by Don Bruns
“What? You steal luggage on a regular basis?”
He pulled out of the airport, checking the rearview mirrors.
“Depends on what you mean by regular. When I can get someone to watch the car. You’d be surprised what you find in people’s luggage. There’s usually something that you can sell. I bet I average fifty bucks a bag. One trip to the airport, you can make one, two hundred bucks.”
James smiled. I closed my eyes. Now we were accomplices to a crime. Hanging with James was always an adventure.
“I sold a GPS for four hundred bucks last week. It was right on top of this lady’s underwear. And that stuff was pretty kinky. She had a vibrator in the suitcase too. I couldn’t sell a used vibrator.”
Ten minutes later we were inside a coffee shop named Miles’s. Styles sat across from us, breaking open multiple packets of sugar and shaking each one into his creamed coffee.
“I told Skip that you used to work for Cashdollar’s traveling circus.”
“I did. Nice little business. I sold cheap little crosses, some Bibles that I got from China, wooden charms, wall plaques, and statues. You’d be surprised what kind of junk is made for the religious trade. Christ, napkin holders with scripture engraved on them, flower vases that look like the tomb Jesus was buried in, and everything in the world in the shape of a cross.”
“Good money in those things?”
“A gold mine, my friend. And speaking of that, I found out about the gold Bible that the rev always carries with him. He’s rumored to never go anywhere without it. So I got some little keychain gold Bibles and those sold like hotcakes.”
“But you’re not with him anymore? Even though you made good money?”
“Obviously, no.”
James and I waited. Finally, my roommate asked the question. “Why?”
He hesitated. “Couple of reasons. I guess the best is it wouldn’t have been a good business decision. The rev works these things about six times a year, mostly in the South. If you want to work for him you’ve got to commit to full time.”
There it was again. Full time.
“When you get called, you show up.”
“For his shows, right? Six a year?” James was eagerly eating it all up.
“His shows, and whatever else he wants.”
James looked at me. I looked at Styles. “What else does he want?”
“I never found out.” His eyes left us and he stared over my shoulder, out the window.
James took a swallow of his coffee, while Styles kept stirring his sugary drink with his finger.
“Daron, what the hell are you talking about?”
It took him a long time to answer. I figured he was going to make something up, or it was difficult for him to talk about it. Finally, “There were seven full-time guys with him three years ago. All I know is that I heard they could get a call at a moment’s notice, and they’d all have to drop whatever they were doing and meet with Cashdollar, or Thomas LeRoy. You’ve met LeRoy?”
James nodded.
“Thomas LeRoy has the exact location of all the full-timers. He keeps it in this personal organizer he carries with him.”
“He knows where all these guys are?”
“Seems to be important to the operation. Me, I can’t figure out why you need to know where a pizza guy is at two in the morning or a hot dog guy on a Sunday afternoon. Unless you’re at the ballpark and you want a dog or some pizza.” He sipped the sweet coffee. “Anyway, LeRoy has his organizer and if he wants you, you drop what you’re doing and show up. I wasn’t ready to do that.”
“So LeRoy is more than just finance?”
“Yeah. He’s the business manager, you know? And I tell you he’s a guy with no personality. I’d play with him a little, tell him I was having an off day and see if I could get a deal on the day’s rent. Man wouldn’t even smile or appreciate my attempt. I learned you don’t mess with him.”
“Some people just have no appreciation.”
“Oh, he’d just frown and walk away. But the donut guy, Bruce, came down and told me to either shape up or they’d ship me out. Apparently they thought I was trying to run a scam on them. So I learned that Thomas LeRoy gets some of the boys to do his dirty work.”
“Imagine that,” I said.
“So you got threatened?” James leaned halfway across the table. “We did, too, dude.”
“It was some stuff I did, and some stuff I thought I saw. It’s a long story and kind of confusing,” said Styles.
“You want to tell us exactly what it was?” Here was a guy who’d been asked to leave. Maybe he could give us a clue.
“Not right now. It’s something I haven’t talked about. Not a big deal, just better left unsaid.”
“Something about the accidental death of a food vendor?”
Styles frowned and gazed at James.
“What the hell happened?” I needed to know.
“I really don’t know. I heard stories, but —” His eyes drifted off to a spot on the far wall.
I shrugged my shoulders. Sooner or later.
“Daron, what could be so important that you’d have to be that available twenty-four-seven? I mean, Cashdollar has a nice business, but why would the vendors have to be on call all the time?”
James sipped his black coffee.
“I don’t know, boys. I told you. I never went full time.”
“Well,” James stroked his chin, “it’s a big business. I mean, if he needed to meet with the vendors and get their take on setting things up, I mean —”
I swirled a mouthful of Miles’s coffee, understanding why Daron had put so much sugar in his cup. The strong, acrid beverage almost took the enamel off of my teeth. “You said there were seven full-timers?”
“There were.”
“There are six now.”
“I heard. They never replaced Michael.”
“What happened to number seven?” I was still trying.
