Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  “I hear you.”

  “Well, I may not feel like one all the time, like now maybe, but I can make my own choices.” He belched.

  “Point taken.”

  “James,” Em spoke up. “If Skip had been missing, if he hadn’t shown up in three or four hours under these conditions — under conditions where your lives had been threatened, where someone had taken a gun to the truck and stolen your money —”

  “What? Was your question?” There was no question. He was drunk.

  “Would you have gone out looking for him? Wouldn’t you have been upset if he didn’t report in?”

  He nodded for a while, and I got up and took the coffee pot off the grill. I poured some into his blue mug and handed it to him. I still don’t know if coffee actually sobers you up or if it just makes for a wide-awake drunk, but it seemed like a good idea. The only one I could think of.

  James took a sip of the hot beverage and looked at Em. “Yes. To all of your inquiries.”

  “What were you doing in that camper?” Em was back on the James conspiracy kick. I could tell by the tone of her voice. Maybe he was FBI. Maybe he’d been playing a game of charades this weekend.

  “I have a perfectly logical explanation.”

  We’d been quiet on the walk back to the truck. I was in shock, Em seemed furious, and James was drunk, so no one had much of anything to say.

  “Let’s hear the explanation.” I couldn’t wait for this.

  “Skip, I had an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. I lost a couple bucks in the poker game, and —”

  “How much?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I owe them maybe seven hundred dollars.”

  “What?” He was dangerous. “Honestly? Seven hundred?”

  “Pardner, wait till you hear the rest of this. It gets better.”

  It had to. He was blowing our profit margin. He’d spent all of the stake, and then gone in debt for another seven hundred.

  “So we had a couple of beers after the game, Stan and Mug and I. Some of the guys went up to do their security duty, and then it was just me and Stan. And he gets out the hard stuff.”

  “The hard stuff?”

  “Your old buddy, Jack. Remember, you and Uncle Buzz? Stan brings out a bottle of Jack Daniels and pours me a glass. So we’re sipping Tennessee whiskey and he’s telling me about the business.” James glanced at Em, never picking up on her disdain. “Em, did you know these guys can net two or three hundred thousand dollars a year if they really work at it?”

  I shook my head. “No, Em. We’re not thinking about it. It was just idle conversation. Seriously.”

  “We’re having a great conversation, just the two of us, and Crayer comes running down to the pizza wagon.”

  “Yeah. He was on security tonight.”

  “Stan drops his cigar in the ashtray and tells me he’s got to go for a minute. He tells me he’ll meet me up by our truck, so I headed up that way. Pretty soon he comes back. He’s not very happy. I thought maybe it was you guys breaking into the office, but he doesn’t say anything.”

  “Had to be what it was.”

  “Well, then, he invites me to his trailer. Wants to know more about you and me, pard. Wants to know what makes us tick. If we have any side jobs that we do. Then he wants to know why you asked so many questions. And he keeps digging.”

  “And what are you telling him?”

  “First of all, I’m figuring out that he drinks too much. Jesus, he polished off half the fifth by himself. And he’s the one starting to get tanked. I didn’t tell him much of anything. He asks if we ever worked for the government. Can you imagine? The government? He wants to know why we decided to work this weekend for Cash. He calls him Cash, like they’re old buddies.”

  “And you told him.”

  “I did. There was nothing to hide.”

  “And what else?”

  “Now get this. I start asking him about the full-timers. I’m thinking here, pard. I figure that if he’s getting a little sloppy, I need to take advantage of it. I asked him, just like you told me to, if he knew who shot my tires out.”

  “And he said?”

  “He was gonna look into it. That’s good, eh?”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “He reaches into a small dresser he’s got, and pulls out a semiautomatic pistol. He said it was a Smith and Wesson 39. I don’t know guns, but it looked pretty impressive. He says “this little beauty isn’t a tire popper. It’s a people stopper. When I’m on security detail, when I’m on the road or in some strange town selling pizza, this little guy is my best friend.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I imagine it’s a little scary to be on the road these days.”

  “He called his Smith and Wesson a people stopper, Skip. Said it’s his best friend. Said his Smith and Wesson is the only real friend that he’s got. That scared me.”

  It scared me too. It didn’t surprise me, just scared me.

  “Then, I told him we’d been robbed. And he laughed and said it was probably one of the guys just giving us an initiation. See?”

  “James, so far it doesn’t sound like you found out anything.”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, pally. So then I asked him about his organizer. I told him I’d seen Thomas LeRoy with one, and Stan pulls his out, proudly, saying it was the same exact one. He and LeRoy would share information and stuff.”

  Em sat forward. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Well, financial stuff. What vendors had paid up. If there was trouble, like the tires being shot out. And then he told me that he keeps track of all the full-time vendors because sometimes these guys have to meet with Cash, he calls him Cash, and Stan needs to know where all of them are at all times. He’s got to be able to get ahold of them when there’s a problem, or Cashdollar needs to find out if they can show up for a revival meeting or other stuff.”

