Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  “My friend, trust me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “In this case, Skipper, I know what I’m talking about. He’s got it all written down. And I told you, he’s got Stan’s notes too. I think he feels that he needs it as security.” He paused for a long time, and we all stopped walking.

  “Security?” I had to ask the question.

  “I think he’s afraid that the rev may take a hike. And if someone starts looking into the entire mess, I don’t think that LeRoy wants to be involved. Any more than he has to be.”

  “He could bargain his way out, with a diary filled with this information?”

  “Come on guys.” Styles pointed his finger at me. “Can’t you quit putting words in my mouth? I told you, I’m guessing.”

  Softly, she spat the words. “Bullshit. You said there might be information about you in this electronic notebook. You know exactly what they’re doing. Don’t you? You’re not guessing.”

  “Yeah.” I needed to stand up for Em. “Why the hell would he write about you, and what did he say?”

  Styles was quiet. He sucked on his tobacco, my God he smoked a lot, and seemed to be pondering the situation.

  “I told you that Michael Bland was a full-timer?”

  Em gave me a questioning look.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, when he died of a drug overdose he had quite a bit of money on him. His winnings from the poker game.”

  I just wished he’d get to the point.

  “So, I got word the next day that I was being accused of taking the money.”

  It all started to fall into place. The poker group had figured out that Styles was a scam artist, and it made sense that he would be the one to steal the money. But off a dead body?

  “So, the next day, after the cops left, Stan, Henry, and Sailor came to see me. I had a little tent, and they pulled the flap back and asked me to come out.”

  “Threatening?” Em seemed to be more engrossed than before.

  “Not at first. It was just after dinner that night, and I’d had quite a bit of business. I thought they were asking me to come down early to the poker game.”

  “That wasn’t it?”

  “No.” Styles gazed at the trailer, as if anxious to get inside and find the fabled computerized records.

  “What was it?” I needed to know. If I was putting myself on the line, I wanted an answer.

  “I came out and they surrounded me. First of all, Stan said they were concerned about my background. I told him I was concerned about theirs too. That didn’t go over too well. I could tell I’d pissed them off.”

  “Never pays to be a smart-ass when there are three to one.”

  “No. Then Henry, who is usually real laid back, says, ‘Did you have anything to do with Michael’s drug overdose?’ ”

  “And you said?”

  “Of course I said no. I’d seriously thought that his group, the full-timers, may be responsible.”

  Styles had been with the group for two days. He’d already figured out they were capable of murder? Then it hit me. In two days, James and I had come to the same conclusion. This could be a group capable of almost anything.

  “So Sailor, who never says a thing, walks up and literally bumps my chest with his and says ‘Where’s the money?’ ”

  “They thought you killed this guy and took his money?”

  “I was the new guy. They didn’t know me. The other vendors who weren’t full time had been there more than once. The other guys were local, trusted, and the full-timers knew who they were. I was the one they didn’t trust.”

  We were whispering, but getting louder. Em shushed us, putting her finger to her lips.

  “Somebody may be guarding this place or listening. Let’s keep it down.”

  Softer now. “Anyway, I tried to move away but they wouldn’t let me. They kept crowding my space. They wanted to come in and search the tent.”

  “For?”

  “What do you mean ‘for’? For drugs and money.”

  “So what happened?” Em asked.

  “I was getting a little noisy, hoping someone would come out of his tent or camper and scare these three guys away.”

  “Didn’t happen?” I asked.

  “No. Not right away.”

  “So what happened?” Em was in his face, asking her same question again, anxious to get to the end of this tense story.

  “They told me they believed I may have had something to do with this guy’s death. And they thought I probably lifted his cash. He’d been found not more than twenty yards from my tent.”

  “Did they threaten you?” I needed to know.

  “That’s when they said that this entire scenario was being recorded in Thomas LeRoy’s electronic diary. His organizer. And that I should leave and never return.”

  “So you got thrown out by the vendors and the FBI? No wonder Cashdollar gave you a nasty look. Nobody wanted you back here.”

  “Yeah. But it’s a free country, Skipper.”

  “It may be, but you certainly take advantage of it.”

  He smiled at me. “I’ll admit it. I do.”

  We were all quiet for two minutes. I was even more aware that we were in deep shit. And James was down at the poker game, with these threatening people, probably losing his ass.

  “So,” Em wanted closure. “Did they ever find out who killed him?”

  Styles shook his head. “No. There’s never been anyone even suspected to my knowledge. Other than me, and they had absolutely nothing to go on when they looked at me. You want my guess?”

  “If that’s the best we can do.”

  “I figure it was one of the full-timers. He’d done something to piss them off. I’m not sure what, but they wanted him gone. This guy wasn’t a drug user. At all. He very seldom even drank.”

  I tried to grasp the entire story. “And yet —”

  “He died of an overdose. Somebody set him up. No question.” I saw Styles pull his hat down over his forehead.

  “Which one did it?”