“Michael Bland. Nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He’d had a sandwich shop in Denver. He sold it and came to Florida. Guy was about sixty-two years old, seemed to be well adjusted, then, supposedly” he leaned on the word supposedly, “up and died of a drug overdose.”
“Wow.” James shook his head. “You usually think of drug overdoses with younger guys.”
“That’s what a lot of people thought.”
“When did this happen?”
“The weekend I was there. The Saturday night of revival.”
“Any idea that he was on drugs?”
“I think it surprised everybody. Well, except Stan. Stan claimed he knew all along that Bland was on something. Used to call him a —”
“Druggy?” I remembered Stan’s comment.
“How the hell did you know that?”
I said nothing.
“Any investigation into the death?” James jumped in.
“Oh, there was. They never proved anything and I know they never found the money.”
“What money?”
“A couple of hours before he died he’d won a pot load at the nightly poker game. They figured he’d used it to buy the drugs, because no one ever found the cash.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An old weather-beaten, white-haired man in a tattered gray jacket sat down at the counter. Fishing in his shirt pocket, he came out with a bent cigarette and tried to light it with a pack of matches that had seen too much moisture. I watched him as the waitress came down the seats, shaking her finger at him.
“Sir, sir, you know there is no smoking inside restaurants. Sir.”
His hands shook as he tried to strike the third match. There was no chance the older gentleman would ever get the thing lit.
“So you’ve got Stan —” James was writing on a napkin, making a list, “— Bruce, Dusty, Mug, hot dog Henry,” he paused. “Who the hell else is there.”
“Invisible Sailor.” Daron smiled. “I always called him ‘IS’. Sailor is a real quiet dude, just sits there and quietl
y plays. Wins some, loses some, you never know. He blends in.”
I’d been down there twice, but I couldn’t put a face on Sailor. I’d seen him, but he was a shadowy individual and I hadn’t paid much attention.
“So that’s six. Any murderers in the group?”
Daron took a swallow of his creamy, sugary, caffeinated beverage. “One of the guys has some felony convictions. They’re upfront about him. Mug, I think. I would guess that some of the others have some felony convictions, too, but the rev doesn’t exactly do background checks on his vendors.”
I’d never considered that. Murderers, sex offenders, muggers, robbers, and rapists, after they’d done their time, what did they do with the rest of their lives? Work in a car wash? Fast food? Or work for somebody like Cashdollar? Because you’d almost have to move from your hometown, and you certainly couldn’t work for a bank, teach school, work as an accountant, or for that matter, much of anything else. Maybe you’d have to — and then it hit me. Maybe you’d have to sell security systems or work at a place like Cap’n Crab. Well, hell. We were both on the bottom rung of the ladder with murderers, sex offenders, muggers, and the like. That was encouraging. As far as I knew, no one had ever done a background check on me, or James.
“You know, there are some people like Cashdollar who have backgrounds in murder. I mean, celebrities usually skate on something like that. They don’t do any serious time. Don King, Phil Spector, Snoop Dogg. Major celebrities who’ve been implicated in murder. I mean, look at Robert Blake, O.J. Simpson — it hasn’t stopped most of them from going on with their lives.”
It hadn’t. As far as I knew. Of course, you only know what you read, see on TV, or hear on the radio. And I wasn’t sure that I should believe everything from the media.
The old man at the counter had laid his head down and appeared to be asleep, the cigarette and matches lying on the vinyl surface.
“Sir, sir, you can’t sleep here.” The poor waitress was shaking that finger and I was afraid she’d jam it in his eye.
I half listened to James and Daron speaking intently about the full-time players. I wondered what was happening to the people who were standing at the airport terminal’s Delta counter, asking about their missing luggage. I worried about Em, who was trying to figure out if I was full-time material, if I was worthy of being a husband, a father. I thought about Bruce Crayer and the attempted murder of Barry Romans on South Beach, and I kept thinking about James, the truck, and whether I wanted to get myself into another jam.
“What do you think, Skip?”
I hadn’t been listening enough. Damn.
“Well,” James was staring at me. “Should we have Daron spend tonight and tomorrow with us?”
I’d missed the turn in the conversation.
“Huh?”
“Skip! Give me a sign, amigo. I think Daron could help. He could be our eyes, our voice, and he knows the players.
Putting it to me, right in front of the guy himself.
“We had a good lunch, we’ll have a good dinner. Let’s say we pay Daron a couple hundred bucks,” he glanced at Daron and got a nod, “and he gives us a hand.”
I had no idea where this was going.
“Maybe we ought to kick it around? You and me?”
James frowned. I was embarrassing him in front of a business associate. Well, excuse me. I had an investment in this too.
“Skip, dude, Daron is going to help us.” And that was that.
I watched the counter, as the waitress patted the white-haired man on the head. She patted, then shook his head. He made no attempt to respond. Either he was passed out or dead.
“All right, James. Daron is part of your team. But his salary comes out of your half.” And that was that.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We snuck into the tent for the late afternoon show. Cashdollar, resplendent in a maroon tux and black cape, came storming out from the wings, the wind machine kicking into high velocity.
