Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  They shouted back to the stage. “No.”

  “He says ‘We are all ruled by fear. This love thing, this getting along together is a crock.’ He said that, people.”

  James leaned over and shouted “This is what keeps ’em coming back every night.”

  “Yeah, and the idea that if they agree and give him the change in their pocket they can inherit a fortune tomorrow.”

  He scowled at me.

  “James, I say we get out of here. It’s going to be noisy, ugly, and I’d just as soon not be a part of it.”

  He looked at me, his eyes dancing back to the stage. “All right. I don’t know how far this guy is going to go, but I suppose we should get ready for the crowd. They’re really going to be worked up tonight.”

  We worked our way up the center aisle, and I half expected to have the rev call us out and ask us where the hell we thought we were going. It wouldn’t have surprised me.

  I looked over my shoulder and immediately worried about turning into a pillar of salt. Some Bible story I’d heard when I was a kid. Cashdollar was waving that gold Bible in his hand and everyone around us was opening theirs. He was asking them to refer to another scripture.

  “This is our scripture. In this book, right here. We don’t buy into the gospel according to Barry. No, this, this is the word of our Lord. God’s action is inside this book!”

  We made it to the tent flap, and two men in dark suits and matching lapel pins held it open for us. As we stepped outside, I heard the first clap of thunder and the skies opened up. We made a beeline for the truck.

  CHAPTER NINE

  They stayed in the tent. We could see them from our truck, even through the vented window that James had cut in the body of his precious money maker. We could see them through the sheets of rain that poured down outside our little kitchen. They would huddle right on the inside of that huge tent and then a group would make a mad dash for their car. Their van. Their SUV. Their truck or their Cadillac. Then another group would dash to the community of tents and trailers, and then another group. Pulling towels, sweatshirts, anything they had, over their heads. Some of the planners had, of course, brought umbrellas. There was a muddy trail leading from the tent to the paved parking lot, and more than one person slipped and ended up on his butt. It got to be a contest for James and me to see which one would go down.

  “The girl in the blue shorts and white blouse.” James pointed as she and a young man came dashing out. “She’s got those floppy sandals. She’ll never make it.”

  “My money is on the fat little guy. He’s got on those nerdy white tennis shoes.”

  And sure enough, the fat guy went down. Embarrassed, he picked himself up, covered with mud from the waist down, and ran a little farther, slipping again.

  “Damn. How much am I down?”

  “Seven thousand, James.”

  “Shit.”

  Then we saw the black limousine pulling around the side of the tent. The windows were tinted, but the license plate told the tale. CSHDLR 1. There must be more where that one came from. The limo inched its way around our truck, and headed down the narrow road that led to the causeway. I remembered the line they used to use when an Elvis Presley concert was over. “Elvis has left the building. Elvis has left the building.” This Cashdollar guy must be richer than Elvis.

  “Permission to come aboard.” I looked out the back of the truck, and Crayer stood there, umbrella open and a yellow slicker covering his short body.

  “Come on in.”

  He jumped up from the step-up, throwing water into the truck, scooted around my serving table, and looked out our side window. “Playing who slips first?” He dripped all over our wooden floor.

  James gave him a glance. “It’s actually a real game?”

  “Ah, you do enough of these things, everything becomes a game.”

  I pulled up a stool and offered it to the wet donut man.

  “Boys, I’ve got some very bad news.”

  “How bad?”

  “Tonight is gonna hurt.”

  The rain beat a tattoo on the metal roof of the truck and James stared glumly out the window at the mad dash of worshippers running and sliding to their cars. “I kind of had that feeling.”

  “Cash has a saying —”

  “Yeah?”

  “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a saying.” James put his hand out the window, letting the steady downpour soak his palm. “You win some, ya lose some.”

  “Well, there’s gonna be taketh and lose tonight.”

  I studied our neighbor. “Bruce, you said I could ask you anything, right?”

  “About this operation? Sure. Fire away.”

  I sat on the edge of my table/counter, a pan of peppers next to me that would probably never see the grill tonight. Heavy rain beat down on the truck and I spoke up to be heard. “Ten years ago, Cashdollar was here, at the park, doing a tent service and a young girl was killed. Were you here then?”

  Crayer looked at me carefully, then slowly shook his head. “I came here three years ago, full time.”

  “You’d never worked for Cashdollar before?”

  He was quiet, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “Yeah, actually I did. Off and on for a couple of years. I don’t see why it’s any of your business, but I could have been here that year. I’ve worked a lot of shows, a lot of carnivals. I can’t remember all of them.”

  “So, did you know anything about it?”

  “What?”

  I gave the situation a two-second review. It couldn’t hurt to ask the man what he knew.

  “A seventeen-year-old girl was strangled. And just a couple of years ago, a food vendor died, right here. Do you know anything about these deaths? Just wondering, Bruce.”

  He paused. Confusion colored his face. “Are you thinkin’ about what I said yesterday? About the senator getting killed?”

  “Well, it struck me that Cashdollar has been mentioned in three different killings.”