  “Skipper, I told you. This is all a guess.”

  “Who?”

  “One of them who didn’t show up at my tent. I think whoever it was sent them up to talk to me.”

  It was obvious that he was getting anxious to go into the trailer. But not to find out if Em was in LeRoy’s computer. Not to find out about the FBI. He wasn’t going in to see who shot our tires out. Styles wanted to know what had been said about him regarding the death of Michael Bland. He wanted to know if Thomas LeRoy had actually accused him of being a murderer in the precious, tell-all computer diary.

  “So, did they search your tent?”

  “No. I’m not sure why. I thought for sure they’d come into the tent and tear it up. Maybe they were afraid the people around me would start to be suspicious about what was going on. Maybe they figured I would have covered up any evidence. I don’t know. But they gave me the warning and walked away.”

  If they already knew who had killed Bland, they would have no reason to search Styles’s tent. Whatever had happened, it had happened a long time ago and by now any evidence had probably disappeared. I asked the question casually. I didn’t want to sound accusatory. “You never saw these notes that Stan and LeRoy took?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re sure they exist?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And you don’t know for sure what these documents say about you?”

  “This has nothing to do with me.”

  I didn’t believe that for a minute. I looked at Em, in the dark shadows, and I could tell she wasn’t buying into it either.

  “I want to find out what they know about you two. And James.”

  “And you’re not interested in knowing what LeRoy says about you?” Em called him on it.

  “Maybe, a little.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I realized something else had to be addressed. It was important. “Daron, one more question.”

&n
bsp; He was digging his toe into the damp dirt, his eyes watching the trailer. The padlock was hanging off the latch and the structure appeared to be open.

  “Did you kill Michael Bland?”

  He did a double take, snapping to attention. “Holy shit, no. Where did you ever come up with that idea?”

  “I had to ask. I don’t know for sure who I’m dealing with.”

  “Ah, I take a couple bags at the airport. I sell some stolen stuff now and then, but kill somebody? Are you crazy?”

  I was glad I’d asked. Just by his reaction, I was pretty sure he was telling me the truth. Of course, with Styles, you never knew.

  Em cleared her throat. She put her hand on my arm. “Daron, I have a question too.”

  “Shoot. But make it a short one. I want to get in there and see if I can find this thing.” He seemed to brace himself.

  “Okay. Here goes. Yes or no question.”

  “Those I can answer.”

  “Did you take his money?”

  In the dark there were crickets, the call of a night bird, and the gentle lapping of water coming from the Intracoastal Waterway. In the distance I could hear a boat horn, a long mournful moaning sound.

  “Daron?”

  “Whose money?”

  “Don’t play with me. Michael Bland’s money?”

  Back to digging his toe into the moist earth. “Yep. I did.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When I was about twelve, I found a wallet with a couple of bucks in it. That was it. Two bucks. The wallet was on a park bench and I figured it had probably worked its way out of some guy’s pocket. I didn’t bother to see who the wallet belonged to, I just slipped the two dollars out and put them in my pocket. My first heist.

  I remember the situation because about twenty minutes later I went back to the bench to put the two dollars back. I had a bad guilt complex and decided I needed to return the stolen loot. The wallet was gone.

  “I’ve got to get into the trailer. Hell, we stand here and talk all night and it’ll be morning before I get it done.” Daron pointed to the trailer/office. “I’m going to get some answers tonight.”

  “You stole a dead guy’s money?” I thought the park bench incident was bad enough.

  “Look, I didn’t say that. I’ll fill you in on all of the details later. Right now, are you two going to stand guard? All you’ve got to do is give me a signal if someone is coming.”

  I wish I’d never asked the question.

  Em shook it off. “What’s the signal?”

  “Start a conversation. Just pretend that you guys can’t sleep, you’re out walking and you start talking — loud, so I can hear you.”

  I looked at Em and she shrugged her shoulders. Kind of like, what the hell. We’re here, we may as well pitch in. Like she was game for anything. I was still thinking about Styles taking the money off of a dead man. And the fact that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was checking out my girlfriend.

  Styles put his finger to his lips and walked softly to the trailer. He stepped up on the wooden landing and the wood creaked under his weight. We all froze for a second. Then Styles gently tried the door. The moon gave us just enough light so we could see him ease the door open.

  A soft light spilled from the entranceway and I could see a dim lamp burning on what appeared to be a small wooden table. I watched Styles look both ways, then he turned to us, gave us a thumbs-up, and pulled the door behind him, leaving just a small opening. Hopefully enough of an opening that he could hear us if we had to start talking. Loudly.

  Em took my hand and squeezed it. Then she let go and motioned to me. We walked several yards from the trailer.

  “You get into the damnedest predicaments.”

  “You were the one being followed by the FBI.”

  “I hope your buddy finds out why.”

  “Daron?” We were whispering, and my throat was getting raspy. You can’t whisper too long before it irritates the vocal chords.

  “Yeah. Daron.”

