Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  “I’m not sure I do understand.” James was treading on thin ice. He usually backed off when the action got a little rough. But the truck was his dream, his way into the big time. And somebody had screwed around with his dream. “Shove me with that finger again, and I’ll break it. I’ll break your finger, understand?”

  “I’m asking you, son. Leave it alone. Finish your shift here tomorrow and Sunday, then go back to your day jobs. No complaining about your truck here. I’m serious. Please. You’ll save yourself a lot of pain. Please. You don’t want to mess with what you don’t understand.” Crayer spun around and disappeared in the direction of Stan’s pizza wagon. We watched him, until he disappeared into the dark.

  “Nice guy, that Bruce. Eh?”

  “Skip?”

  “Yeah, James.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” He walked over and kicked one of the flattened tires as hard as he could. He let out a yelp and lifted his foot, massaging the toe of his shoe.

  “So what do we do?”

  “I want to flatten the tires on every single wagon on this path. That’s what I want to do. I want to run every one of these assholes out of here. Look at this, look what they’ve done. If I had a pop gun, I swear I’d shoot out every tire on this row of junk food peddlers.” He took the coffeepot and poured himself a cup in an old mug with a faded blue logo. Never even offered me one.

  “James, Crayer said he’d get Stan to arrange for the tires. Look at it this way. You get new tires. For free. Free, James. Brand new tires. Not too bad, huh?” I poured myself some coffee in a chinked-up faded red cup that we’d found in the apartment when we moved in.

  “Well then, why didn’t we tell him about the theft? Why didn’t we tell him about somebody breaking into our cash box and taking the change plus tonight’s profits? Maybe they would have given us new money. Maybe fucking Stan would have given us our one thousand dollars for free.”

  “James. Settle down. You accused me of being too uptight. Just look at you.”

  He sat down on the edge of the now-lower truck bed. It was surprising how low to the ground the truck was. I thought about it for a second. It would be a lot easier to serve our food from this elevation. Even with the step-up, I was stretching way down when the tires were inflated.

  “Skip, somebody’s trying to run us out. Why?”

  “You’ve seen too many Rear Window movies, James.”

  “Screw you. All right, maybe you were on to something. Okay? I’m sorry about accusing you of being a little conspiracy crazy.”

  “You’re not sorry.” He wasn’t.

  “Hey, I’m telling the truth. Even when I’m lying, I’m telling the truth.”

  I knew the line. Al Pacino in Scar Face. James was going to be okay.

  We lay down in our clothes, using some old towels under us, and our arms as pillows. The floor of that truck bed was harder than rock.

  “Could have called a cab.” James shifted and I could feel a slight sway in the truck.

  “Probably fifty bucks easy.”

  “For the chance to sleep in our own beds? I could make that up in five minutes tomorrow at the poker game.”

  I wanted to tell him. The game was fixed. But I figured he’d had enough anger in his system for the evening. I shifted. Sleeping on the ground might be more comfortable. Wet, but comfortable.

  “Cashdollar isn’t sleeping in the back of a truck.” I closed my eyes and pictured that limo — number one — sliding by our truck on its way to wherever he lived.

  “No. I read he owns a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion, somewhere south of here.”

  I’d read the same thing. And People or some other rag reported that his bedroom had a walk-in closet that dwarfed our apartment. Of course the magazine didn’t mention our apartment. I just superimposed our modest dwelling into his bedroom. And supposedly he owns like one hundred suits. I didn’t own one. Neither did James.

  “Skip, we’ll have a good night tomorrow, and I’ve figured out how to beat these guys in poker.”

  I could feel a little breeze blowing into the truck, and the smell of a small campfire drifted into our cramped quarters. “James, I don’t think we’re doing the poker thing tomorrow.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You heard Crayer. Just finish the shifts and get out of Dodge.”

  “Skip?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was that he said about ‘don’t mess with what you don’t understand?’”

  “Yeah. That’s what I consider a threat.”