  “Three? I mentioned one, for God’s sake.” Crayer backed up a step, gazing at me with a puzzled look on his face. “Ah, what I said. I meant nothin’. I think somebody took Cash too seriously and maybe shot the senator. But I didn’t really mean that the rev had him killed. Don’t ever get the idea I said that.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “That was a while ago. Like I said, I don’t remember much about it.”

  “Skip was there — here. Right, pardner?” James jumped in.

  “Yeah. I was. I met the girl.”

  Crayer’s eyes got a little brighter. “Oh? You met the Washington girl?”

  I studied him for a moment. He’d perked right up. “Yeah. Her name started with a C I think. Do you remember?” I waited for him to finish it for me. Instead, he shut down.

  “No. It was a long time ago.”

  “Cabrina. Cabrina Washington.”

  He avoided my look. Instead he shook his head again. “I don’t know, okay?”

  “I’ve got a friend who says she was Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend.”

  Crayer gave me a brief look of recognition, then shrugged his shoulders. “A lot of craziness goes on in a place like this. Not all of it involves the Lord’s work, believe me.”

  “So you don’t know if Cashdollar was ever implicated in her death? Or the death of the food vendor?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Hell, no. Why would you say such a thing? Listen, the vendor? It was accidental. I don’t know what you heard, but nobody was involved. A pure accident. And the girl? I told you, it was a long time ago.” The donut man stood up, adjusted his rain gear, and stepped down from the truck. “There’s nothin’ to that. Okay? I’ve got a couple of years on you, son. I don’t think you come into somebody’s home or business and start asking questions as if the person is a criminal. At least we don’t do that where I come from.” He stared at me. Almost a pleading in his eyes. Then he turned and started back toward the don
ut trailer. Almost as an afterthought he shouted over his shoulder, “Oh, and by the way, there’s still gonna be a game at Stan’s tonight and you’re invited.”

  There was a pounding on the side of the truck and James stuck his head out the vented window.

  “Can we get a couple of burgers?”

  James gave me a frantic look. “Uh, sure. Let me get some meat on the grill. We just didn’t think with all this weather that —”

  “Hey,” the young man stared up at him, water streaming from his long blond hair and down his face. He motioned to the young pregnant girl by his side. “People still got to eat.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Nice guy, Bruce.” James was cleaning up the burger flipper, his big long fork, and wiping his hands on his apron. We’d sold about fifty sandwiches. Paid for the space, minus the cost of meat, peppers, onions, buns, plates, gas, potatoes, and, oh yeah — our time.

  “Why? Because he invited you down to get your ass kicked again in poker? I thought he was evasive and not that nice at all. What he wanted to do was distance his comments about Senator Fred Long.”

  “What do you mean, distance his comments?” James gave me a funny look.

  “I brought up the murdered girl, and he immediately wanted to tell me that he hadn’t meant anything about his comments the other night. I mean, he practically accused Cashdollar of killing Fred Long.”

  James continued to wipe his hands. A little soap would have helped. “Now that you mention it —”

  “So I’m thinking that’s one of the reasons he came over here.”

  “What? To tell us the rev was not the killer?”

  “Yeah. And he made a big deal of telling me that the vendor death was an accident.”

  “Oh, come on. It came up, pardner, that’s all.”

  “And when I asked him about Cabrina Washington, he said he didn’t remember much because it has been so long ago.”

  “So?”

  “And right away he remembers her last name. He says ‘Oh, you mean the Washington girl?’ Like it was on the tip of his tongue. I thought that was a little strange. And he doesn’t want to admit he was working the revival show back then. And finally, he almost warns me about asking too many questions. Did you hear that?”

  “Maybe he was right, pard. You were coming down pretty hard on Cashdollar. Was he ever implicated and all that? Maybe it’s best to just drop it.”

  “It was a question. That’s all it was. And I never even asked him what he meant when he said ‘I was there when Long was shot.’ What did that mean? Was he there, standing right there? Was he in D.C.?”

  “Skip, what’s the last movie you and I saw?”

  I stared at him for a moment, thinking. “What the hell does that have to do with the current conversation?”

  “Just humor me. What was the last movie we saw, pard?”

  “We rented Disturbia. And we were talking about it and —”

  “Yeah, kind of weak.”

  “— and you decided to rent Rear Window, the Hitchcock movie. You said Disturbia was a really weak copycat movie of Rear Window.”

  James smiled, shoving his utensils in a drawer beneath the stove. He latched the drawer, took off his apron, and sat down on an upside-down plastic bucket that previously contained thousands of pickles. “I like the fact that you’re one of only three people in the world that like pizza-flavored chips.”

  Stupid quote, stupid movie. “Disturbia had some weak quotes. I’ll give you that.”

  “But Rear Window — I love that movie. Jimmy Stewart, Grace Kelley.” For a moment he was lost in his James world.

  “They’re trying to convince themselves that the lady has been murdered and Lisa says to Jeff, ‘What’s a logical explanation for a woman taking a trip with no luggage?’ ”

  I had no idea where he was going with this scenario, but I did know Jeff’s next line.

  “That she didn’t know she was going on a trip and where she was going she wouldn’t need any luggage.

