Stuff Dreams Are Made Of (12 page)

He was.

“We’re in this together, amigo. Tell me I’m right.”

Selling his ass off, and I wasn’t even sure why. The thrill of the adventure, the stupidity of youth, I don’t know for sure what it was. “You’re right. I’m in.”

As we sat there sipping our second beer, the phone rang.

“He’s going to pick us up.”

“Why? Where do I want to go with Styles?”

James looked around, as if to make certain no one was listening. “He said he’s got some information we might find interesting.”

“This guy is a scam artist. He was a crook in school, and I will bet he hasn’t changed.”

“Skip, he needs our help. He said he had a little favor and, if we help him, he’ll help us.”

I didn’t want to go anywhere with Daron Styles. The last time we’d met with him, he’d treated us to breakfast at a Hampton Inn on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. I’d been impressed — eggs cooked to order, bacon, toast, coffee, juice — until I found out he’d stolen a room key and was using it to get free breakfast two or three times a week.

“And I come back at four and get free cocktails. It’s a sweet deal, Skipper.”

First of all, I hate it when people call me Skipper. Skipper sounds like a ten-year-old kid in a sitcom, who is still looking for
a best friend. Second of all, his scam to get free food and free booze pissed me off. Maybe because I hadn’t thought of it. Now, I pictured the punk, coming to get us in his big Buick. He wore his hair shaggy, down around his collar and always wore a flowered shirt and cargo shorts. James liked him because he was an entrepreneur. He was the wrong kind of entrepreneur. He sold illegal merchandise and financed his business with scams like the Hampton Inn deal, but, in James’s mind, the guy was a sharp businessman.

I had James get the money out of the truck. I didn’t know where it was in more danger, in the truck where it could be stolen or in the Buick where Styles could get his hands on it. James put it in a small canvas bag and tied it to his belt. Somebody would have to have a pretty sharp knife to take it off.

When the Buick arrived, I knew why James’s favorite con man drove it. The trunk was a mile wide and almost as deep. Jeez, you could pack watches, silver crosses, stolen Coach purses, and a small army in there and still get the trunk closed.

“James. Skipper.” He had a two-day growth, the flowered shirt, and a funny round porkpie hat that made him look like Kid Rock. And he still called me Skipper. “Hop in, boys. I’ve got a brief stop to make at the airport, then we can grab a cup of coffee and talk.”

Styles and James bullshitted each other for twenty minutes, talking about girls and schemes, and generally catching up. I kept quiet and thought about Em being back in town. Twenty minutes later Styles pulled off onto the access road and parked in front of terminal H.

“You guys hold down the car, I’ll get Aunt Ginny and be back in just a minute.” He left the engine running, jumped out, and popped open the cavernous trunk. I watched him stroll into the terminal. James and I looked at each other.

“Aunt Ginny?”

“Hey, James, he’s your friend. Did he say anything during the trip about picking up his aunt?”

James shrugged his shoulders and we waited. Maybe three minutes later he came bustling out, an overnight bag strapped to his shoulder, and two large suitcases that he pulled behind him. His pace picked up as he approached the car, and he tossed the three pieces of luggage into the trunk, slammed it closed, and stepped into the car. He closed the door, hit the gas, and shot out onto the access road.

“Daron.”

“Dude.”

“Didn’t you forget something?”

“What?”

“Aunt Ginny?”

He shook his head. “Nah. That’s just for airport security if they asked you why we were parked there.”

I glanced at James. “There is no Aunt Ginny?”

“No. I just needed you guys to cover the car. There’s no security on the luggage carousel. All you’ve got to do is go in and grab a couple of bags off the belt. If someone says you’re taking their bag, you apologize, tell them they all look the same, and put it back. Ninety percent of the time no one says a word.”

“What? You steal luggage on a regular basis?”

He pulled out of the airport, checking the rearview mirrors.

“Depends on what you mean by regular. When I can get someone to watch the car. You’d be surprised what you find in people’s luggage. There’s usually something that you can sell. I bet I average fifty bucks a bag. One trip to the airport, you can make one, two hundred bucks.”

James smiled. I closed my eyes. Now we were accomplices to a crime. Hanging with James was always an adventure.