  “But, dude. He said please.”

  “Nice guy, that Bruce.”

  “I’m serious. He said please. He was trying to be nice. But he followed with something about saving ourselves a lot of pain.”

  “Here’s what I really think, James. For some reason — either my questions or the fact that we’re not full time, or they don’t think we fit in with their country club set — one of these guys is messing with us. And they pushed it a little too far. Now, they just want to call off the dogs so we don’t call the cops. They’re going to make it all right tomorrow with new tires, we can stay through Sunday, and everything is all right. Just a fraternity hazing. Sort of. Nothing to worry about. Okay?”

  “Just a fraternity hazing?” He grunted.

  Somebody whistled as they walked up the muddy path. I looked at my watch in the pale moonlight. Eleven p.m.

  James was quiet and I thought maybe he’d drifted off to sleep. Finally, “Is that really what you believe? Fraternity hazing?”

  “No. That’s not what I believe.” And it wasn’t. I was pissed. “I don’t know, James. There’s obviously a body of politics here that we’re not part of.” I lay on the truck bed, acutely aware of the unevenness of the plywood floor. “Man, we should get some sleep.”

  “Yeah. Listen. Do you know when all this shit started? The robbery? The flat tires?”

  “About three hours ago.”

  “No, I mean think about what happened.”

  I thought for a moment. “When you put eight bucks in the collection plate?”

  He mulled over my sarcastic remark. “Maybe. But I think this whole thing happened when you asked Crayer about the Washington girl’s death. When you mentioned the death of the food vendor, Michael whats his name.”

  “Bland.” He was finally understanding that the questions might be responsible for the destruction of his tires. “Oh, come on.”

  “You think about it. You mentioned the girl’s death. You even suggested Crayer might have been working for Cashdollar at the time.”

  I thought my sarcasm was obvious, but he never once picked it up. “For Christ’s sake, James. I asked how long he’d been with the show. Of course I never insinuated anything else. Not me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He immediately responded with a retraction of his statement from the night before.”

  “You see?” I raised my voice, rolling over on the hard surface and pointing my finger at him. “I try to tell you this and you tell me I’m crazy, but now that it’s your idea —”

  “Crayer was worried. You mention the Washington kid, and he defends with the senator.” He was quiet for a long time. “And he makes a big point of telling you that the food vendor, Michael —”

  “Bland.”

  “Yeah, that he had an accidental death. You might be on to something, pal.”

  “I told you that several hours ago.”

  “Crayer is trying to protect someone. My guess is, it’s Cashdollar. And who the hell shot our tires out? I mean, who would do something like that?”

  I’d told him that before too, but he hadn’t listened. Carneys. “James, I’m tempted to say let’s hit the road tomorrow. Once they get the truck fixed —”

  “I’d like to finish what we started, Skip. We’ve got two days, and if the weather holds we could make another six, seven thousand dollars. That is so huge. Do you really want to walk away from that?”

  “It’s just the money?”

 
; “Mostly.”

  I could tell from the tone of his voice it wasn’t. “What else? What could make you stay in a place like this? Where people take potshots at your truck and steal your money? Where people basically threaten you? Where people die? Huh?”

  “It’s a whole lot of things, Skip. It’s the money, okay. More money than you and I’ve made in a while. It’s that, and some of it is that I’m pissed. I feel like going down to Stan’s wagon and whipping somebody’s ass.”

  “You couldn’t whip anyone’s ass.”

  “Not only that, I wouldn’t know whose ass to whip.”

  We both laughed.

  “But it’s a little more than even that. I’m watching this little business venture, with Cashdollar, Thomas LeRoy, the full-timers, and his cadre of suits —”

  “Cadre?”

  He hesitated. “Wrong word?”

  “No. I just didn’t know you threw around words like that.”

