Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  “And inside that office before.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me why?”

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business. But I can tell you that no one was any wiser, and yes, I did figure out the password.”

  I had no idea how you ever figured out passwords. You go to movies and see people get like three chances before the program locks up, and these hacks put in things like birthdays, anniversaries, the name of a kid, or a pet, and sure enough, on the third try they get it right. I wasn’t that inventive. I used ABCD. That was it. Of course, I had nothing in my computer or my cell phone that had any value whatsoever.

  “I had the idea. Just had to look it up. Thankfully there was a Bible on the shelf above the desk.”

  Em raised her eyebrows. “A Bible?”

  “A Bible.”

  “And you looked up what?”

  “Seemed like the only logical password they would use. I just had to make sure I got it right. 2 Corinthians 9:11”

  “And?”

  “It opened right up.”

  I had to admit, it was brilliant. I’d never have thought of it. “So what did you find?”

  “I had to root around, sort through a bunch of stuff, but he’s got pages full of anecdotes, events, and stories about things that have happened everywhere the rev has been.”

  Em was being her cynical self. “So it was that easy? You just walk away with all the information? Just like that?”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “I just find it hard to believe.”

  “Let me finish my story. Then you can poke it full of holes. Okay?”

  She shut up.

  “I knew that LeRoy and the pizza guy kept notes. I don’t think even the full-timers know all that’s in them. So I’m going through all these pages, and sure enough, there my name is.”

  Em was leaning forward. I hoped she didn’t get so engrossed that she’d fall off the edge of the truck. “And mine?” she said.

  “No. But James and Skip are mentioned. He simply sidebars their names with ‘FBI informants’ and a question mark.”

  “So they don’t really believe that? They’re not one hundred percent sure?”

  “Skipper, if they were one hundred percent sure, you’d really be an informant, wouldn’t you?”

  He had a point.

  “They’re looking into it, son.” He flicked his ash and for a brief second a spark burned in the night air.

  “So what else?” I needed to know who the heck I saw being dragged away from the office.

  “I’m reading and not paying attention.”

  “And?”

  “And I hear a slight rustling. I turn around and Dusty is standing there with his gun pointed right at my —” he paused, glanced up at Em, then continued, “groin. I thought he was going to shoot my balls off.”

  “Dusty caught you?”

  “He did.”

  “And why didn’t he shoot your balls off? I think I would have.” Em glowered at him.

  Styles took a mouthful of smoke, let it trickle slowly from his mouth and smiled. “A former school teacher doesn’t have the balls to shoot someone else’s balls off. I knew that going in.”

  “Taking a chance, aren’t you?”

  “He’s a school teacher, for God’s sake. Mug — I would have been worried about. Crayer? Don’t have much history on him so I’d be careful. Stan, you never know, but this guy, this Dusty, was a school teacher.”

  “What happened?”

  “He says something lame, like ‘what do you think you’re doing here?’ ”

  I remembered his bail-out answers. “And you said you were looking for Thomas LeRoy.”

  “You remembered? Of course. I told him I was going to talk to LeRoy about giving you guys a break on your rent tomorrow. You know, on account of the rainy day you had yesterday.”

  “So he just let you walk out?” Em couldn’t quite believe it.

  “No. I’m sitting there in front of the computer, on Thomas LeRoy’s personal page, and I guess he didn’t believe me.”

  “So what happened.” I was tired of the slow delivery.

  “I picked up the lamp from the table and hit him as hard as I could.”

  “He never fired? Never tried to stop you?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “Son, he was a school teacher. He didn’t believe it was going to happen. And I hit him with a ton of thunder. As hard as I’ve ever hit anyone.”

  “Wow.” Em was in awe. “So he’s the one they were dragging across the grass?”

  “I believe it was Dusty. And when I saw two of them coming toward the office, I figured he’d signaled them with a cell phone before I bashed him. I headed out in a different direction. I didn’t want to involve you two.”

  “Do you think he’s told them about you?”

