Don Bruns: Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“Yeah? You think?”

“I’m banking on it, son.”

“And we’re not going?”

“No.”

“So not everyone, just — ”

“Almost everyone.”

And the crowd continued to file in. Past our truck, past the police armed guard, through the opening in the canvas. And they filed and they filed and they filed.

Finally, with three hundred or more people outside the entrance, and several hundred lined up on the road past our truck, Crayer’s donuts, and the rest of the vendors, the sermon started. The speakers blared outside the yellow tent and the choir started singing. It was going to be one hell of a night.

“Ten minutes, son.”

We stood there as LeRoy spoke. “Today,” the voice echoed from the speakers, “in the last twenty-four hours, Reverend Preston Cashdollar was shot. No one knows the reason, but a threat on his life brought a serious threat to this ministry. God steps up, brothers and sisters. God works miracles. Tonight, it gives me a great honor to welcome back our own, the Reverend Preston Cashdollar.”

The crowd erupted, screaming louder than I’d ever heard. They shouted out hosanna, whistled, cheered, and screamed. In the midst of the greatest commotion I’d ever witnessed, including a John Mayer concert and a Dave Matthews show, Daron grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me away.

We fought our way around the outside of the tent, bumping into people every second. Finally we had rounded the left side of the big monstrosity and we were standing in front of the office. The first thing I noticed was the padlock wasn’t on.

“I’m going up.” Styles gave me a cold look.

“You’re crazy.”

“You said it yourself, son. Everyone will be inside the tent, seeing if miracles really do come true.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Come on up with me.”

“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but the last time you were in there, you almost got killed, and you almost killed someone.”

“Won’t happen this time, Skipper. Everyone is inside big yellow. The last thing they’re going to worry about is someone inside their trailer.”

He walked up the wooden platform and twisted the handle. The door opened, and he stuck his head in.

“Come on up, buddy. Nobody here.”

I’d been through a lot. I didn’t understand most of what was going on around me, but for some reason that escapes me today, I figured at this point I had nothing to lose. I put my foot on the stair and walked up to the landing. Styles was standing there, waiting for me.

“Nobody here but us chickens, Skipper.”

In my high school history class we had a chapter or a page or maybe just a paragraph on Napoleon Bonaparte. The French general had a quote that I memorized, not because I understood it, but because I thought it was cool. Now, I understood it. And it made perfect sense. Men are moved by only two things. Fear and self-interest. I think that talk-show host Barry Romans said the same thing. Fear and self-interest. And I was in agreement. That quote pretty much summed up the last three days.

I walked in and the desk was directly in front of me. The computer that Styles had hacked into was sitting, totally exposed, on top of the desk, and to the right was a set of filing cabinets. No safe. Because the money was picked up as soon as it was collected. My bank took five days to process and cash a check I deposited. Cashdollar could get an instant credit. James often said it. You’ve got to have money to make money.

Styles was pulling open drawers and clawing through files. “We’re going to find something. Start looking.”

I had no idea what I was looking for.

“Skipper, go into the other room. See what you can find. I’m going to hack the computer.”

A narrow entrance led to the second half of the trailer. It appeared to be more of the living quarters, and as I walked in I saw two vinyl recliners, a flat-screen television, a bar, and two bookshelves. There must have been thirty or forty bottles of booze behind the laminated wood bar. I felt like pouring myself a drink. Or two or three. And again, I didn’t have a clue as to what I should look for.

I walked behind the bar, a narrow area with a sink. I shot a quick look over my shoulder, imagining what would happen if we got caught.

The crowd noise from the big tent outside was muffled but loud, and I caught myself listening, straining to hear any sound that wasn’t contained in that tent. At the first sign of anyone discovering us, I wanted to be ready to bolt. A large cabinet was beneath the wall-mounted flat-screen television and I opened the right door. There were dozens of DVDs. The titles that caught my eye were several movies that James and I considered our favorites. Dumb and Dumber, Bill amp; Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Midnight Cowboy, and Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. The second shelf contained more of the same, but a couple titles I’d only heard about. Star Whores, Laying Private Ryan, and some others I couldn’t believe had been invented.

From the muffled cheering, I was sure that Cashdollar had been announced, and had probably taken the stage. I looked behind the furniture, still not sure what I was looking for. A three-tiered bookshelf was set into the rear wall, and I glanced at several of the titles. Most of them were what I would consider religious works. The Record of Christian Work, Paul: A Work In Progress, Institution of the Christian Religion, and others.

I scanned the three shelves and turned to the outer room. I can’t say what caused me to look back at the shelves, but there, on the top shelf, was a gold book. A Bible. I slowly walked back and, stretching, I reached as high as I could and pulled down the large volume. It felt surprisingly light in my hand. The roar of the congregation grabbed my attention.

“Daron.”

“Skipper.” I walked to the other room.

“Daron, you’ve got to see — ”

He didn’t even look up. “Here, on the computer. Man, the other night I didn’t look deep enough. Listen to this — ” He looked up for just a brief moment. “LeRoy writes this shit. I can’t believe he keeps this on record.”

“What? What did he write?”

“Listen. You’re not going to believe it.”

I listened.

“The crusade has led us to this. Fred Long. Enemy combatant killed in the war. Michael Bland, enemy combatant. Killed in the war. Barry Romans, enemy combatant, killed in the war. Walter and Stan, trusted sacrificed soldiers.”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus. Anyone could copy this. Download this. The man is crazy. I can’t believe it. I fucking cannot believe it.”

I shuddered and my hands were shaking. We both looked at each other, realizing the implications.

“Skip, we need some more evidence.”

“Christ, you’ve almost got a signed confession. Daron, we’ve got to get out of here. This is bullshit.”

“Give me something else.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Try to find something. We need to nail these guys.”

“Why?”

Styles ignored me. “Look, here.” I tenatively walked behind the desk. There on the screen was a short paragraph, a note that LeRoy had written to himself.

Daron Styles. Reason for Bland’s overdose. $800 in cash that came up missing. Styles killed Bland for the money. When feds start getting warm, give them information on Styles.

“That’s why.”

And if they thought we were spying on them, they’d find a way to turn over information on us. James, Em, and me. Em had possibly killed Bruce Crayer with a frying pan and, if they had a clue about that, we could be in big trouble. So, like a dumb-ass, I decided to listen to Styles and look for whatever I could find.