Stuff Dreams Are Made Of (23 page)

“So? It could have been the phone number of his mother? Maybe his sister? Ex wife?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I called it.”

“And?”

“They answered ‘FBI. Miami.’ ”

We were juniors at Samuel and Davidson University in Miami when the FBI appeared on our campus. Twice. The first time, we heard about it through a friend in the business school. Some crazy freshman sent an e-mail to the White House, saying he wished the president would die in office. And he sent it out over the network at Sam and Dave U. I doubt if there was much investigation, other than why the kid was that stupid. They found him in about two hours.

Two suits drove onto campus, went directly to the kid’s dorm room, arrested him, picked up his computer as evidence, and no one at the university ever saw him again. I don’t know if they charged him or let him off with a warning, but as far as I can tell he never came back to Sam and Dave. James’s theory is that the kid is in solitary confinement at a secret prison a mile underneath Washington D.C. I just hoped that James wasn’t joining him.

The second time the FBI showed up, it was in the form of a semiattractive woman recruiter. She had blond hair, kind of swept up, and she set up at a job fair and I picked up a brochure.
I talked to her for a while but I think they were looking for someone with a lot better grade point average, and probably someone with a little more motivation. I just thought it would be cool to have a job where you wore a suit and a shoulder holster. They wanted someone with a business and accounting background. It never would have worked.

I guess I shared a healthy, or unhealthy, fear of cops and officers of the law, just like James, even if they used attractive women as recruiters. I’d seen what they could do. So I figured that if the FBI was really tailing Em, if they really did have a plant on the park grounds, and if Thomas LeRoy really thought that James and I were plants, things were pretty serious. I was even more worried about James. As far as I knew James was on the grounds. But where, I had no idea. No idea at all.

Em looked at Styles with uncertainty. They stood, leaning against the truck, warily watching each other. “So you’re saying that this guy trusted you with the information that he worked for the FBI?”

“Look, I’m telling you what I know.”

“And you know about the FBI? You can get license plates tracked, you know about FBI plants? Excuse me for questioning this, Daron, but you seem like the least likely person to have any knowledge of the FBI.”

“Yeah. I would normally act offended, but I know what my reputation is. And I’ve fostered it to a certain extent. You probably have every right to question my qualifications. I’m very close to the core of this situation. And I’ll tell you why. But I don’t want this to go any further. Do you understand?”

I couldn’t wait to hear this one.

“Do you know what I do for a living?”

Em stared back. “As far as I can tell, you steal suitcases and try to sell women’s shoes.”

She’d figured it out.

“No. That’s a sideline. I sell knockoff stuff. Basically from the trunk of the Buick.”

“Knockoff stuff?”

“Louis Vuitton handbags, I’ve got ’em. Coach purses, you can’t beat my price. Fendi, Chanel, Versace, they’re my specialty.” He talked with his hands. Dramatic, like a cheap hustler. Which I guess he was. “All cheap imitations. Although,” he paused, “they’re not as cheap as they used to be. These knockoff companies are getting pretty damned good, and a good fake costs a little more than it used to. You take the Emporio Armani sunglasses, I mean —”

“What the hell does this have to do with the FBI?”

Styles dropped the sunglasses story. “More than you think. The FBI investigates intellectual property crimes.”

“What kind of crimes?” I had no idea what he was talking about. When someone mentioned intellectual I was usually lost.

“Intellectual property crimes. Trademark and copyright infringement.”

Em nodded. “So you, selling knockoff purses —”

“Purses, watches, DVDs, perfumes.”

“You could get arrested by the FBI?”

“I could.”

“For a couple of purses out of your trunk?”

“The cops are involved too, and they’re a bigger worry. But, the FBI is in charge of that shit, and when they are trying to bust one of the big warehouses where we get our stuff, or they’re trying to track down some importers and arresting people at the port authority, then I’m in a lot of trouble. They can take me in, arrest me, get me a federal conviction if they think it helps their case.”

“Really?” I had no idea I was dealing with a Federal criminal. I thought he was just a two-bit crook. I wondered if James knew. It would elevate Styles in his book.

“Yeah. You’d think they’d all be working on terrorists, but
there’s some of ’em who work the DVDs and watches and purses. So I’m always looking over my shoulder. If I see a suspicious car, there’s a friend of mine who can run the plate. If I see a suit approaching my stash, I wrap it up, real fast. I can be gone in about twenty seconds. I have a healthy respect for the cops and especially the FBI.”

“I didn’t realize you had job hazards like that.”

“That and shoplifters. I hate those people. No respect for what I go through to get the merchandise in the first place.”

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.”

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 quiet. 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.”