  “Hard to tell. My guess is he didn’t know it was me until after he called them. Even then, I’m not sure he knows me. It was several years ago, and with the hat and stuff, I looked different. I only saw Dusty once or twice anyway. I think he just told them someone was breaking in. And I hit him hard enough to put him out for a while.”

  “That hard?”

  “Maybe hard enough to kill him.”

  “Daron. You don’t even want to think that.”

  “I hit him so hard my hands still ache. I seriously don’t think Dusty will be turning me in any time soon.”

  “So that leaves one more big question.” I talked softly. Not so much because I was afraid someone would hear, but because if I talked above a whisper, my head started throbbing again.

  “Yeah.” Em nodded.

  Together we said it. “Where’s James?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was almost three thirty, and we still had about three hours of dark.

  “We can take advantage of the dark or we can wait until daylight and see if we can find him.”

  Hundreds of crickets rubbed their legs together in a mind-numbing nighttime roar. I wondered how people could even sleep with the noise. I wondered if James was sleeping.

  “Or we can call him on his cell.” Em pointed at my phone clipped to my belt. I hoped the battery was charged. I hadn’t been home in so long, I had no idea if it would work. I’d never considered calling James. We see each other often enough that I don’t think about calling. I pulled my cell from my belt and pushed the two digits for instant dialing. In two seconds I could hear the phone ring. Once, twice, then I heard the obnoxious ringtone of his phone coming from the back of the truck. Some hip-hop rhythm by a group I didn’t know.

  “He left the phone behind.” Em jumped down from the truck. She looked back at me, and in the dark I could see her attempt at a smile. “How do you feel, scarface?”

  It wasn’t funny. I could feel the beginning of a scab, but I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t follow her, and stayed sitting on the edge of the truck bed. I wanted to sit for a while longer, and make sure I wasn’t going to be sick.

  “Daron. There are a number of things about you that bother me.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Skipper. I’ve always thought you were somewhat of an asshole and that bothers me.”

  I ignored the comment. “If we can get on the same track here for just a moment —”

  “Okay.”

  “You said you took the money off a dead man? Can you explain that?”

  Styles pushed the hat way back on his head, and in the dim light I could see that the long hair on the sides and back of his head compensated for the deep receding hairline.

  “I never said that.”

  Em walked over to Styles, still sitting on the ground. “You said it. I heard you say it. Skip heard you say it.”

  He slowly stood up, this time lit a small cigar and leaned against the truck. “Skip, I’m truly sorry about your accident. It was my fault. Not intentional, understand, but my fault. When I am at fault, I will admit it. To the right people.”

&nbs
p; “And we’re the right people?”

  “In this case.” He turned and pointed the lit end of the cigar at Em. “You accused me of being dragged away from the office. You saw it with your own eyes, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Styles.” Em was pissed. “We both heard you say you took the money off a dead man.”

  I was surprised. She was raising her voice, but Styles kept his low-key, barely above a whisper. “I never once said that.”

  “I heard you, Daron.” I was afraid she was going to wake up the little makeshift village.

  “Nope.” He sucked on the cigar. Watching him, I wanted a cold beer in the worst way. Beer and a good smoke just go together. I would have taken the cold wet bottle and applied it to the cut on my head, then I would have sucked the golden beverage down my throat in two or three gulps. James has always maintained that there’s very little a couple of cold beers won’t cure.

  “Yep.” Em just shook her head, apparently in disbelief of Styles’s audacity.

  “Look, little girl. Let’s get it right. You asked me if I took the money from Michael Bland. I finally admitted I had.”

  “And?”

  “I took it, because he offered it. Before he keeled over from a drug overdose.”

  Em took a step back. “What?”

  “Bland came up to see me about an hour before they found his body. We’d talked, and I think he knew that I wasn’t exactly on good terms with the full-timers or with Thomas LeRoy.”

  “He came to see you?”

  The crickets seemed to get louder the closer we got till dawn. He raised his voice slightly to allow for the noisy insects.

  “He did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That he was a full-timer, but he didn’t condone some of the things they did.”