  He shot me a nasty look. “Anyway, his cadre of suits and employees, I’m watching these guys. And I’ve got to tell you, pal, I’m impressed. They may be doing the wrong things for the wrong reasons, but there’s a lot of business tips to be had. This is like a dream, where everything this guy touches turns to gold.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am. I’ve never worked for, or with, an organization like this, and besides the money, besides being somewhat pissed, I say we stick around and get an education. And let’s face it, Skip, we’d be stupid to leave two more days of money on the table. Saturday and Sunday could be huge. Am I right?”

  I was a college graduate, with a finance/business degree. And James was right. There were lessons here that we’d never learned at Sam and Dave University. Was I crazy? Yeah. I was. I must have been because I said, “You’re right. It’s too good to pass up. But we watch each other’s backs. Somebody’s screwing with us and we’ve got to be aware of that.”

  “I’m with you, pally. I didn’t tell you, but Brook is coming in tomorrow. She offered to help a little — maybe spell you for a while.”

  “We have to divide the profits?”

  “Amigo,” I could hear him sigh, “she did bankroll the entrance fee. I’m thinking a couple hundred bucks for the day?”

  “What the hell.”

  “You know, Skip, there’s something about Cashdollar and these three deaths. You mentioning it just seems to have started this whole chain of events.”

  “Yeah. And James —”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got to start watching more comedies. I say we rent The Producers and drink some beer and laugh our asses off.”

  “Skip, fuck you. Go to sleep.”

  At that very moment my cell phone rang.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I checked the number. I knew it by heart. “Em.”

  “Hey, you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d thought about what to say for three months. I’d talked it out in my head so much that it was almost real. And then when she finally called, I didn’t have a clue.

  “Skip?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m back.”

  “Yeah. I kind of knew that.”

  “Been checking up on me?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Maybe that you missed me.”

  “I missed you. Are you okay?”

  “I am. Where are you? You sound funny.”

  I glanced over at James. He was sitting up, and even in the dark I could see he was watching me intently. He knew what I’d been going through. James was the only other person in the world who I’d told about Em getting pregnant, and I knew he was worried about how her return would affect me. “I’m in the back of the truck. James and I are doing this food thing out at Oleta River Park and there’s this revival meeting and we’re staying over because the truck has some problems and —”

  “Whoa. You lost me in the back of the truck.”

  “It’s a really long story.”

  “Where will you be tomorrow at nine?”

  “Morning?”

  “Morning.”

  “Oleta River Park. The place where they have the kayak tours? Right on the Intracoastal. Em, we took a kayak trip last year, remember?” We’d done something else there too. Back in a private grassy area by a picnic table. I was pretty sure that was still in her mind.

  Silence on the other end and I thought maybe I’d lost her. “Of course, I remember.”

  Actually we’d been to the park a couple of times. We’d found a place where we could be all alone and — then they have a little outdoor restaurant that serves great burgers. She loved them.

  “By the causeway? With the picnic shelters? That’s twenty minutes from here if the traffic isn’t bad. Why don’t I pick you up and you can tell me all about it over breakfast?”

  I closed my eyes and said a silent thank you. “Why don’t you do just that.”

  “You’re buying, Skip.”

  James had $600 that he made off of my $20 stake. He could at least give me breakfast money. “You’re on.”

  “Hey, for what it’s worth, I missed you too.”

  And then she was gone.

  He didn’t say a word. “No comment?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m doing breakfast with her tomorrow morning. I’ll need sixty bucks.”

  “Yeah. South Beach breakfasts aren’t cheap.”

  “It’s funny, man. It’s like three months never happened.”

  “I’m happy for you, dude. Truly happy. You need a little Em in your life.”

  “In light of everything that’s happened tonight, you gonna be okay by yourself?”

  “Hey. I assume someone will be here to work on the truck. Who’s gonna fuck with us at nine in the morning? Besides, Brook is coming in sometime in the a.m.”

  “All right. That does it. Want to do shifts tonight, stay awake and watch for trouble, or do you think we’re safe?”

