Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  Em looked up under the brim of his hat. “I suppose you could go legit. Get a real job? No?”

  Styles turned his head and ignored her.

  “So you think they killed Michael Bland because he was an FBI informant.” This was getting to be very surreal.

  “I do.”

  “And this Bland, he trusted you to call the FBI. What were you supposed to say?” I couldn’t imagine trusting Styles with anything.

  “We never discussed it.”

  “What did you say? When they answered ‘FBI Miami’ what did you tell them? That he’d died. That you suspected he was killed?” Em was on the same page as I was.

  “I said ‘wrong number,’ and I hung up. Are you kidding me? I can’t have anything to do with those people.”

  It was obvious that Styles was not going to be a help from this point on. He was paranoid, possibly with good reason, and he’d told us most of what we needed to know. If it was true. And I still wasn’t sure if any of his stories had one element of truth.

  “Guys, if these people here think that James and I are FBI, what’s to stop them from doing the same thing they did to Michael Bland?” I tried to figure out how they would give James and me a drug overdose.

  “Nothing. Nothing would stop them.” Styles walked a couple of steps from the truck then turned. “There is nothing stopping them from finding a way for you two to have an accident. Or, just shooting you.”

  Em patted my leg. “You know, Skip, we’ve given them a great reason to shoot you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Somebody broke into their office. I suppose in the course of trying to find the culprit they might have to shoot —”

  “My God. Have you both lost your minds?” This just wasn’t registering. “I’ve played cards with these guys. While I wouldn’t trust any of them, any more than I’d trust Daron, I don’t think they are murderers.” Really.

  “Well, there’s a chance you could be wrong.” Daron kept his gaze steady, looking at me through narrow slits. “And I think we should all be worried about James. Let’s make that the primary focus. James. I don’t want to find him this morning with a needle sticking out of his arm.”

  James would be proud. He’d elevated himself to a top-tier position, and he’d had nothing to do with it.

  “I can tell you with some certainty, that someone on the full-timer roster is a killer. Bland was killed to protect that person’s identity. He apparently had information about the senator’s killer.”

  “You don’t know that. Not for sure.”

  “Skip,” It was the first time he’d called me Skip instead of Skipper so I figured he was serious, “Michael Bland died not twenty feet from my tent. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t that he accidentally took too many drugs. Someone fed him too many drugs. And I have a good idea of who it was. A newcomer to the group. Someone who was brought in to get rid of the plant. They knew Bland was the plant. And remember, they think you are a current plant.”

  “Who was it?” I had my favorites, but I wanted to hear it from him. “Who fed him the drugs? Who was brought in, because whoever it was, they’re still here? There aren’t any new full-timers are there? And whoever it is might be planning my demise.”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Come on, Daron. Who do you think killed Bland? If we know who to look for, we might pull James’s ass out of the fire. Jesus. I’ve just told you that my life is on the line. James’s life is on the line. And you can’t give me a hint?” I couldn’t believe I said it. My best friend was in a whole lot of trouble, I was in a whole lot of trouble, and I had no idea how to save us.

  “I’m sure you’ve figured it out. I can’t get any history on this guy, but he’s on the top of my list.”

  I knew nothing about Sailor. I knew nothing about Stan. I knew, surprisingly little about Crayer even though we’d talked. He said he’d made a lot of donuts in his day. That was about all I could remember. No history. Henry was a former tool and die maker, Dusty was a schoolteacher, and Mug had three felonies. I had no idea how long Mug had been with the group, but my money was on him. It made sense. Unless you knew that Crayer was in South Beach when the radio host was gunned down. Unless you knew that Stan seemed to run the full-timers. Almost like a mafia organization. Unless you figured that Sailor was quiet, lurking in the background. And then there was Dusty. Styles figured he was a schoolteacher and couldn’t be involved. But I wasn’t sure. And what about the tool and die maker? I knew nothing about him.

  “I’ve figured it out.” I turned to Em. She looked at me with wide-eyed expectation.

  “Who? This is great.”

  “After working it over in my mind, I’ve got it.”

  Styles shook his head. “I don’t believe you know squat.”

  “Wrong. I’ve narrowed it down.”

  “Ahhh.” Styles smiled a sly smile.

  “One of six.”

  “Smart move, Skipper.”

  “But one of those assholes has James.”

  “But there’s Cashdollar or LeRoy. So let’s narrow it down to eight.” Styles pulled one of those brown little cigars from his patterned shirt pocket and struck a match. The ember glowed in the dark. “Can I say something that is the truth but won’t set well with you and your beautiful girlfriend?”

  I nodded, looking at Em. She nodded. Anything at this point. Anything that would help us find James.

  “I don’t want to upset anyone, but three years ago, in those three days I was here, a lot of shit happened.”

  Lies or truth, I knew that a lot had happened three years ago when Styles sold his trinkets.

  “And I still remember all of the players here. Stan, Henry, Crayer, Sailor, Mug, and Dusty. And of course, Michael Bland, may he rest in peace.”

  “Get to the point.” My head was aching and every time I raised my eyebrows I could feel the stiffness in my forehead where the blood was drying and the skin was already trying to knit.

