by Don Bruns
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Okay. And,” her annoying spoon tapping sped up, “where does all this trouble fit in?”
“Getting to the next level — with James, with you, with Cashdollar’s philosophy — doesn’t just happen. I think it’s a struggle to get there.”
“What? And you’re telling me that the truck, the tires, a threatening letter, the girl getting murdered, a vendor having an accident, and the senator getting shot are all things that you have to overcome? These are your problems so you can get to the next level?” She whipped the sunglasses off her face and her eyes were wide and bright. “Skip, have you completely lost your mind?”
I buried my head in my hands. It had all made sense last night, or early this morning. In a twisted sort of way I’d figured it out. And now, when I needed this concept to save a relationship, to get to the next level, it had escaped me. It sounded stupid.
“Can you forget it? James and I have some trouble. I’ll get through it.”
I looked across the street, toward the beach. A big limo was moving slowly in the heavy traffic, and I thought about Cashdollar and his trappings. The staff, the gold Bible, the limo with the tinted windows. Then there was a break in the traffic and I caught a glimpse of a man, standing in the grassy area. He immediately turned and ducked behind a passing car. When the line of vehicles finally passed, he was gone.
“I’m sorry, Skip. We’ve just seen each other after three months, and I have no right to come down on you like this.” There were tears in her eyes. “I want to start over. I’m not going to argue with you, okay?”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all just smoke.”
“No. You’ve got to figure out what your dream is. I’m all right with that. And,” she wiped at her eyes with her hand, “I’m glad I give you dreams. Really.”
I looked into her eyes as she wiped them with her hand. Then I scanned the grass on the other side of Ocean Boulevard. He’d disappeared. The man had gone over the dunes, run to the beach, walked across the street, maybe even jumped into a car. But there was no doubt about it. The short stature, the thinning hair, it was the donut man, Bruce Crayer. And he’d been staring right at us.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the time we left it was eleven a.m. I knew that James was planning on serving lunch, but Brook was coming in so he should be covered. Em and I drove over the Venetian Causeway and we ended up at her condo in the Grand Condominium complex. She’s got a sky-box view of South Beach and I’m always both glad to be there and envious at the same time. We didn’t talk much because there wasn’t much to say. I didn’t ask where she’d been and she didn’t volunteer the information. She didn’t ask what I’d been doing; I’d already told her. If she’d had any affairs while she was gone, I didn’t want to know about it. And since she didn’t ask me about the past three months, I decided she already knew. I’d pretty much been celibate. I’d been out with James’s cousin Gail one night. So, as I said, I’d been celibate.
We took the elevator up, and for the next hour we still didn’t talk. We looked out the window at the causeway with its stream of cars and trucks, the marina with its sailboats and yachts, and we viewed the islands and the buildings of South Beach just a little over a mile away. No talk, just the occasional grunting and groaning that come with the physical act of sex. At about twelve fifteen she rolled over, looked at me, and said, “Well, that was fun. We should do it more often.”
I agreed.
As we pulled into the park, the clock struck one. The story was breaking at the top of the hour.
“Controversial talk show radio host Barry Romans, a syndicated right-wing conservative staple in the Miami area for the past ten years, was gunned down in South Beach this morning just two blocks from the former Gianni Versace mansion on Ocean Drive.”
My eyes locked on Em’s. We’d been two blocks from the huge, gated mansion ourselves.
“Romans remains in critical condition at Mount Sinai Medical Center. Personnel at the hospital refused to comment any further. Romans’s assailant remains at large and police are asking for anyone with information to please call the Miami-Dade Police Department.”
“Does this have anything to do with your story about the reverend Cashdollar’s call for action against Romans?”
I thought about telling her. I thought about Bruce Crayer being in the exact location at the exact time. I thought about our previous conversation, where she said that my being in trouble didn’t help a stable relationship. I didn’t want to go there again.