“I sold a GPS for four hundred bucks last week. It was right
on top of this lady’s underwear. And that stuff was pretty kinky. She had a vibrator in the suitcase too. I couldn’t sell a used vibrator.”

Ten minutes later we were inside a coffee shop named Miles’s. Styles sat across from us, breaking open multiple packets of sugar and shaking each one into his creamed coffee.

“I told Skip that you used to work for Cashdollar’s traveling circus.”

“I did. Nice little business. I sold cheap little crosses, some Bibles that I got from China, wooden charms, wall plaques, and statues. You’d be surprised what kind of junk is made for the religious trade. Christ, napkin holders with scripture engraved on them, flower vases that look like the tomb Jesus was buried in, and everything in the world in the shape of a cross.”

“Good money in those things?”

“A gold mine, my friend. And speaking of that, I found out about the gold Bible that the rev always carries with him. He’s rumored to never go anywhere without it. So I got some little keychain gold Bibles and those sold like hotcakes.”

“But you’re not with him anymore? Even though you made good money?”

“Obviously, no.”

James and I waited. Finally, my roommate asked the question. “Why?”

He hesitated. “Couple of reasons. I guess the best is it wouldn’t have been a good business decision. The rev works these things about six times a year, mostly in the South. If you want to work for him you’ve got to commit to full time.”

There it was again. Full time.

“When you get called, you show up.”

“For his shows, right? Six a year?” James was eagerly eating it all up.

“His shows, and whatever else he wants.”

James looked at me. I looked at Styles. “What else does he want?”

“I never found out.” His eyes left us and he stared over my shoulder, out the window.

James took a swallow of his coffee, while Styles kept stirring his sugary drink with his finger.

“Daron, what the hell are you talking about?”

It took him a long time to answer. I figured he was going to make something up, or it was difficult for him to talk about it. Finally, “There were seven full-time guys with him three years ago. All I know is that I heard they could get a call at a moment’s notice, and they’d all have to drop whatever they were doing and meet with Cashdollar, or Thomas LeRoy. You’ve met LeRoy?”

James nodded.

“Thomas LeRoy has the exact location of all the full-timers. He keeps it in this personal organizer he carries with him.”

“He knows where all these guys are?”

“Seems to be important to the operation. Me, I can’t figure out why you need to know where a pizza guy is at two in the morning or a hot dog guy on a Sunday afternoon. Unless you’re at the ballpark and you want a dog or some pizza.” He sipped the sweet coffee. “Anyway, LeRoy has his organizer and if he wants you, you drop what you’re doing and show up. I wasn’t ready to do that.”

“So LeRoy is more than just finance?”

“Yeah. He’s the business manager, you know? And I tell you he’s a guy with no personality. I’d play with him a little, tell him I was having an off day and see if I could get a deal on the day’s rent. Man wouldn’t even smile or appreciate my attempt. I learned you don’t mess with him.”

“Some people just have no appreciation.”

“Oh, he’d just frown and walk away. But the donut guy,
Bruce, came down and told me to either shape up or they’d ship me out. Apparently they thought I was trying to run a scam on them. So I learned that Thomas LeRoy gets some of the boys to do his dirty work.”

“Imagine that,” I said.

“So you got threatened?” James leaned halfway across the table. “We did, too, dude.”

“It was some stuff I did, and some stuff I thought I saw. It’s a long story and kind of confusing,” said Styles.

“You want to tell us exactly what it was?” Here was a guy who’d been asked to leave. Maybe he could give us a clue.

“Not right now. It’s something I haven’t talked about. Not a big deal, just better left unsaid.”

“Something about the accidental death of a food vendor?”

Styles frowned and gazed at James.

“What the hell happened?” I needed to know.

“I really don’t know. I heard stories, but —” His eyes drifted off to a spot on the far wall.

I shrugged my shoulders. Sooner or later.

“Daron, what could be so important that you’d have to be that available twenty-four-seven? I mean, Cashdollar has a nice business, but why would the vendors have to be on call all the time?”

James sipped his black coffee.

“I don’t know, boys. I told you. I never went full time.”

“Well,” James stroked his chin, “it’s a big business. I mean, if he needed to meet with the vendors and get their take on setting things up, I mean —”

I swirled a mouthful of Miles’s coffee, understanding why Daron had put so much sugar in his cup. The strong, acrid beverage almost took the enamel off of my teeth. “You said there were seven full-timers?”