  “Somebody killed Michael Bland. If that person suspects James is trying to find him, and he has James as a prisoner, there’s a good chance he’ll take care of him too. And if he takes care of him —”

  “Oh for crying out loud.” Em was exasperated. “No one is going to ‘take care’ of anybody. James is probably having another beer with one of the vendors. And if all of this crap is true,” she shot a disapproving glance at Daron, “if they believe that Skip and James are with the FBI, then there’s an easy way to fix it.”

  My eyes snapped open, causing my forehead to wrinkle, causing me to wince in pain. “And what is that?”

  “Convince them that you’re not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The idea had merit. Go down and tell them that we know what they think. But there were a couple of problems with the concept.

  “All we know is that Thomas LeRoy suspects you.” Styles had jumped up into the truck and was sitting on James’s upside-down pickle barrel. “We don’t know that the full-timers even have a clue.”

  “Although you think they do.”

  “I think they probably do.”

  “So what’s wrong with just marching down to Stan’s or going over to Crayer’s tent and telling them that they’re crazy. Telling them there’s no way in hell that we’re associated with any law enforcement agency.”

  “Number one, they probably wouldn’t believe you. If you worked for the FBI would you admit it? No.”

  “I’ll give you that one.”

  “Number two, they may not even be suspicious.”

  “I know. But we think that they are.”

  “Number three, they are going to want to know how we know. And it’s going to come out that I walked into the rev’s office and rifled through LeRoy’s computer notes.”

  “They know somebody did.”

  “They also know somebody smacked their security guard and probably gave him a concussion. I don’t think I want to admit to that just yet.”

  We were all qui
et. I could smell the lingering odor of fried burgers in the truck, mixed with the scent of dew-dampened grass and trees. And when I breathed deeply I thought I could pick up the scent of the water flowing in the Intracoastal, a briny, iodine smell that reminded me of the expanse of the ocean and a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean. I’d never been somewhere in the Caribbean. I just hoped that I’d live long enough to take the trip. Maybe to the Bahamas or the Virgin Islands.

  “There’s one other thing to consider.” Em had been taking it all in, and I could tell she had a different angle. “They think you’re plants with the FBI? Well guess who the FBI thinks I am.”

  “They think you are somebody who was involved in the killing of a United States Senator. You were in Washington at exactly the right time. And now you show up here.”

  “And you were there at the same time, and now you’re here.” Em was smug.

  “So, some of us are suspected killers, some of us are suspected informants, and the truth is, nobody is anything.”

  “Except you.” I couldn’t let him just skate on that statement. “You’re guilty of breaking and entering and assault, my friend.”

  “Yeah. But we got the information, Skipper. It’s on Thomas LeRoy’s computer, and that’s exactly what we were going for.”

  “And in the meantime, my good friend is missing. I think it’s time we make a truck to truck, trailer to trailer, and tent to camper search.” I gingerly let myself down off the truck bed.

  “At four in the morning?” Styles didn’t sound like he liked the idea.

  “Hey, we’ve got a good chance of finding everyone home.”

  “Good point.”

  There was no way I was letting Em out of my sight, and I think Daron was a little concerned about going out by himself. So, while we could have covered a lot more territory if we’d split up, we decided to all three go together. At least that was the plan.

  We were halfway on our walk to the village when Daron suddenly remembered he’d left something back at the truck. He wouldn’t say what it was, just that he had to go back. We offered to walk with him, slowing us down even more, but he refused and I watched him trek back toward the truck till he was swallowed in the dark.

  “That can’t be good.” Em took my hand.

  “He’ll be fine. He’s gotten himself out of more jams than anyone I know.”

  “Skip? I don’t trust him.”

  “He’s never given you a real reason to.”

  “Again, everything we have heard tonight has come from him. The story about this Bland, how he trusted his money and his story to Daron. And the stuff about the FBI and the guys who were following me. All Daron’s story.”

  She had a great point. If he was lying about any of it, we were on a wild goose chase. And what purpose would it serve for him to lie?

  “There’s one thing that we know is true.” I looked up at the sky and could see the stars, clear and bright. Early-morning light was still a couple of hours away, and the inky black sky showcased the fiery balls of gas as they sparkled through the atmosphere.

  “What’s that? What’s true? I’m confused and I’d like to know one thing that’s true. Tell me.”

  “James is still missing. And the longer he’s missing, the more worried I am.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Styles had disappeared. We gave him five minutes, then another five, and finally we walked back to the parking lot to see where he was. The Buick was gone.

  We walked back to the village, and I checked my cheap Timex. It was going on four a.m. I could hear the faint sound of a radio or CD player, very soft, playing a Kenny Chesney song, and I remembered the tailgate party before his last concert in Lauderdale. Em and I had driven up, set up in a big parking lot, and ended up playing beerpong with a couple of college kids and some kid’s sixty-year-old mom.

  I struggled to pick up the lyrics as we walked. Something about sitting around, wasting another day while he drinks another beer in Mexico.

  “Where do we start?” Em surveyed the tents and campers. “We already know that he’s not in Bruce Crayer’s tent.”

