Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  We said our good-byes and Crayer said goodnight as well. The three of us worked our way up the end of the dirt road.

  “I’m stayin’ in a little trailer just over there.” Crayer pointed to a spot in the distance where a scattering of dim lights shone from tents and trailers. “Most of the guys you met stay there.”

  “What about the other vendors?”

  “Most of the others are like you. They’re local and they go home in the evening. Got families and stuff. We’re on the road. If the rev’s got a gig, we do that, but we spread out and do shows all over the country. Fairs, carnivals, sometime even other revival meetings with other guys.”

  “Well, we’re driving the truck back to our apartment. We’ll see you tomorrow night. Thanks for showing us the ropes.” I shook his hand.

  “Hell, you guys were goin’ like gangbusters tonight. You got the hang of it right away.”

  James nodded. “Tell me something, Bruce. When Cashdollar brings all this force to bear on somebody like Barry Romans, you’re telling me he can get him fired? That’s pretty serious power. What’s happened in the past?”

  James was obsessed with it. Power, money, making something happen with his young life. He wouldn’t pass up any chance for a learning experiece. My best friend, the entrepreneur.

  “I’ve been doin’ this little circus for a lot of years. Three years with the rev, but lots of years on different circuits.” Crayer ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I’ve made enough donuts to circle this world a hundred times, so I’ve got a little background.”

  “And?”

  “The rev started out like a lot of them, with fire and brimstone. God’s gonna getcha’ if you don’t straighten up.”

  I remembered the revival meeting Buzz and I had gone to many years ago. Somewhere, I remembered, not too far from here. I had no recollection of who the preacher was. I just remember he marched around his platform with a Bible clutched in his hand and he was angry. Angry at the Devil and just about everyone else.

  “And I believe that he changed people’s lives. I do. But it’s a different world out there.”

  “How’s that?” James was leaning in, eagerly hoping for some business advice he could use.

  “People want to blame somebody else for all the problems of the world, and the rev honed in on that. First of all, he got into the ‘God’s gonna make you rich’ thing. He got people dreaming. That’s doing really well for him. Collections doubled, tripled. But he really saw his fortunes start to climb about three years ago when he nailed that senator from Nebraska, Long I think his name was.”

  I drew a blank.

  “Guy was antigay, anticivil rights, and he made a couple of statements that struck the rev the wrong way. Very right wing. May have even used the N word. Rev went after him and Cashdollar was getting national press — cover of Time magazine — and the money was rolling in.”

  “And what?” I asked. “They ran this Long out of office?”

  “Not exactly. The rev got the national media behind it, got the newspapers and television networks to go after this guy. Rev was on Larry King and a lot of left-wing talk shows. He started a letter-writing campaign, phone banks, blogs on the Internet, and stuff you couldn’t imagine.”

  “He’s that powerful?”

  “More powerful than even that.”

  “How much more powerful can you be?” Now I was intrigued.

  Crayer folded his hands over his ample stomach and in the dim light gave us a hard look. “I was there when Fred Long got killed.”

  All of a sudden he’d remembered the senator’s name.

  “Somebody shot him in cold blood on the streets of Washington D.C. And boys,” he stopped for a moment, looking off into space, “boys, you don’t get any more powerful than that.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  James drove, and when he’d occasionally hit the brakes we could hear the kitchen equipment rattle in the back.

  “What do you think he meant?” James hadn’t said much since we left the fairgrounds.

  “Well, I don’t think he meant that Cashdollar actually shot the man.” I was thinking how Crayer had not been sure of the deceased’s last name, then all of a sudden had come up with the full name. No question, he knew the story.

  “I don’t know the story, pally, but Jesus! That’s some serious charge.” James took a long drag on his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke out the driver’s window. “Think about it, Skip. Enough clout to have somebody whacked? What would that feel like?”

  “Feel like? It would scare the hell out of me. I don’t want that kind of power. I mean, I really don’t want someone killing a senator or anybody, because of something I said.”

  “And Crayer says when Cashdollar attacked, the money came pouring in.” James was all about finding new ways to make money.

