Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  The flap on the tent was pulled down, but it wasn’t tied. A couple of early risers walked by me, nodding, as they headed toward the portable restrooms. I wasn’t sure of the etiquette when approaching a tent. Obviously you couldn’t knock. Did you shout out? “Hey, Bruce, sorry about bashing your face in. Can I come in and see how you’re doing?”

  The early light cast my long shadow as I approached the small green tent. I patted the pistol, wondering if I’d ever use it if needed. Flip the flap? Shout out? I was five feet from the entrance, wondering if I should even bother.

  “Bruce? Crayer? Are you in there?”

  No sound.

  “Bruce?”

  There was a rustling. Something was moving inside the tent. My hand brushed the pistol, as if I had a clue what to do with it. At best, it would look impressive to someone. It might frighten someone off.

  I stood there for a moment, then gathering all the courage I had, I raised the flap. The rustling stopped and I froze. Now what?

  “Bruce?”

  The gauze was unzipped and as I leaned down, it parted. Daron Styles stuck his head out. “Hey, Skip. So you’re looking for him too?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  When my father left home, things sort of fell apart. It’s not that they’d been going so well before then, but my working mother and little sister seemed to hang out in their own world, and I was left to figure out what was left of mine. James became the brother and the family that I never had. And because he became such an important part of my life, I forgave a lot that James did because he was family, the only real family I know. So, in some perverse way, I have to forgive friends of the family. Like Daron. Thank God there aren’t too many of them.

  “Where the hell did you disappear to? You break into the trailer, almost kill someone, then leave Em and me to cover it up?”

  The sirens were much louder now.

  He glanced over his shoulder, tugged the brim of his hat down low and put his finger to his lips. “Could you say all that a little louder? Maybe they didn’t hear you over by the Intracoastal.”

  I lowered my voice. “So what happened to you? You just walk out on us?”

  “I told you I’ve got a friend who gives me heads-up on the FBI.”

  “Yeah. The friend who runs license plate numbers and tells you when there’s going to be a raid on your dealer’s warehouse. That friend?”

  “Let’s just say I needed to visit her. The friend. Okay?”

  “At three in the morning?”

  “Hey, I got the information I needed. That’s all that’s important.”

  “There’s a lot of stuff that’s gone down since you left.”

  “Let’s walk.” Styles looked over his shoulder one more time.

  “Walk? Christ, if you only knew what I’ve been through tonight —”

  “Softly, Skipper, tell me what’s happened.”

  “You hear the sirens?”

  “Couldn’t miss ’em.” They were across the causeway and must have pulled into the campgrounds by now. In thirty seconds they would be in the parking lot.

  “One of Cashdollar’s bodyguards tried to kill him, and Thomas LeRoy killed the bodyguard.” I started shaking, the kind of shaking that you can feel in your hands, so if you’re holding a drink you’re afraid you’re going to spill the whole thing.

  “Tried to kill the rev? Where did you hear this?”

  “We saw it, man. We saw it.” And I still couldn’t get the picture out of my head. Walter’s brains spattered on the car.

  “Jesus. Is the rev alive?”

  “It appeared he’s okay.”

  We’d reached the aluminum camper where James had drunk Stan the pizza man under the table. A proud moment for my friend. The door hung open, and I could see what looked like a green couch or chair inside. Someone was slouched in the chair. I gestured at the trailer. “Stan’s place.”

  Styles looked up and stopped. He took two steps backward, then climbed the two wooden steps leading to the entrance.

  “Daron, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Come here, Skip.” The sirens were ear piercing as they pulled into the parking lot. There must have been three vehicles, and they all shut down at once, the screaming sirens giving off that long, lonely wail when they finally die.

  I glanced over at the parking lot and could make out an ambulance and at least one cop car.

  “Skip. Up here.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was see Stan. Still, I climbed the stairs.

  “Seems there’s a lot of this going around this morning.” Styles stood there, looking at the slumped body of the pizza man. Blood stained the green fabric chair, and a pistol lay on the linoleum floor beneath his outstretched hand.

  After what I’d seen so far, I should have been shockproof. I wasn’t. It appeared he’d put the barrel of the pistol into his mouth and blown the back of his head off. I closed my eyes and stepped out of the trailer. It was all I could do to keep from heaving.

  Styles walked out, and stared for a moment at the vehicles in the parking lot. “A little too late for this one. Put the Glock into his mouth and bang.”

  I walked away, Styles following. I needed to put some distance between myself and that picture. We walked to the edge of the trees that bordered the small village. I thought about walking even farther and never going back.

  “Skip, he killed himself. It happens.”

  “There would have to be one hell of a reason.”

  “You never know. It might be something very simple.”

  “What was that you said back there? He put something in his mouth. The gun, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t say ‘gun.’ ”

  Styles studied me. “What did I say?”

  “You said he put the ‘gunk’ or something in his mouth.”

  “The Glock.”

  “What is a Glock?”

  “A nine-millimeter pistol. It was a Glock on the floor. Model 26, I think.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been around guns.”