“There were.”

“There are six now.”

“I heard. They never replaced Michael.”

“What happened to number seven?” I was still trying.

“Michael Bland. Nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He’d had a sandwich shop in Denver. He sold it and came to Florida. Guy was about sixty-two years old, seemed to be well adjusted, then, supposedly” he leaned on the word supposedly, “up and died of a drug overdose.”

“Wow.” James shook his head. “You usually think of drug overdoses with younger guys.”

“That’s what a lot of people thought.”

“When did this happen?”

“The weekend I was there. The Saturday night of revival.”

“Any idea that he was on drugs?”

“I think it surprised everybody. Well, except Stan. Stan claimed he knew all along that Bland was on something. Used to call him a —”

“Druggy?” I remembered Stan’s comment.

“How the hell did you know that?”

I said nothing.

“Any investigation into the death?” James jumped in.

“Oh, there was. They never proved anything and I know they never found the money.”

“What money?”

“A couple of hours before he died he’d won a pot load at the nightly poker game. They figured he’d used it to buy the drugs, because no one ever found the cash.”

An old weather-beaten, white-haired man in a tattered gray jacket sat down at the counter. Fishing in his shirt pocket, he came out with a bent cigarette and tried to light it with a pack of matches that had seen too much moisture. I watched him as the waitress came down the seats, shaking her finger at him.

“Sir, sir, you know there is no smoking inside restaurants. Sir.”

His hands shook as he tried to strike the third match. There was no chance the older gentleman would ever get the thing lit.

“So you’ve got Stan —” James was writing on a napkin, making a list, “— Bruce, Dusty, Mug, hot dog Henry,” he paused. “Who the hell else is there.”

“Invisible Sailor.” Daron smiled. “I always called him ‘IS’. Sailor is a real quiet dude, just sits there and quietly plays. Wins some, loses some, you never know. He blends in.”

I’d been down there twice, but I couldn’t put a face on Sailor. I’d seen him, but he was a shadowy individual and I hadn’t paid much attention.

“So that’s six. Any murderers in the group?”

Daron took a swallow of his creamy, sugary, caffeinated beverage. “One of the guys has some felony convictions. They’re upfront about him. Mug, I think. I would guess that some of the others have some felony convictions, too, but the rev doesn’t exactly do background checks on his vendors.”

I’d never considered that. Murderers, sex offenders, muggers, robbers, and rapists, after they’d done their time, what did they do with the rest of their lives? Work in a car wash? Fast food? Or work for somebody like Cashdollar? Because you’d almost have to move from your hometown, and you certainly couldn’t work for a bank, teach school, work as an accountant, or for that matter, much of anything else. Maybe you’d have to — and then it hit me. Maybe you’d have to sell security systems or work at a place like Cap’n Crab. Well, hell. We were both on the bottom rung of the ladder with murderers, sex offenders, muggers, and the like. That was encouraging. As far as I knew, no one had ever done a background check on me, or James.

“You know, there are some people like Cashdollar who have backgrounds in murder. I mean, celebrities usually skate on something like that. They don’t do any serious time. Don King, Phil Spector, Snoop Dogg. Major celebrities who’ve been implicated in murder. I mean, look at Robert Blake, O.J. Simpson — it hasn’t stopped most of them from going on with their lives.”

It hadn’t. As far as I knew. Of course, you only know what you read, see on TV, or hear on the radio. And I wasn’t sure that I should believe everything from the media.

The old man at the counter had laid his head down and appeared to be asleep, the cigarette and matches lying on the vinyl surface.

“Sir, sir, you can’t sleep here.” The poor waitress was shaking that finger and I was afraid she’d jam it in his eye.

I half listened to James and Daron speaking intently about the full-time players. I wondered what was happening to the
people who were standing at the airport terminal’s Delta counter, asking about their missing luggage. I worried about Em, who was trying to figure out if I was full-time material, if I was worthy of being a husband, a father. I thought about Bruce Crayer and the attempted murder of Barry Romans on South Beach, and I kept thinking about James, the truck, and whether I wanted to get myself into another jam.