  I thought about Crayer’s accusation. It would be easy enough to find out if Fred Long had died. And, it should be easy to find out how he died. Maybe Cashdollar’s constant hounding did bring about his death. Or maybe the shooting was totally unrelated. Or maybe, just maybe somebody in Reverend Cashdollar’s congregation actually killed Long. “And the other thing he said —”

  “What was that?”

  “I was there when he was shot.”

  “He must have been living in Washington at the time. They eat donuts in D.C. too.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The 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 —”

  “Three years ago?” I asked. “The senator from North Dakota?”

  He looked at me with a puzzled expression. “No. About ten years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was holding a revival meeting, same place. And some young girl who worked for him ended up dead, right there on the grounds.”

  I almost choked on the cornbread. “That was Cashdollar?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Wow! I was there that night.”

  He laughed. “You?”

  “No, really, I was. My Uncle Buzz took me. It was sort of a guys weekend, and —”

  “You were really there?”

  “I was. I didn’t remember the minister’s name, but I was there. I met the girl. She came around with a collection plate.” I could picture her, smell the night itself, and I could see Buzz dropping the twenty in the plate and her big smile afterward.

  “Well, my friend, the story was that she was Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend.”

  “She was what?”

  “Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend. And he was married at the time. Still is.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “So, was he ever implicated in the death?”

  Rick wiped up his sauce with a piece of white bread. “I don’t remember, Skip. I mean, the guy’s out there on the circuit so it couldn’t have done much damage to his career. From what I hear, people are still dropping money in the guy’s collection plate.”

  More than ever. “Still —”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinkin’. What were you talking about, this senator stuff?”

  “Never mind. Just a story I heard.” I’d finished half the sausage gravy and found out that I’d lost my appetite. I wasn’t in the mood to eat anymore. I said good-bye and drove back to our crappy abode. I wasn’t in the mood for selling either.

  James came home about three, begging off early so we could get to the park.

  “I ran into Rick Mosely at Esther’s today.”

  “Rick? I saw him last week. Told him about our gig with the rev.” James walked to the refrigerator and grabbed one of my long necks. We were fifty-fifty on expenses, but my fifty was usually about seventy-five or eighty.

  “Yeah, well he told me something I’d forgotten.”

  James pulled a brick of cheddar cheese from the fridge and took a bite off the end. My cheese, his germs. “And what was that?”

  “About ten years ago, I took a weekend with my Uncle Buzz.”

  “I sort of remember that. You came back and raved about the pleasures of Jack Daniels. Hell, I thought that he was your new best friend.”

  “Buzz and I went to a revival meeting.”

  “And?”

  “And, the girl who took collections from us was murd
ered. They found her body the next morning in the park. She’d been strangled.”

  James took another bite of cheese and washed it down with my beer. “You forgot that?”

  “No. I think I probably told you about it.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure you did.”

  “However, I forgot that it was in Oleta River Park. And even though I was at the revival, I never really knew who the minister was. It was Cashdollar.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “Rick said she was Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend.”

  “That’s it? The underage girlfriend?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. It lacks any passion, romance, or decadence.”

  He had a point.

  “So Rick was insinuating that the rev killed the girl?”

  I joined the party and pried the top off a long-neck beer. I decided against the cheddar cheese. “Rick said he’d never heard anything about that. He figures that if Cashdollar is still on the circuit, it must be because no one ever accused him.”

  But, man, Cabrina Washington, Senator Long, the food vendor, and who knows how many other deaths — all happening under the shadow of Cashdollar’s tent.

  “Man, we’ve got to go into the tent. We’ll leave now, set up the truck, and we can catch an hour of this guy’s spouting before we have to serve the starving masses.” James swallowed the last of his beer. “Help me get the stuff organized. I went out and got more patties and brats. I think we’ve still got enough peppers, onions, and potatoes to feed a Third World country for six weeks.”

  “And once more, tell me why we really care what the reverend has to say. Why do we even want to involve ourselves in the dreams and schemes of a man who may have been implicated in two murders and a mysterious death?” The food vendor that James had mentioned — it bothered me.

  My partner was silent for a moment. He tossed his beer bottle toward the kitchen trashcan, it missed with a thud, and rolled across the cheap linoleum floor.