  I’d poured coffee for Em and myself, and I could feel the warm beverage steaming its way through my veins. My head ached and I wished I had some aspirin, but aspirin thins the blood and I figured it was important for my blood to stay thick so the scab on my forehead could form. I don’t think strong coffee affects the blood, and the caffeine actually made me feel much better.

  James seemed to be a little more clearheaded. He was rolling with his story. “So, I’m thinking, dude, I say to him, prove it.”

  “Prove it?”

  “Show me where everyone was, or will be. So he motions me over to this little table where we’ve been sitting and drinking, and he punches in a couple of numbers and there’s a list of everybody. Henry, Mug, Sailor, Crayer, Stan, and Dusty. Then he goes to one year ago, and there is a list of where they are. Henry and Mug are in Iowa at some convention. Sailor is in Key West, and Dusty is working in Michigan.”

  “Crayer?”

  “I knew you would ask. Crayer is in Washington, D.C. at some street fair, selling his donuts.”

  “So he’s got them all accounted for.” I thought it was a neat trick, but it was nothing like the story I had to tell James.

  “Oh, I poured him another drink, and he gets two beers and now we’re doing shots and beer. And he isn’t done with the organizer. He says ‘now look. I can go back to whenever you want, and these guys will always be in my system.’ ”

  “It’s a good system, but what does it prove.”

  “Stay with me, amigo. So I said, can I see the organizer. And he hands it to me. Just like that. He’s so proud of this thing. And I punched in the day that Fred Long was shot in Washington. He couldn’t see what I was doing.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”

  “And?”

  “Everybody is accounted for. Mug is in maybe Oregon. Dusty is in Ohio, Henry is in Georgia, I think, and Sailor was in Key West.”

  “You said everyone was accounted for.”

  “They were. So I change the screen, and go to hand it back to him and he’s passed out at the table. Skip, I actua
lly drank this guy under, man. I could have walked out with the organizer or anything else he had.”

  I took a swallow of the bitter coffee, and clapped him on the back, gently. Every move I made reminded me I had a head injury.

  “He didn’t have much, but I could have.”

  “James,” Em was terse. “You said everyone was accounted for.”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  “It’s a game he plays, Em. I’m sure he’ll tell us before the sun comes up.”

  “I’ll tell you right now, pard. I kind of thought maybe you’d figure it out yourself. Stan and Bruce Crayer were in Washington, D.C.”

  We were quiet for a minute. I thought about the ramification.

  “Doesn’t necessarily prove anything, does it? Crayer as much as admitted he’d been there. Remember? He told us he was there when the senator was killed.”

  “Nope. Doesn’t prove anything. But it means there were only two people in the full-time group that had the ability to kill the senator. If a full-timer committed the murder.”

  I leaned back on my elbows and saw just a hint of color in the sky. It was probably my imagination. “So Stan and Crayer were in D.C.?”

  “They were.”

  “So was Styles.”

  “Styles didn’t kill Senator Long.”

  “You never know. Em and I have some thoughts on who he might be.”

  “Oh, come on.” James sounded put off.

  “And Styles, Crayer, and Stan weren’t the only ones in D.C. on that weekend.

  “Who else?”

  “Em.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Hey, Skip.”

  “Yeah, James.”

  “I drank that son of a bitch under the table.”

  “Hey, James?”

  “Yeah, Skip.”

  “You owe that son of a bitch seven hundred bucks and I don’t know where you’re going to get that kind of money.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The three of us sipped at the coffee and listened to early morning birds chirping in the trees that lined the parking area. I could hear a little more water traffic on the Intracoastal Waterway and the South Florida humidity was already building, even before the sun surfaced.

  We told James about the FBI and, even though he seemed a little confused, I think he got the gist of it. Somebody thought we worked for the FBI, and somebody else thought the FBI was after us. We told him about Styles being mentioned as a suspect in a murder and theft, and the entire story about Michael Bland.

  “And you could even think that I’d work for the FBI? Dude.” James, in his drunken state, was still miffed.

  It was just about five a.m. and we’d slowed down. I’d been up for a long time, and we still had lunch and the evening meal to serve. I decided on a quick shower in the block building, and Em had decided to go home.

  “I’m taking off, Skip. I hope you guys will be all right.”

  “I’d love to join you.” I really wanted to.

  “You’d join me in a good sleep, and that would be about it.”

  “And I could use one of those.” Trying to figure out how safe James and I were. That and where his buddy had disappeared to. I may have mentioned that Daron Styles was good at getting out of jams. He’d just disappear.

  I grabbed a towel and an old bar of soap and eased myself off the truck.

  “Watch your face.” She walked me to the building. “Don’t want to touch that cut or get it wet.”

  We watched the black limousine as it slowly drove up the road, past the vendors’ trucks and trailers. The parking lights were on, but no headlights, as if the driver didn’t want to telegraph his presence. Em and I stopped to watch it as it reached our truck.

  “What’s that all about?” She was whispering again.

  “I don’t know. Cashdollar is the only one I know with a limo.”

  The car turned left in front of our truck and drove through the grass and disappeared around the side of the yellow tent. I saw the license plate. CSHDLR1.