  “And a Glock isn’t a Smith and Wesson?”

  He gave me a surprised look. “Two different animals. Why?”

  “Because James was here earlier, in Stan’s camper, and Stan’s gun was a Smith and Wesson.”

  “Maybe he’s got a couple of guns.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t believe that Glock was Stan’s gun. He told James that his Smith and Wesson was the only real friend that he had.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  They were waiting for us as we trudged back to the truck.

  “We were about ready to add you to the list, amigo.” James threw his arm around my shoulder.

  “So here’s the guy who ran out on us.” Em gave Styles a look that could kill.

  “There was a good reason.”

  “First of all, what’s up with Crayer?” James was anxious.

  “No sign of him. At all.”

  “Dude, we need to find him. Em and I’ve been talking. He’s the only one who can seriously implicate us in this whole mess, and that’s only because Em acted in self-defense. Where would he go?”

  “Self-defense?” Daron was puzzled. It struck me that I’d never asked him why he was in Crayer’s tent in the first place.

  “He was threatening us with a gun. Em hit him in the face with a frying pan. And I mean, she hit him. We put him in his donut wagon, but when we got back he was gone.”

  Styles pushed the brim back. “That’s two we’ve taken out of commission. Dusty and Crayer.”

  “And —” I coaxed him.

  “And three that are out of commission. One, permanently.”

  “Who?” James needed to know.

  “Stan. We found him in his trailer, the back of his head blown off.”

  Em grabbed my hand and looked in my eyes for confirmation. “Oh my God. Who killed him? I’ll bet it was the bodyguard. He must have shot him before he tri
ed to shoot Cashdollar.”

  “Appears to be a suicide.” Styles sat on the wooden bench and lit up a cigarette. He shook another out of the pack and offered it to James. “Gun was on the floor where he dropped it.”

  James took the cigarette and leaned against the truck. “Man, I talked to him not more than three hours ago. In that trailer.”

  “Skipper told me.”

  “I even saw the gun. He was proud of it.”

  “The Smith and Wesson.”

  “Yeah.”

  I jumped in. “Daron says this one’s a Glock.”

  James turned his hands palms up. “A gun is a gun. It still can kill people, right?”

  The commotion was centered around the office/trailer. They’d pulled the ambulance around back and I assumed that Cashdollar had first dibs. After all, he was still alive. Two detectives in sport coats and bad haircuts talked to a handful of people who were milling around the scene, but no one claimed knowledge of anything.

  Em was still holding my hand and I liked it. “Skip, how much trouble are we in if we don’t say anything?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure LeRoy and Cashdollar will tell the story. I mean, the guy tried to kill Cashdollar.”

  “And that gave LeRoy the right to walk up and shoot Walter in the head?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Em, how do I know? I’m still not sure of exactly what we saw.”

  The news had hit radio and television because there was a line of traffic that backed up to the causeway and beyond. The worse the news, the better the attendance. We’d heard it on the truck radio. It was brief and incomplete, but the basics were in place. Preston Cashdollar had been shot early Sunday morning at Oleta State Park. He was in good condition. One of his bodyguards was found dead outside his office trailer. As an aside, the story stated simply that a worker at the campground was found dead in his trailer. A worker. That’s what we were too. Workers.

  The press was salivating. You can never have too much bad news. I was just glad that we — Em, James, and myself — were being left out of it.

  James sat on the driver’s side, Em sat on the passenger side, and Styles and I stood on the ground as the newscaster finished his report.

  “And finally, on a related note —” I think we all held our breath, “— radio talk-show host, Barry Romans, died early this morning of gunshot wounds he suffered yesterday morning while walking not far from Ocean Drive. Reverend Preston Cashdollar had been highly critical of Romans’ political stands, and there were rumors that the shooting may have been related to Cashdollar’s criticism of the radio celebrity. Again, talk show host Barry Romans, forty-eight years of age, dead of gunshot wounds.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  We’d gone in early and still were relegated to the rear of the tent. They were packed in and hundreds of people were left outside to listen to the speakers. The morning service was delayed until nine thirty and I found out later the park had to shut off attendance due to the overflow crowd.

  The morning ministry was conducted by a young black guy who lacked the power and the punch of Cashdollar. He opened with prayer, and given all that had gone on, given the fact that we were still relatively unscathed, except for my forehead, I closed my eyes and said thank you. I didn’t know what else to do. He then read scripture. I looked it up later and it came from the book of Matthew. The message didn’t surprise me.

  God greatly rewards those who trust in him fully,

  often beyond what they could imagine.

  The three of us sat in the tightly packed tent, noticing the police officers stationed at the end of several aisles. I don’t know if they thought there might be more gunplay or what, but I was hoping we’d seen all the dead bodies we were going to see for a long, long time.

  The first collection was taken, and I couldn’t even fathom how much money was put in the plates. The worse things got, the more money Cashdollar and crew seemed to collect.

  The minister thanked the congregation, and moved behind the center podium.