  “He’s not my buddy. He may be James’s buddy, but he’s not mine.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “He took the money off of a dead guy? That’s sick.”

  “It’s better than killing the guy.”

  “I guess, but not by much.” Em looked up and down the grounds. “There’s no sign of anyone standing guard.”

  “No. Remember, he said the trailer guard usually crashes on the couch. He’s probably asleep in there.”

  “And if he wakes up and finds Daron working on their computer?”

  I didn’t want to consider that.

  “Styles will have to deal with it.”

  “And, Skip. What was the deal with the shoes?”

  “The shoes?”

  “Daron brings me designer shoes and wants to know the value? What was that strange scene all about?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s another story.”

  “You’re just full of stories, aren’t you? You and your friends.” She gave me an impish smile.

  She was here because of me. I was here because of — probably James. And Daron was keeping the whole thing alive, with a bunch of stories that had a ring of truth to them. But with Styles, who knew?

  “Tell me the story about the shoes. What’s he got? A foot fetish? Come on, I’ve got time. What else are we going to do?”

  “Um, it’s not something you want to know about right now.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t do this to me.”

  “Em, I’ll tell you later.”

  “Oh, I’ll probably figure it out anyway. But if he asks again —”

  “Asks what?”

  “The value.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The value of Loeffler Randall shoes.”

  I’d never heard the name. But I wasn’t a student of feminine footwear. “Loeffler Randall shoes?”

  “If he asks the value —”

  “What?”

  “About three hundred seventy-five dollars.”

  “Wow.”

  “They’re quality shoes. Think Sex and the City.”

  Em cried when they cancelled Sex and the City.

  “Okay, I’ll give him the price.”

  “Maybe half that on eBay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Em had fallen asleep, stretched out on the damp ground, cradling her head in her folded arms. I was sitting next to her, watching her, her diaphragm rising and falling with her soft breath. Her blond hair spilled over her arms and I thought about watching her all night long. I truly believe I could have. I was still wondering how I’d gotten into this situation. James was probably right. It was the questions I’d asked. And the fact that I knew about Cabrina Washington. I’d met the girl. For some reason, that meeting and my questions had triggered a response. Possibly my meeting and questions were the reason that we were all in a situation that no one seemed to understand.

  There was no breeze, just the heat and humidity, and I could feel sweat running down my back. My T-shirt was wet, and there was a thin layer of perspiration on my face. I strained to hear any unusual sounds, but the droning of some insects, the call of an occasional bird, and Em’s breathing were all I could pick up.

  I may have dozed. I hope that wasn’t the case. I’d like to think that I was a little more alert than that. I’d like to think that if I am asked to participate, I participate with everything in me, but the truth is, I may not be as reliable as I should be. Chalk it up to youth, or maybe too many beers during college. All I know is that Styles was standing above me, tapping me on the shoulder and I hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  “Hey, Skipper, let’s get out of here.”

  It only took a second to shake off the cobwebs. I reached down and touched Em on the cheek. She shivered and opened her eyes. Even in the dark, I could see the first sign of confusion. Then she shook the webs off too.

  “Come on.”

  “What did you find?”

 
; “You’re in the notes.”

  “What?”

  “Back to your truck. Quick.”

  I was struggling to get up.

  “I’m what?”

  “You’re on the computer. Look, there’s a little explanation, but basically LeRoy thinks you and James are plants.”

  I couldn’t figure it out. Plants? My mother had plants in the kitchen window. James had a fake palm tree that someone had given him, sitting in the living room window in our postage-stamp apartment. What the hell kind of plant was I?

  “Plants?”

  Styles extended his hand, I grabbed it and he pulled me into an upright position. “The full-timers think you and James are plants. They think the cops or the FBI planted you to get information on the murder of the senator.”

  No. Was he crazy?

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No. They may be crazy. I’m not.”

  “Daron, they can’t be serious.”

  “Damn it, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Plants?”

  “Please! Move.”

  I was with him. The last thing I wanted to do was spend another night in this park. The sooner we debriefed, the faster we could get out of here and spend the night in a real bed. I realized it was late. James would have been back by now, the card game would have been finished a couple of hours ago. “Were you mentioned?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Were you? Did Thomas LeRoy identify you as the guy who killed Bland? The guy who took his money?”

  “Yeah. He did. He said they thought I was a prime suspect. Now, would you get your girlfriend so we can get out of here?”

  Em staggered to her feet, and we stumbled around the tent, for all the world looking like two drunks trying to find their way home. And we hadn’t had a drink. Not one beer.

  I pulled her, hurrying her along. If someone was going to wake up and start screaming “thief,” I didn’t want to be anywhere nearby. We started jogging, and reached the far end of the tent. I stopped and took in long, painful breaths. Too many beers, not enough exercise. We caught our breath, and as we made the turn, I looked around to see if Daron was following. There was no one.

  “Where’s Daron?” Em slowed down. She glanced behind us.