  I motioned to Em, and we quickly walked to the truck. James was standing in the shadows, his eyes cast in the direction of the departed vehicle.

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “Yeah. It was Cashdollar and LeRoy. And a couple of bodyguards. A little early for those two.”

  “Want to take a little walk?” James looked at me.

  “Back to the office?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Just kind of ease our way back there, just taking a walk. I’d like to see what they’re up to.”

  Em grabbed my arm. “You’ve skated on all kinds of problems tonight. Don’t put yourself out there. I’m serious, Skip. They already think we were involved in the break-in.”

  James gave me that look. Are you a man or a mouse?

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Then I’m out of here.” Em shook her head in disgust and walked toward her car, shaking her head.

  “Come on, pard.” Still some alcohol in his bravado. “Let’s just see what they’re up to.”

  “Let’s leave it alone, James.”

  “They think we’re FBI, amigo. As funny as that may seem, they killed the last guy who was FBI. Don’t you think we should find out if we’re going to live or die?”

  “My guess is die.” He stepped out from behind the donut trailer, the gun pointed right at me.

  “Bruce?”

  “You keep asking questions and fucking around with this operation, somebody is going to kill you.”

  He kept coming, the gun never wavering.

  “Look, I’m all for just leaving right now. Let us get our food straightened up and we can be out of here in twenty minutes. Right, James?”

  James was frozen, not moving and not talking.

  “You broke into the office, you stole files from the computer, they’ve taken Dusty to the hospital in serious condition, and kid, it’s time to put a stop to it. You’ve fucked up this operation for the last time. Comprende?”

  “Look, Bruce —”

  “No, you look. You’ve screwed this whole thing up. In the short time you’ve been here, you’ve gone totally overboard. To put it bluntly, I’m tired of your interruptions.”

  He stood toe to toe with me. He pressed the barrel of the gun into my stomach and I closed my eyes. I sincerely thought my time had come. The Lord’s Prayer came to mind and I remembered the first line. Our Father, who art in Heaven. I couldn’t remember anything else.

  “Mr. Crayer?”

  He spun around, and Em swung the cast-iron frying pan as hard as she could. In the dim light I could see her damage. Crayer swung around, facing me. The front of his face was a grotesque configuration of broken nose, smashed lips, bloodied gums, and broken teeth. His hand dropped the gun and he staggered several steps, finally falling on his face. She’d saved my life, and all I could think about was how much Crayer’s face had to hurt.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Out of the frying pan, into the broiler.” James came alive.

  I recognized the quote from the movie Moonglow. I was surprised he’d recovered so quickly.

  “Jesus Christ, Em, where did you come from?” James was his old animated self.

  I reached out and she backed away. “I was by the truck. Skip’s frying pan was handy so I grabbed it. Are you aware of what just happened?”

  “Em. Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.” I wanted to hug her.

  “You might say ‘I hope you didn’t kill him.’ ”

  “He was going to kill us.” I was still in shock.

  “I don’t know that. And I’ve never done that much damage to anyone in my life.”

  “Thank you for doing it.” James seemed stone-cold sober.

  I kneeled down and took Crayer’s wrist in my hand. I wasn’t sure how to do it, but I knew if you pressed your finger on his vein you could feel a pulse. There seemed to be one.

  “I think he’s alive.”

&nbs
p; James walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Dude, what was that all about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Em dropped her weapon on the ground, staring at the victim as she spoke to me.

  “Well, give us your best educated guess. I’d really like to know what caused his reaction. Can you tell me?”

  “Crayer is a full–timer. He’s concerned that we’re investigating who killed the senator.”

  James nodded. “Investigating who killed the senator, Michael Bland, the Washington girl, and whoever took a shot at Barry Romans.”

  “They figured we broke into the office. They don’t know how much we learned, but they decided it was enough that it was time to kill us.” Kill us? It just didn’t sound right. “Anyway, that’s my guess.” I didn’t have much of an imagination.

  “I think you’re right.” James stared at the prone figure. “Crayer’s in charge of this full-timer group. He is fed up with Skip’s questions —”

  “My questions?” James was quick to blame everyone else. “Come on. You asked Stan all kinds of questions tonight.”

  James held up his hand. “No need to argue. They think we’re after them, and there must be a reason to be after them. There’s some guilt. And my guess is that it involves murder.”

  Em was watching us with that disgusted look on her face. “My God, I almost killed someone tonight.”

  For the first time, I could tell she was shaking. I reached out and she pulled away again. “Please, don’t touch me. I just need some time to adjust.”

  James looked away, staring at Crayer’s reclining form. “Let’s move the body. It’s almost daylight and people are going to wonder why a guy with a bloodied face is lying ten feet from our truck. My guess is, it won’t be good for the business.”

  “If we put him inside his truck and cover him with a blanket, he should be okay for a while.” I didn’t have any other ideas.

  “If he wakes up, he’s going to sound the alarm. And, my guess is, he’s going to really be pissed.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Em had stopped shaking and was watching the two of us, her eyes going back and forth. I could hear the wheels turning in her head. “If you were smart, you’d drive out of here right now.”