezing it tightly. “We can’t just accept that story.”

“I know. I know. We should be talking to the police right now, telling them our version but this whole thing is surreal. It’s — it’s — ”

“Bigger than we are?”

“Yeah. I’m overwhelmed. I mean, what are the three of us supposed to do? I mean, if we had a little experience in these matters — ”

“In these matters? That could be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. Ever.”

“Em. Let’s serve some food. We’ll figure it out.” I’d said dumber things before. She just wasn’t there.

We’d started taking orders, and they were coming fast and furious when Styles appeared, climbing up the fold-down steps onto the truck.

“Hey, boys and girls, the rev is back.”

“You saw him?”

“Got out of the limo back at the office. They’ve hauled that other car away. Anyway he gets out with a cane, and what looks like some padding on his leg. Couldn’t tell for sure under the suit.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s okay.” Em flipped some onions onto a bun, leaned down and handed a burger plate to a lady with bleached blond hair and flabby arms. “Guys, LeRoy is blaming Stan for shooting the bodyguard. We have got to do something.”

Styles ignored her. “Something strange behind the tent. I’ve seen the rev enough to recognize it when something is different.”

“What’s different?” I loaded up three plates, the works, and stooped down to a lady with two little kids and thirty dollars in her hand.

“He got out of the limo and something was missing.”

James shouted it out while he flipped three burgers in one toss. “The gold Bible.”

“Give that man a cigar.”

Em brushed her blond hair from her face, the heat, humidity, and grease from the grill giving her a little problem with her sexy coiffure. “How does that matter? Is that a big deal all of a sudden?”

Styles was rummaging around in our refrigerator, pulling out cold beef patties and making a mess on the truck bed. Finally I saw him pushing everything back into our refrigerator, and he stood up, a green bottle in his hand. The son of a bitch had hidden a green-label beer in the back. He glanced at Em. “It could be a big deal.” He forced the cap over the edge of the grill, smacked the top with his hand, and the beer cap snapped off. Styles put the bottle to his lips and drained half of it. He could have offered to share.

Em gave me a wide-eyed look. She didn’t have to forgive James’s friend. I did.

“Why?”

Styles tugged on the brim of his hat. It came down almost to his eyebrows. “Instead of looking for something, look for something that’s not there.”

It actually made sense. It was thinking outside the box. Instead of seeing what was there, see what wasn’t there. The gold Bible was conspicuously missing.

“I don’t see what — ”

Styles jumped in. “Skip, I’ve got an idea. Cashdollar is going in for the evening sermon. He’ll kill.” He grimaced. “Sorry for the pun. This will be the biggest collection sermon of his career.”

“What’s your idea?”

“You and me, we’re going to be actively involved in this sermon.”

“And how is that going to happen?”

“Trust me. When it starts, I’ll let you know.”

“Hey,” the voice was below the truck bed. “There are about one hundred people in line here. Are you guys going to serve or do we have to go to the pizza place?”

Em looked down, and smiled at the man. “Yeah. Please go down there. And let us know how that works out for you, okay?”

I was piling on the toppings, serving the burgers, and Em was right beside me, doing the same.

“Working for Daddy is a whole lot easier.” She wiped sweat from her brow.

“So you appreciate what I do for a living?”

“I think you’re dumber than hell. But hey, I’m attracted nevertheless.”

I spun around, in a rare second of free time, and shouted back to Styles. He was just finishing his beer. “Daron, you said you had two things to tell us. Number one was that Crayer was an FBI plant.”

“Oh yeah. It may not mean anything, but Cashdollar had a meeting with the Congressional Black Caucus in Washington, D.C. The same day that Fred Long was murdered.”

T he crowd had grown. How that was possible, I have no clue, but the spillover factor was unbelievable. Where there had been two thousand people, there were now three or four thousand. If the fire marshal had appeared, we would have been closed down. People were parking at restaurants and gas stations up to a mile or so away and walking down to the park. The state of Florida would have been proud of their park, but the natural beauty, the river, and the Intracoastal Waterway was not what the crowd was coming to see.

The buzz was out that Cashdollar had made it back for the last event of the weekend. I couldn’t fathom how much money the man would collect tonight.

“It’s going to be a night to remember, Skipper.” Styles smiled, a sly look on his face.

Even more satellite trucks lined up inside the camper village, and a Fox News affiliate had a camera positioned outside the tent. Local news stations were lined up inside and camera flashes popped every quarter of a second. Standing on the ground, looking up at the truck, I saw James pose every once in a while.

“So, when do we go in?” I wanted a decent seat.

“We don’t.”

“Daron, Cashdollar is making his debut. Less than twenty-four hours after being shot, he’s going to preach. We should be in there.”

We were probably already in trouble for not telling the authorities what we’d witnessed. I wanted to see Cashdollar’s spin on the event.

“Skipper,” I hated that name, “everyone will be in the tent.”