“No. It has nothing to do with any of this. There are a lot of people who disagree with the guy. You’ve listened to him. I’m sure he’s a regular target for the lunatic fringe.”
Em kissed me on the lips, I stepped out of the car, and before she’d disappeared from sight I was on a dead run to the truck. James had to hear this one.
He was wiping his hands on his apron, the lunch crowd having disappeared. I motioned him down from the truck and told him my story. James glanced up at Brook, in her tight shorts and halter top, and she waved down at us. She was covering the pans of peppers, onions and potatoes.
“Jesus, Skip. It doesn’t necessarily mean that —”
“James,” I was whispering loudly. “I told Em, it could have been anyone. I mean this guy Romans agitates on a daily basis.”
“Yeah,” he copied my hushed tones, “but it does seem to be an added coincidence that it happens as soon as Cashdollar starts ranting against him.”
“And this thing with Bruce Crayer.”
“But Skip, he had every right to be there. It’s stranger than hell, but maybe he’s thinking the same thing.”
He’d lost me. He did that sometimes. “What?”
“Crayer comes back here and hears the same story about Romans getting shot. So he remembers seeing you at almost the exact location.”
“And he thinks that Em and I shot Romans? Give me a break.”
“Dude, it makes as much sense.”
“Not to me.” I glanced at the donut wagon. “James, this guy didn’t want me to see him. He ducked down, like he was trying to hide. Remember what he said about being there when Senator Long was shot?”
“Yeah, but —”
I glanced over at the donut wagon.
“Was he open for lunch?”
“Yeah. There was a long line. I didn’t notice who was running the show. He might not have been there. I didn’t have time to see. Hell, we were swamped. I’ll bet we did a couple thousand dollars.”
“James,” she’d moved to the edge of the truck bed and sat her pretty butt down, letting her perfect, tanned legs swing over the edge. “I think everything is put away.”
“Hey, babe, thanks. Skip was just saying that he is very appreciative of your taking over lunch today.”
“Uh, yeah, Brook. It was great of you.”
“Well thank you, Skip. I’m glad you got to spend a couple of hours with Emily.”
“Yeah. Thanks. It was nice.”
“Mmm, I’ll bet it was. And we did some serious business of our own, didn’t we James?”
“We did.” He grinned at me. “We also did a good lunch.”
I didn’t even want to think about what went on in the truck before lunch.
“You see. My investment was a good one.” She hopped down from the truck, walked up to James, and gave him a big kiss. “You’ll be back at the apartment at ten?”
“Should be.”
“I’ll meet you there.” She spun around, batted her eyes for me and said good-bye.
“Nice girl.” I watched her wiggle as she walked away. All of a sudden everything had a sexual feeling about it.
A couple of vendors from down the row walked by, nodding to us and heading for the portable johns. The whole idea of this setup and what it stood for was foreign to me. It was like a summer camp, and your parents were going to pick you up Sunday afternoon. There was almost a feeling of make believe in the air.
“Skip, I don’t know what to think. After your story about last night, the gun and everything —”
“Yeah. I know. And the note this morning? But this thing with Bruce Crayer has me confused. I mean, he’s the one who told us how powerful Cashdollar could be. Then all of a sudden he’s in the exact location of a shooting?”
“Let me borrow your cell phone.”
I handed it to him, hoping he wouldn’t use many minutes.
James dialed the number, waited, left a brief message, and handed the phone back to me.
“Daron Styles is going to call back.” He put his hands on the truck bed, lifted himself up, and walked to the front of the truck. He came back with two cold green labels and jumped down.
Daron Styles? I started to question the rationale of calling the con man, and then I remembered. “Oh, man, I forgot to get the beer.” I shook my head.
“Brook didn’t forget. Look. Foreign stuff.” He handed me a bottle and I took a long, slow swallow. God, it was good.
We sat on a wooden bench about fifteen feet from the truck.
“Money is safe?”