  “Nah. We’re safe.”

  But I stayed up half the night. Coffee, beer, being robbed, having the tires blown out, being threatened by a carney, and thinking about my breakfast with Em, I couldn’t clear my head.

  About three in the morning I took a slow walk down to Stan’s wagon. Everything was still, quiet, and the grass was wet from the rain. A night bird let out a low moan. Maybe an owl, maybe a dove.

  “You got business here?”

  The voice scared the hell out of me. A tall, skinny, shadowy figure stepped out from behind the tenderloin truck parked one up from Stan’s.

  “Ah, you’re one of those kids who played poker with us, right?” It was Dusty, the retired schoolteacher. He’d reminded me of a math teacher I’d once had. Slim, glasses, and his remaining blond hair going gray.

  “You scared me to death.” I could make out his silhouette in the moonlight, and it looked to me like he was carrying a pistol in his right hand.

  “Some of us take turns as night security. That way we don’t have to hire off-duty cops. We just take care of our little community by ourselves.”

  I wondered how many of them had guns. “How many are some of us?” My guess was the six full-timers.

  “Do you need to know?”

  I was wired, and probably a little mouthier than I should have been. “Where was someone when somebody broke into our truck and stole today’s receipts? Where was security when someone shot out the tires on our truck? It doesn’t sound to me like your security is very effective.”

  The slight man was quiet for a moment. “Didn’t say it was a perfect setup. What is? You’ll get your truck fixed.”

  “And the money?”

  “Grow up, son. You paid to play. Accept the consequences.”

  He seemed to be totally aware of the situation. Even though we hadn’t told a soul.

  It was the beer talking, two cups of coffee keeping me awake past my bedtime, and the thought or maybe the dread of seeing my once-upon-a-time girlfriend for the fi
rst time in three months, but I decided to push my luck. “Dusty, how long have you been with Cashdollar?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “I don’t need to know. No. But I’m curious. How many years? Come on. I know Crayer has three years. I get the impression that Stan goes back further than that.”

  “Five years.”

  “You? Five years full time?” Full time seemed pretty important to these guys.

  “Yeah. Full time.” He hesitated.

  “Cashdollar isn’t on the road twelve months a year. So full time is what? Whenever he’s doing his revival meetings?”

  I could barely make him out in the darkness, but I could see his arm swinging the pistol back and forth.

  “And there are six full-time vendors who share in Cashdollar’s success?”

  I could see him shake his head. “There are six now. Full time is when the rev needs us. Now go back to your truck. Like I said, this is none of your businss.”

  “What does that mean ‘when he needs us?’ ”

  “I said it doesn’t concern you.”

  “Can’t you answer a simple question?”

  “What did I tell you? Mind your own business.”

  “Dusty, just because it’s been a really crappy twelve hours, humor me and answer me one more question. Have you ever heard any rumors that Reverend Cashdollar was in any way involved in the murder of Senator Fred Long, or a seventeen-year-old girl named Cabrina Washington?” Stan had warned me. Don’t go to anyone else with your questions. What the hell could he do to me in the next two days? “What do you know about Michael Bland, the vendor? Did he die in some strange accident?”

  His voice quivered and he raised the pistol and pointed it at me. “Go back to your truck. Now. I’m not supposed to talk to you. Do you understand? Go.”

  “You’re not supposed to talk to me? There’s an edict out on this?”

  “I don’t think you get it. Leave.”

  I did. My blood pressure was up another notch and I was shaking by the time I got to our flat-tired moneymaker. James was lightly snoring in the truck, and I lay down on the rain-damp ground and stared up at the stars, the water seeping through my T-shirt and jeans. The clouds had cleared and the Big Dipper looked like it was ready to spill something all over me. I couldn’t get the image of the former math teacher out of my head. He wasn’t supposed to talk to me? Someone actually told Dusty that? James and I were just trying to make a couple of bucks. That’s it. And people were told not to talk with us? It made no sense.