Don Bruns: Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

“And then, what about Barry Romans? I mean, is his life in danger?” James turned to me. “Imagine, Skip. What kind of business is that? One where you actually try to bring somebody down?”

“James, you’re actually showing some compassion?”

My roommate rolled his eyes. “Hell, no. I was thinking about what Bruce said. Something about absolute power. Getting someone killed? I’m with you. I don’t want to kill somebody, but I just wonder what it would be like to have that absolute power.”

“Let’s hope you never find out.” Sometimes, James scared me.

“Absolute power, bro. Like God.”

I thought about the senator. And about the food vendor who may or may not have been killed, right there on the park grounds. And I thought about Cabrina Washington, who’d been strangled at a revival meeting. These events seemed to be somewhat scary. Somewhat suspect. We didn’t talk the rest of the way home.

James and I share a computer. And we pay for high-speed access, which is a considerable cost since neither of us makes much money. When we got to the apartment I ran a Google search and found about 15,000 hits on “death of senator Fred Long.” How we could have missed the story, I don’t know. I guess the news in South Florida isn’t exactly the news of North Dakota or Washington, D.C.

“Here’s the short version, James.”

He’d stripped down to his baggy boxers and lay on the sofa sipping on his fifth or sixth beer of the night. I’d at least stopped at four. “Give it to me, pard.”

“He was shot.”

“Short version, sure enough.”

“In broad daylight. He came out of an office building in Washington, was headed for a place he frequented for lunch, and somebody shot him.”

“Jeez. He’s just walking to get some lunch and they nailed him? They got the guy, right?”

“Not in the last three years. No one was sure where the shot came from or who the shooter could have been.”

“Mmmm.”

“Short-range shooting. Five or ten feet.”

“Well, that’s got to be a Federal crime, wouldn’t you think?”

“I would.”

James belched. “So was there speculation? Did they have any suspects at all? Must have been some thoughts.”

I scanned the news story, finally finding some theories. “Yeah. Everyone figured it was a nutcase, but there was a lot of speculation that it was fueled by the pressure from Cashdollar.”

“Wow. Some guy in the senate gets killed and Cashdollar gets national press.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“But, dude, think about it. You want to get rid of somebody, but you don’t want to do it yourself. Think about the power the rev must have. Think about how much money he makes. All those people who want to buy into his aura.”

“It says here that Cashdollar disavowed any knowledge of the shooting.”

“No shit.”

“And that he considered it a vile act. However — ”

“However,” James echoed.

“He did make reference to the fact that God often takes matters into his own hands.”

“He did what?”

I refocused my attention on Cashdollar’s quote. “The reverend Preston Cashdollar said ‘While we are a peaceful people, while we do not tolerate violence, the Lord, in his own way, often takes matters into his own hands. And this may very well be one of those times.’ ”

James stood up, stretched, and tossed the empty beer bottle into the trashcan in the kitchen, about five feet from the sofa in the living room. Our apartment is cozy. “So God took this matter into his own hands and shot the senator, huh? God is a marksman. Something I never knew.”

I nodded. I didn’t even know Cashdollar, but here was a man of the cloth who found his fortunes rising when a prominent statesman was murdered. It was twisted and I had a hard time getting my mind around it.

“A T-shirt slogan for Cashdollar, Skip. ‘Guns Don’t Kill People. God Does.’ ”

“I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m supposed to be in by eight tomorrow morning. Some sort of training.”

I wondered how I’d ever gotten involved in a situation like this. James was my best friend. Almost like a brother. But when his sales pitch started with — “There may have been a murder,” then I should have turned the other way and run as fast as I could. But no, James is my buddy. Couldn’t do it.

“Tomorrow, amigo. You and me. We’re going into the tent.”

“James, I’m not up for it.” The upcoming training meeting was already draining my energy.

“I want to hear what he says about Barry Romans. If he’s going to crucify him, we should hear how he does it. Come on, pard. Should be good for a laugh. And we’ll have something to talk about when we play cards tomorrow night.”

I thought about it. It had been a while since I’d attended any organized or unorganized religious service. Living the way I did, I suppose it might be good for me. Of course, after what I’d heard about Cashdollar, I wasn’t sure he had the answers. In my case, I wasn’t sure there were any answers.

T he training session amounted to a royal chewing out from our new director of sales, Norbit Bronder. Honest to god, the guy’s name was Norbit. He looked like a Norbit. I don’t know where they get these guys, but they’re all pencil-pushing geeks who must think they are on the way up. Why else would anyone else take the job of director of sales in Carol City? I mean, Carol City is not exactly the city you want to be working in if you’re upwardly mobile. In fact, I would think our burg would be a real career roadblock. It’s an urban, blighted suburb of Miami, that tends to go further downhill every year. Cinder-block row houses, faded old stucco buildings that sit deserted on every street corner, empty malls, and a crushing sense of depression at every turn. That and our pathetic apartment complex. Rows of tiny stucco residences with crumbling facades and deteriorating interiors. Other that that, Carol City was okay.

Norbit lit into the three of us who actually tried to make a living in the community.

“You know your job depends on selling more security systems, but my job also depends on your selling more security systems.”

Now there was a real reason for us to try harder. So Norbit could keep his job! I’d hate to be responsible for Norbit losing his exalted position.

After the meeting I drove over to Esther’s, a great little local restaurant, and had some sausage gravy and cornbread. Not the most healthy meal going, but I felt I needed some comfort food. I looked around for Emily, a girl I’ve dated off and on since high school, but I knew she wouldn’t be there. She hadn’t talked to me in three months. I did run into Rick Mosely, an old buddy from high school who worked for the fire department.

“How goes the sales job, Skip?”

“Not exactly lighting any fires, Rick.”

He frowned. Firemen don’t like jokes about their job. “I talked to James last week. Said you two were moonlighting with the revival meeting over at Oleta River Park.”

“Yeah. Last night was the first shift. Interesting evening.”

Rick took a long swallow of mud-brown coffee and shoveled some barbecued pork into his mouth. He chewed, looking at me thoughtfully. In a muffled voice he said, “You know, there are stories about this Cashdollar character.”

“I heard some last night.”

“Cashdollar. Somebody said that’s his real name.”

I buttered the cornbread. The stuff was like nectar from the gods. Sweet, so sweet and it would melt in your mouth.

“And he’s got these people believing that if they follow him, they’ll all be rich.”

“After they make him rich?”

Rick nodded. “He’s been at this game for a long time. Do you remember back, oh about — ”