Stuff Dreams Are Made Of (4 page)

“James, you’re actually showing some compassion?”

My roommate rolled his eyes. “Hell, no. I was thinking about what Bruce said. Something about absolute power. Getting someone killed? I’m with you. I don’t want to kill somebody, but I just wonder what it would be like to have that absolute power.”

“Let’s hope you never find out.” Sometimes, James scared me.

“Absolute power, bro. Like God.”

I thought about the senator. And about the food vendor who may or may not have been killed, right there on the park grounds. And I thought about Cabrina Washington, who’d been strangled at a revival meeting. These events seemed to be somewhat scary. Somewhat suspect. We didn’t talk the rest of the way home.

James and I share a computer. And we pay for high-speed access, which is a considerable cost since neither of us makes much money. When we got to the apartment I ran a Google search and found about 15,000 hits on “death of senator Fred Long.” How we could have missed the story, I don’t know. I guess
the news in South Florida isn’t exactly the news of North Dakota or Washington, D.C.

“Here’s the short version, James.”

He’d stripped down to his baggy boxers and lay on the sofa sipping on his fifth or sixth beer of the night. I’d at least stopped at four. “Give it to me, pard.”

“He was shot.”

“Short version, sure enough.”

“In broad daylight. He came out of an office building in Washington, was headed for a place he frequented for lunch, and somebody shot him.”

“Jeez. He’s just walking to get some lunch and they nailed him? They got the guy, right?”

“Not in the last three years. No one was sure where the shot came from or who the shooter could have been.”

“Mmmm.”

“Short-range shooting. Five or ten feet.”

“Well, that’s got to be a Federal crime, wouldn’t you think?”

“I would.”

James belched. “So was there speculation? Did they have any suspects at all? Must have been some thoughts.”

I scanned the news story, finally finding some theories. “Yeah. Everyone figured it was a nutcase, but there was a lot of speculation that it was fueled by the pressure from Cashdollar.”

“Wow. Some guy in the senate gets killed and Cashdollar gets national press.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“But, dude, think about it. You want to get rid of somebody, but you don’t want to do it yourself. Think about the power the rev must have. Think about how much money he makes. All those people who want to buy into his aura.”

“It says here that Cashdollar disavowed any knowledge of the shooting.”

“No shit.”

“And that he considered it a vile act. However —”

“However,” James echoed.

“He did make reference to the fact that God often takes matters into his own hands.”

“He did what?”

I refocused my attention on Cashdollar’s quote. “The reverend Preston Cashdollar said ‘While we are a peaceful people, while we do not tolerate violence, the Lord, in his own way, often takes matters into his own hands. And this may very well be one of those times.’ ”

James stood up, stretched, and tossed the empty beer bottle into the trashcan in the kitchen, about five feet from the sofa in the living room. Our apartment is cozy. “So God took this matter into his own hands and shot the senator, huh? God is a marksman. Something I never knew.”

I nodded. I didn’t even know Cashdollar, but here was a man of the cloth who found his fortunes rising when a prominent statesman was murdered. It was twisted and I had a hard time getting my mind around it.

“A T-shirt slogan for Cashdollar, Skip. ‘Guns Don’t Kill People. God Does.’ ”

“I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m supposed to be in by eight tomorrow morning. Some sort of training.”

I wondered how I’d ever gotten involved in a situation like this. James was my best friend. Almost like a brother. But when his sales pitch started with — “There may have been a murder,” then I should have turned the other way and run as fast as I could. But no, James is my buddy. Couldn’t do it.

“Tomorrow, amigo. You and me. We’re going into the tent.”

“James, I’m not up for it.” The upcoming training meeting was already draining my energy.

“I want to hear what he says about Barry Romans. If he’s
going to crucify him, we should hear how he does it. Come on, pard. Should be good for a laugh. And we’ll have something to talk about when we play cards tomorrow night.”

I thought about it. It had been a while since I’d attended any organized or unorganized religious service. Living the way I did, I suppose it might be good for me. Of course, after what I’d heard about Cashdollar, I wasn’t sure he had the answers. In my case, I wasn’t sure there were any answers.