  “My friends, we are gathered to worship the Lord. To thank him for our bountiful blessings and to ask him to help us build more followers from this foundation. Most of you are here because you are believers. You are followers. You understand the need to give so that you may receive. However,” he paused, taking a long time to switch gears, “however, many of you came today to see what all the commotion is about.”

  There was a rumble in the enclosed area. Murmuring, some nervous laughter.

  “Last night, there was,” and he paused again, as if he was searching for the right word, “there was a lot of activity on our campgrounds. We feel you should know what happened, and we have asked someone involved in that activity to talk to you. On behalf of Reverend Cashdollar and our collective family, let me introduce Deacon Thomas LeRoy.”

  LeRoy stepped out from the side of the big stage and walked to the center. From any distance, the man cut an imposing figure. From his closely cropped hair to the brilliant shine on his shoes, the man moved with style and grace. Maybe even more than Cashdollar, Thomas LeRoy was in charge. Confident to the point of being cocky, he surveyed the assembled masses. The minister handed him a wireless microphone and LeRoy stepped to the edge of the sixty-foot structure.

  “Early this morning, as you have undoubtedly heard, Reverend Preston Cashdollar was shot behind this tent.”

  The murmuring grew in intensity, the assembled people talking to each other, acknowledging their ignorance of the shooting.

  “Please, let me continue.” He waited, letting the voices die down. When he was in total control again, he continued. “The Reverend is in good condition, and was not seriously wounded.”

  A light applause grew, and within thirty seconds the crowd was on its feet, applauding, stamping their feet, shouting amens, and whistling. Cashdollar was their guy, and they wanted a speedy recovery.

  When it died down, after two or three minutes, LeRoy continued. “Sadly, Walter Bradley, one of the reverend’s loyal friends and bodyguards, was killed in the gunfire.”

  “There’s a spin.” James looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Is LeRoy going to admit killing him?”

  The crowd murmured again. I doubted if any of them knew Walter.

  “Yesterday, Reverend Cashdollar told this assembly that there was a threat on his life. This morning, someone acted on that threat. We now know who that person is. It is a man who we trusted for many years, a man who many of you know.”

  Em leaned over. “Is he really going to tell everyone that Walter shot Cashdollar?”

  “This morning, we found the body of the killer.”

  The suspense continued. The buzz under the canvas was audible. This is why they’d come. I half expected another collection before LeRoy told them it was Walter who’d shot Cashdollar.

  “The body of Stanton Barnes, a food vendor on our grounds, was found in his trailer, where he apparently took his own life. Although all the evidence is not collected, we feel that the same gun used to shoot our Reverend Cashdollar, the same gun that killed Walter Bradly, Reverand Cashdollar’s trusted bodyguard, and possibly the same gun that was used to kill, yes kill, Barry Romans, was the gun that Stanton Barnes used to take his own life.”

  “Stan?” James threw up his hands. It made no sense at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “Is anyone going to address this?” Em stood in the rear of the truck, cleaning off my grill and the frying pan. “We just heard a story that we know isn’t true.”

  James took a deep breath. “Em, we’re the only people who know that it’s not true. And what if we report this and they don’t believe us?”

  “We can’t just let it go.” She paused, then, “Oh my God. You’re right. What if they don’t believe us? They don’t listen, and Thomas LeRoy starts looking for us.”

  “As it is, nobody knows that we know.” I was still trying to wrap my brain around the situation. They were blaming Stan for shooting Cashdollar and killing the
bodyguard, Walter. If we told the truth, there was a good chance LeRoy and company would come after us. “Nobody knows, Em.”

  “But we do, Skip. We’re not going to be able to live with ourselves. We have got to tell someone.”

  “There are two things I need to tell you.” Styles was separating paper plates and cups as the four of us worked in the truck, getting the meat ready, cooking up the onions and peppers, and getting ready for one heck of a rush. There were more trucks, vans, and SUVs than I’d seen all weekend. Three trucks with satellite dishes on the top and station call letters on the side had pulled up next to us. Three cop cars were parked up by the tent, and three armed officers stood duty by the exit as people filed out from the morning service.

  “First of all, I found out who the FBI plant is.”

  I about dropped the spatula. “You waited this long to tell us?”

  “My informant told me this morning. And the good news is, it’s not you.”

  James put a thin coat of oil on his stove-top grill and started the first burgers of the day.

  “All right, smart-ass, who is it?”

  “Crayer.”

  “No.” Em was helping me with the vegetables.

  “Yes. But he’s not FBI.”

  I had a hard time following him. Most of the time. “He is or he isn’t?”

  “He works for them. He’s not an agent. Apparently, they brought him in right after the senator, Fred Long, was murdered. Maybe three years ago. It’s been his job to infiltrate the group and see what he could find out.”

  Em turned pointing her finger at him. “The man put a gun in Skip’s stomach and said he was tired of our interfering. He threatened to kill him. That’s what somebody from the FBI does?”

  “My guess, okay?”

  “Make it a good one.”

  “I don’t think he was threatening you with your life. I think he was trying to get you to either shut up or leave.”