  “And Lisa says —”

  We both said it together. “Exactly.”

  “What’s the point of this exercise, James?”

  “I’ve got to get you to more comedies, son. You’re taking this conspiracy, this clue thing way too far. The guy is our neighbor. He’s just being friendly. Hell, you’re replaying Rear Window and trying to make somebody a killer. You’re spooked about a girl who died ten years ago and a senator who could have had hundreds of enemies. Come on, Skip. Take it easy, my friend.”

  “I was there. The night Cabrina Washington was killed. Right here.”

  “So?”

  “You told me the story of Daron Styles and the food vendor. My God, James, a vendor, just like us, died. Right here.”

  “Oh Christ. Give it up. Come on, amigo. They were stray moments. We aren’t a part of that scenerio.”

  I nodded. “You’re right.”

  “We’ll rent The Producers. The original, with Zero Mostel. We’ll drink some beer and laugh our asses off. Man, you are getting way too serious, amigo.”

  I saw him approach the truck from the corner of my eye, his stomach preceding him. He was puffing on a big brown cigar and carried a beer bottle in his hand.

  “Hey, boys.”

  “Stan.” James nodded. Stan had quite a bit of James’s money from last night and I could tell from just the way he said “Stan” that James was thinking about getting that money back.

  Our poker buddy leaned on the back of the truck, studying us. “Heard you went into the tent this evening.”

  James looked at me. “We did.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Hey, kid, don’t take offense. Thomas LeRoy noticed you in the crowd. Wanted to know who the new guys were and how you were doing.”

  “Tell him we’re doing fine.” James smiled.

  “So, you saw the rev. Pretty good show, eh?”

  “Well,” I watched him take a swallow of beer and realized we didn’t have any. What the hell were we thinking? “we didn’t stay for much of it.”

  “Still, you saw some pretty powerful stuff. You make sure you come down to the trailer in ’bout half an hour. We’re playin’ some poker and I think you’ll have a good time.”

  More free beer? Sooner or later they’d make us pay for the privilege. Of course, the way James played, the beer wasn’t free.

  And, of course, James had the same thought I did. “We’ll be there. Looking forward to it.”

  Stan kept his elbow on the truck bed, watching us and blowing out puffs of gray smoke from his cheap cigar. It smelled somewhat like wet rags in a trash fire. “What do you boys do when you’re not selling food?”

  “You mean for fun?” James asked.

  “No. What are your day jobs? Some of us do this full time. I travel with the rev. Crayer pretty much works with the rev full time. Now Dusty, he’s a retired school teacher if you can believe that, and Mug is a three-time convicted felon who has his own catering business. You don’t want to fuck with him. Is that what you boys do? Cater?”

  “No, sir.” James got off his bucket and stepped to the rear. “I work for a seafood restaurant and Skip here sells security systems.”

  “And neither of us is a felon,” I added.

  James nodded. “Not yet.”

  Stan pursed his lips and frowned, almost as if he didn’t believe us. “That’s what you do, huh? A little sales and food.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bruce tells me you had some questions about the rev and this operation.”

  I could feel James’s eyes shift toward me. “Just heard some things and wondered.”

  “You got questions, ask me.” Straightforward. The horse’s mouth so to speak.

  “They weren’t important. I’d just been here a while back and remembered an incident —”

  “The Washington girl?” He said it in a low, guttural voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sad story. They never found the killer. Reverend
Cashdollar,” he paused, “and his wife felt terrible. You know Gwena? Anyway, any time someone in this unit has a problem, the rev and his wife get personally involved. He even paid a private detective to look into the death, but they never got the first clue.”

  I was tempted. I wanted to say, “Hey, I heard she was Cashdollar’s girlfriend,” but I didn’t. There was a menacing tone to Stan’s voice and I didn’t even want to go there.

  “You listen to me, kid. I’ve been here longer than anyone. Got it?” He puffed on the cigar.

  “Got it.”

  “Michael Bland, he was a druggy. Guy overdosed. It’s on the record, so you can drop your questions about him.”

  “Michael Bland?”

  He stared at me, his eyes burning holes in my retinas.

  “He was a vendor. Just like you.” There was a long silence.

  “Ah.”

  “I just think it’s better if you get a straight answer from someone who knows what’s going on.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Well boys, I hope you do well in your day jobs, that sales and fast food thing, because this right here is a tough racket. And to be honest, we don’t need more competition.”

  I waited for him to smile. He blew a puff of smoke at me, and didn’t. “Just so we understand each other.”

  I’ll admit I was puzzled. “I’m not sure we do.”

  “You think on it, boy.” He spun around and headed back down the path.

  As he walked away I said, “Nice guy, that Stan.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, lighten up, Skip.” James glared at me. “All he said was he didn’t need the competition. And as for the questions —”

  “James, I think there was a veiled threat in there somewhere. Not really veiled.”

  “Skip, Skip. He’s right. If you’re going to go around talking about the possibility of Cashdollar being involved in a murder, you probably should talk to someone who was here when it happened. Pal, I’ll always defend you, but you were a little out of line. And our cigar chomping buddy just wanted to let you know.”