“Impressed? Well, you shouldn’t be.” And he went into his opening act for twenty minutes.
“He’s going to mention Romans. You just wait. What was it he said about the senator this morning? God takes matters into his own hands?” James was positive. Positive about the negatives.
Cashdollar worked the crowd, pacing back and forth on the huge stage, working up a personal sweat and a fervor in the faithful as they shouted “Amen” and clapped their hands. The choir chimed in at the appointed moments and when the reverend pointed to the banner behind him everyone screamed.
“Say it with me,” he shouted. “Say it with me.” The voice boomed over the speaker system. “You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion!”
As he thrust the gold Bible at them, waving it in the air, they said it, over and over again.
“Did I say it? No. Did you say it? No. Who says it, brothers and sisters? The Bible says it.” He shook the book. “The Bible. God’s holy word says it.” Now the gold book was the featured visual on the huge screens. “It’s in here, my friends. And not just my Bible, but your Bible. God’s word. God says it. In his very own book. People say ‘reverend, God never talks to me.’ Well listen! Listen. God says, from his lips to your ears, you will be made rich, but there’s a catch. There’s a catch. You must be generous on every occasion.” He paused. That was the important part of his message. “You must be generous on every occasion.”
I glanced at James to see if he was planning on putting any more money in the collection plate. I figured he wasn’t going to be quite as generous this time. After all, we’d paid Brook $200, and he was about to pay his good friend Daron another chunk of change for hanging around. I was right. As the collection plates were handed down the aisle, James’s hand never dipped into his pocket. Daron and I followed suit.
The organ music was loud and shrill and the choir fought to rise above it with a spiritual sounding song. All I knew was, the collection plate was going to be minus by a little more than $8.00.
Cashdollar walked back out with two burly men by his side, both of them wearing coal black suits and looking very somber. In contrast to his slicked-back hair, these two men had shaved their heads and Cashdollar’s rather rotund figure was almost dwarfed by the six-foot-five muscular sidekicks.
“Some of you may know that we’ve been rallying against the forces of bigotry. We’ve been shouting down the voices of evil and those who would stand in the way of the Lord’s work. Some of you may know that.”
There were scattered “amens.”
“Some of you may know that I pointed a finger,” he held up his index finger. James raised his middle finger, but kept his hand down low. “I pointed a finger at a local radio host. Barry Romans. A voice that is filled with hatred, filled with evil venom, filled with intent to do harm.” His voice was hoarse, gravely, and filled with passion and emotion.
More “amens.”
“Barry Romans speaks about the gospel according to Barry. He is a racist, a bigot, and he spews his poison on the airwaves of our nation.”
Loud amens and booing.
Cashdollar held up his hand, and we could see the creases of his palm on the big screen TVs. “What many of you do not know is that Barry Romans was gunned down today, not ten miles from where we are at this very moment.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Then there was a low murmuring of voices that got louder by the second.
“My brethren, we preach change through peaceful actions. We preach change through peaceful means.”
There was a pleading tone in his voice. It amazed me how he could change the entire tone by just the modulation of his speech.
“It is not our intention to bring an end to a violent life with violence. So we pray for the recovery of Barry Romans. We pray that he may live another day to understand the sins he has perpetrated on the public’s airwaves. A moment of silence please, so that we all may pray that God’s will be done. Whatever God wills, we pray that it be done.”
Cashdollar picked it up again, the two men standing very close to him.
“We wanted no physical harm to come to Mr. Romans. And we will not tolerate physical harm to anyone, even those who would possibly try to harm us. Jesus suffered the cross and never fought back. We are Christians. Therefore, we are peaceful people. Let me hear an amen.”
The crowd gave it to him with a resounding shout.
“But you know what God says. The Bible clearly states, brothers and sisters, that the Lord says ‘vengeance is mine.’ The Lord will take matters into his own hands and it is out of ours. Amen.”
“Where the hell is this going?” James shook his head.
“Mr. Romans is in the hospital, recovering from this dastardly, cowardly act. And now, we have received death threats. Yes, my people, I have received a threat on my life.”
There was a cry from two thousand plus people. A cry, followed by a gasping. James even made a guttural sound.
“It is necessary for the next few days for me to have these two — deacons — at my side. They will seek to protect me from anyone who would attempt to physically harm me.”
James whispered. “What about the Lord’s prerogative?”
“The Lord spoke to me.”
“Ah, there it is.”
“And after much prayer, after soulful, heartfelt prayer, I know that the Lord asked me to protect myself from the slings and arrows of others that would try to bring me down.”
Now there was a loud din of voices, screams, and shouts. There were even a couple of shrill whistles. Here was the man who was going to show us the road to riches, and now he was about to be assassinated. Another cry from the masses and a conversational murmur of voices as people turned to their neighbors and expressed disbelief.
“Jesus.”
“Funny how you would bring up his name. Cashdollar was just talking about him, James.” Daron tugged the brim of his porkpie hat.