The training session amounted to a royal chewing out from our new director of sales, Norbit Bronder. Honest to god, the guy’s name was Norbit. He looked like a Norbit. I don’t know where they get these guys, but they’re all pencil-pushing geeks who must think they are on the way up. Why else would anyone else take the job of director of sales in Carol City? I mean, Carol City is not exactly the city you want to be working in if you’re upwardly mobile. In fact, I would think our burg would be a real career roadblock. It’s an urban, blighted suburb of Miami, that tends to go further downhill every year. Cinder-block row houses, faded old stucco buildings that sit deserted on every street corner, empty malls, and a crushing sense of depression at every turn. That and our pathetic apartment complex. Rows of tiny stucco residences with crumbling facades and deteriorating interiors. Other that that, Carol City was okay.

Norbit lit into the three of us who actually tried to make a living in the community.

“You know your job depends on selling more security
systems, but
my
job also depends on
your
selling more security systems.”

Now
there
was a real reason for us to try harder. So Norbit could keep his job! I’d hate to be responsible for Norbit losing his exalted position.

After the meeting I drove over to Esther’s, a great little local restaurant, and had some sausage gravy and cornbread. Not the most healthy meal going, but I felt I needed some comfort food. I looked around for Emily, a girl I’ve dated off and on since high school, but I knew she wouldn’t be there. She hadn’t talked to me in three months. I did run into Rick Mosely, an old buddy from high school who worked for the fire department.

“How goes the sales job, Skip?”

“Not exactly lighting any fires, Rick.”

He frowned. Firemen don’t like jokes about their job. “I talked to James last week. Said you two were moonlighting with the revival meeting over at Oleta River Park.”

“Yeah. Last night was the first shift. Interesting evening.”

Rick took a long swallow of mud-brown coffee and shoveled some barbecued pork into his mouth. He chewed, looking at me thoughtfully. In a muffled voice he said, “You know, there are stories about this Cashdollar character.”

“I heard some last night.”

“Cashdollar. Somebody said that’s his real name.”

I buttered the cornbread. The stuff was like nectar from the gods. Sweet, so sweet and it would melt in your mouth.

“And he’s got these people believing that if they follow him, they’ll all be rich.”

“After they make him rich?”

Rick nodded. “He’s been at this game for a long time. Do you remember back, oh about —”

“Three years ago?” I asked. “The senator from North Dakota?”

He looked at me with a puzzled expression. “No. About ten years ago.”

“What happened?”

“He was holding a revival meeting, same place. And some young girl who worked for him ended up dead, right there on the grounds.”

I almost choked on the cornbread. “That was Cashdollar?”

“Sure was.”

“Wow! I was there that night.”

He laughed. “You?”

“No, really, I was. My Uncle Buzz took me. It was sort of a guys weekend, and —”

“You were really there?”

“I was. I didn’t remember the minister’s name, but I was there. I met the girl. She came around with a collection plate.” I could picture her, smell the night itself, and I could see Buzz dropping the twenty in the plate and her big smile afterward.

“Well, my friend, the story was that she was Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend.”

“She was what?”

“Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend. And he was married at the time. Still is.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“So, was he ever implicated in the death?”

Rick wiped up his sauce with a piece of white bread. “I don’t remember, Skip. I mean, the guy’s out there on the circuit so it couldn’t have done much damage to his career. From what I hear, people are still dropping money in the guy’s collection plate.”

More than ever. “Still —”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinkin’. What were you talking about, this senator stuff?”

“Never mind. Just a story I heard.” I’d finished half the sausage gravy and found out that I’d lost my appetite. I wasn’t in the mood to eat anymore. I said good-bye and drove back to our crappy abode. I wasn’t in the mood for selling either.

James came home about three, begging off early so we could get to the park.

“I ran into Rick Mosely at Esther’s today.”

“Rick? I saw him last week. Told him about our gig with the rev.” James walked to the refrigerator and grabbed one of my long necks. We were fifty-fifty on expenses, but my fifty was usually about seventy-five or eighty.