  “Yeah. If I knew which one was Stan’s I’d look there.”

  “Stan lives here too? In the village?”

  “I assumed he does. These guys are nomads. I don’t imagine they have much of a home base. Even though they’re full time with Cashdollar, I think they do carnivals and county fairs when he’s not traveling.”

  “You could make a living like that?”

  “Em,” I was whispering again. I didn’t want to wake everyone in the village, only one unit at a time, “there are thousands of these events. James did a search on the Internet and there are two hundred fifty-four counties in Texas alone. Like sixty-seven in Florida, maybe eighty-eight in Ohio, and everyone of them has some kind of event. And these things go on every day of the year. In every state in the Union. I mean, we could travel fifty-two weeks a year and never run out of places to go until we’re ninety years old.”

  She was silent. Then, “You’re giving that some thought?”

  I laughed. Silently. “No. It’s one of those things you just say when you’re putting it all together. We were just talking, that’s all.”

  “Well,” she spoke in a hushed tone, “I’m not coming along if you do. If you ever do decide to travel as junk-food vendors, you be sure and let me know how it all works out. Okay?”

  I didn’t always say the right thing around her. But right now, I was just hoping that my junk-food partner would still be around for tomorrow’s meal.

  “I’m still not sure what you have in mind. Do you want to go up to each of these places, wake them up, and ask if they’ve seen James? Is that the plan?”

  “Unless you’ve got a better one.”

  “This seems so stupid and so pointless.”

  She was right. And what was I going to do? Actually say, “Have you seen this guy, he’s kind of scruffy at the moment, old T-shirt, jeans, hasn’t been home in a couple of days.”

  We approached the first small, aluminum camper. It was banged up, and two propane tanks were hung on the back. The dim light from the moon gave it an eerie silver-yellow glow, like maybe a ghost lived there. Someone had strung a laundry line from the camper to a scrub pine. A set of men’s underwear, a couple of T-shirts, and some cargo shorts hung on the line. As we got closer, the music got a little louder. Someone in the trailer had the radio on. Inside me, I rejoiced. Maybe someone was actually awake and I wouldn’t have to wake him. I did a quick look around, half expecting to see Crayer, with his pistol in hand.

  On the radio Chesney had been replaced with Willie Nelson and Toby Keith singing “Whiskey for My Men, Beer for My Horses.”

  “You’re going to knock.”

  I was getting my courage up. And I was going to knock, but I heard rustling inside, like someone getting up and going to the bathroom. And then you could hear a stream of water, like someone using the toilet. These little campers offered not much in the way of privacy.

  “Give them a minute.”

  “Skip, this is embarrassing.” She backed off and stood about thirty feet from me. I can’t say I blamed her.

  The noise stopped and for a moment there was just the crickets and the country music. Then there was a loud belch coming from inside the camper. I mean loud.

  “My God, you can hear everything that goes on in these things.” Em was whispering from thirty feet away, but I could hear her. I hoped whoever was inside couldn’t.

  I softly walked up to the wooden stoop and stepped up, cringing. In another few hours it wouldn’t bother me at all. It would be daylight, and everything would be fine. But in the middle of the night, it just didn’t feel right. In another few hours, who knew what would have happened to James.

  I looked back and the darkness nearly covered Em. I could barely see her nodding her head in encouragement. I knocked lightly. There was no answer. I tapped again, just using my index finger on the door. Nothing.

  I
knew someone was inside, and there could be no question they heard me. So they chose not to answer. I wouldn’t either. How stupid to answer the door in the pitch-black of the nighttime. I glanced back one more time at Em. This time she’d disappeared into the gloom. There was nothing else to do but try again. Or give up before I got started.

  I gave it one more try. A little louder this time. The songs switched and now Carrie Underwood was singing. “Save me from this road I’m on, Jesus take the wheel.” I thought about saying a little prayer right about then. I needed someone on my side and figured it couldn’t hurt. Just as I started to step down from the wooden platform, the door creaked open. The first thing I thought was that it desperately needed some oil. Slowly the door opened, the creaks giving a spooky sound and feel to the old camper. It was like an old horror movie.

  I couldn’t make out the shadowy outline of the person behind the screened entrance. Whoever it was opened the door and started to exit. “Excuse me, I hate to bother you this early in the morning, but —”

  In the softest of whispers, the person interrupted. “Hey, pard. I was just coming to find you. Let’s get out of here.”

  James carefully pulled the door closed and we stepped down to the ground.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  He heated some coffee in the pot on the grill, and we sat on the edge of the truck bed, waiting for the sun to come up. Another hour, hour and a half. It had been another night with no bed, and in this case, no sleep. Em rocked back and forth next to me, and I’m sure she just kept repeating over and over to herself “what the hell did I get myself into?”

  “I’m touched you guys were looking for me,” James was slurring his words, and my guess was that it was more from alcohol than lack of sleep.

  “You’re touched, period.”

  “Hey, Skip.” He was weaving a little and I hoped he didn’t fall off. “Amigo, Tonto, pard, I couldn’t just say ‘I’ve got to check in with my roommate.’ Come on, Dude. I’m a grown man.”