“We’re watching the truck aren’t we?”
“I guess.”
“I put it in the air filter.”
I’d waited long enough for the avoided explanation. “And what is Daron Styles calling back about?”
“I told you. He’s one of the reasons we’re here. He told me about this gig and how well he did selling religious statues and crosses and stuff. Daron worked for this road show, and he may be able to give us some insight.”
“Insight? Into what? How he was involved in the death of a vendor?”
“Into what’s going on.” He shot me a hard look. “Insight into these clowns who work here. I’ve got a lot of respect for Styles’s instincts. You may not approve of the businesses he runs, but he’s got a good head.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He works right near the Versace mansion. You know, he sells stuff. Watches, purses, DVDs, scarves, stuff like that. The guy has his ear to the ground. His eyes on the world.”
I’d heard he was selling stuff. “So he knows what happened?”
“He knows the players. It’s a chance to pick his brain. He’ll at least have some ideas. I think it might be a good idea to have someone else helping us.”
I had my doubts. Daron Styles was a sleazy son of a bitch with a highly inflated ego. He’d never held a steady job for more than a couple of months, and the last I’d heard he was selling counterfeit merchandise out of his trunk. It matched what James had said about him.
“Maybe we don’t want to know something. Maybe we want to ignore this entire story, make our money, and go home.”
“And maybe, Skip, maybe we’ve already asked too many questions, and someone isn’t going to let us just walk away.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? You’re now the one doing this conspiracy theory thing and it makes no sense.”
“You believe the same thing. You know there’s something very strange going on here. You’ve told me the story about you and your uncle Buzz a couple of times. I thought about it, and I remember you said how you met this girl and the next day she’d been murdered. You’ve questioned this situation for ten years. Aren’t you the least bit interested? Don’t you want to take this just another step forward and see what’s going to happen next?”
I drained the beer. “We’ve got more of these?”
“We do, thanks to the beer goddess.”
I got into the truck and took two more bottles out of the cardboard carrier in the refrigerator. I carried them down to the bench.
“Skip, it’s better to be informed. Let’s see if we can figure out if any of our vendor group was responsible for the shooting. Let’s find out who messed with the truck. Let’s find out who stole our money. Let’s find out who is sending us threatening mail. They’re threatening to shoot us, Skip. Come on, dude, don’t you want to know who it was?”
I did think there were some serious problems. I didn’t trust any of the full-time vendors. I didn’t trust their businesses, their security system, or their poker game. I even wondered if James had won just because they wanted him to stick around. I know it sounds paranoid, but I wondered.
“Skip? I’m not crazy. I think we need to do a little investigating.”
“I know, I know. It’s a good chance to make some serious money, and it’s a good chance to see how Cashdollar makes his millions.”
“Yeah. All that too.”
“Jesus, James. The last time we did this —”
“The last time we did this it was because you wanted to investigate a situation and I went along with you.”
He was right. And James had taken a severe beating because of it. We’d almost lost our lives. And it had been my pigheadedness. I’d talked him into it.
“So you want to look into this?”
“I do. I really want to. I’d like to say you owe me, pard, but I won’t, because you don’t. Good friends don’t owe each other. Am I right?”
I should have hit him.
“I’d like to know if we’re hanging out with a bunch of murderers. I’d like to get the guys who tried to sabotage our truck. I’d like to find the person who told us to leave, because, pardner, I have no intention of going anywhere. There’s still money to be made.”
“James, I think you’re crazy. But I’m in, because you’re right. You’re an asshole, but I do owe you.”
I could see a smile trying to form on his face. He’d won, but he didn’t want to gloat.
“Nah, I shouldn’t have said it. You don’t owe me anything, Skip. Seriously. You want to take a hike, hell, I’ll drive you home right now. On brand new tires. I’d like this to be an equal decision. Somebody is messing with us. We’ve stood up for each other since we were kids, am I right?”
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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“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.
“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.”