“Yeah, well he told me something I’d forgotten.”

James pulled a brick of cheddar cheese from the fridge and took a bite off the end. My cheese, his germs. “And what was that?”

“About ten years ago, I took a weekend with my Uncle Buzz.”

“I sort of remember that. You came back and raved about the pleasures of Jack Daniels. Hell, I thought that he was your new best friend.”

“Buzz and I went to a revival meeting.”

“And?”

“And, the girl who took collections from us was murdered. They found her body the next morning in the park. She’d been strangled.”

James took another bite of cheese and washed it down with my beer. “You forgot that?”

“No. I think I probably told you about it.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you did.”

“However, I forgot that it was in Oleta River Park. And
even though I was at the revival, I never really knew who the minister was. It was Cashdollar.”

“So what’s your point?”

“Rick said she was Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend.”

“That’s it? The underage girlfriend?”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. It lacks any passion, romance, or decadence.”

He had a point.

“So Rick was insinuating that the rev killed the girl?”

I joined the party and pried the top off a long-neck beer. I decided against the cheddar cheese. “Rick said he’d never heard anything about that. He figures that if Cashdollar is still on the circuit, it must be because no one ever accused him.”

But, man, Cabrina Washington, Senator Long, the food vendor, and who knows how many other deaths — all happening under the shadow of Cashdollar’s tent.

“Man, we’ve got to go into the tent. We’ll leave now, set up the truck, and we can catch an hour of this guy’s spouting before we have to serve the starving masses.” James swallowed the last of his beer. “Help me get the stuff organized. I went out and got more patties and brats. I think we’ve still got enough peppers, onions, and potatoes to feed a Third World country for six weeks.”

“And once more, tell me why we really care what the reverend has to say. Why do we even want to involve ourselves in the dreams and schemes of a man who may have been implicated in two murders and a mysterious death?” The food vendor that James had mentioned — it bothered me.

My partner was silent for a moment. He tossed his beer bottle toward the kitchen trashcan, it missed with a thud, and rolled across the cheap linoleum floor.

“Why do you want to do this, James?”

“It’s not so much the intrigue of foul play at the revival
meeting, amigo. It’s not that I want to see how he’s going to bring down the talk show host, Barry Romans.”

“Then what is it?”

“He’s successful. I think we need to explore success, whenever the opportunity arises.”

It sounded like James. Always trying to find the next get-rich-quick idea. “Okay, I’ll go with you. We’ll see what this man has up his sleeve. But, James, I can’t help but believe the guy is a little crazy.”

“And I make it a rule to never get involved with possessed people. Actually, it’s more of a guideline than a rule.” He gave me a wicked grin.

“So you’re breaking your rule and —” and then it hit me. “Bill Murray, from
Ghostbusters
?”

“Let’s do the tent, compadre. Let’s see what makes a possessed man tick.”

James was my best friend. We’d known each other since we were in grade school, and we balanced each other well. James was a little headstrong, I was a little cautious. I’m not saying that the balance stopped us from making some pretty big mistakes, but we did have a good relationship.

I also used to have another good relationship. My on-again-off-again relationship with Emily. Emily was what I affectionately call my “Rich Bitch.” Her father was a wealthy contractor in the Miami area and she didn’t do too badly herself. She worked for the old man as they built multimillion dollar mansions in the tonier sections of Miami Beach. Em kept the books and invested the spoils for the old man as he continued to expand his empire. She and I had been through some really good times and some really bad times. Good times when we could laugh, talk about the future, and I could dream a little. Bad times when she found out she was pregnant. It turned out to be a false pregnancy, but she left town for about three months and I hadn’t heard from her since she got back. I knew she was back. I saw her flashy red T-Bird convertible at her condo on Biscayne Bay. I drove by the
condo about every other day. The T-Bird just appeared two days ago. I’d driven by only about twenty-two times to make sure it was hers. Twenty-two or thirty, who was counting? I figured she’d call eventually, maybe today or tomorrow.