  Em smirked. “He said this to you. Someone he’d known for one or two days?”

  “I think he knew they were going to kill him and he didn’t know who else to turn to.”

  “Why did they want to kill him?”

  “So he hands me this paper sack.”

  She asked again. “Why did they want to kill him?”

  “And he says ‘these are my winnings for tonight. Over eight hundred bucks. If something happens to me, get it to my sister in Coral Gables.’ ”

  “And you did?”

  “Yes. I hate to admit it. It goes against my reputation as a slimeball.”

  As charming as he appeared, there was no proof that any of what he said was the truth.

  “Daron, I asked you twice. This is the third time. Why did they want to kill him?”

  “The truth?”

  “No,” I said. “Lie to us.”

  He was quiet for a good thirty seconds. I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep on the ground, but then I saw the ember at the end of his cigarette glowing brightly.

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “An educated guess, Daron. Come on.” Em was her sarcastic self.

  “You’ve called me a liar all night long. You questioned the computer files, you questioned the FBI reference, you questioned why I was hauled out of the trailer, and you accused me of taking money from a dead man, even though I never once told you that. Why should I tell you my thoughts on Michael Bland or anything else about this traveling sideshow? Why?”

  “Because my best friend may be in the same situation. Because James is missing and I want to figure out who is behind this. Why did they want to kill Michael Bland?” I needed to know. Desperately.

  “Because they thought he was a plant.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Was he?” Em had kneeled down, almost on eye level with Styles.

  “He might have been.”

  “What makes you think so?” I couldn’t wait for this answer.

  Styles tossed the cigar away and I could hear it hiss as it hit the damp grass. “Remember I told you that someone, maybe from a government agency, told me to leave and not associate with these bozos? Someone who knew I was in Washington? You remember I told you someone gave me a warning?”

  I remembered. Another story in a long line of questionable crap from Daron Styles.

  “Well, Bland was the one. Warned me. Wouldn’t say any more than that. Told me I could be a suspect in a murder.”

  “He knew you’d been in Washington? The same summer that the senator was shot?”

  “There was a brief mention of it. Like, ‘look, I know you were in D.C. when Fred Long was murdered. These guys here know it too. You could be a suspect.’ ”

  “And what does all that mean?”

  “I don’t know, Skipper, but it happened. And then he gave me a phone number to call if anything happened to him.”

  “So? It could have been the phone number of his mother? Maybe his sister? Ex wife?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I called it.”

  “And?”

  “They answered ‘FBI. Miami.’ ”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  We were juniors at Samuel and Davidson University in Miami when the FBI appeared on our campus. Twice. The first time, we heard about it through a friend in the business school. Some crazy freshman sent an e-mail to the White House, saying he wished the president would die in office. And he sent it out over the network at Sam and Dave U. I doubt if there was much investigation, other than why the kid was that stupid. They found him in about two hours.

  Two suits drove onto campus, went directly to the kid’s dorm room, arrested him, picked up his computer as evidence, and no one at the university ever saw him again. I don’t know if they charged him or let him off with a warning, but as far as I can tell he never came back to Sam and Dave. James’s theory is that the kid is in solitary confinement at a secret prison a mile underneath Washington D.C. I just hoped that James wasn’t joining him.

  The second time the FBI showed up, it was in the form of a semiattractive woman recruiter. She had blond hair, kind of swept up, and she set up at a job fair and I picked up a brochure. I talked to her for a while but I think they were looking for someone with a lot better grade point average, and probably someone with a little more motivation. I just thought it would be cool to have a job where you wore a suit and a shoulder holster. They wanted someone with a business and accounting background. It never would have worked.

  I guess I shared a healthy, or unhealthy, fear of cops and officers of the law, just like James, even if they used attractive women as recruiters. I’d seen what they could do. So I figured that if the FBI was really tailing Em, if they really did have a plant on the park grounds, and if Thomas LeRoy really thought that James and I were plants, things were pretty serious. I was even more worried about James. As far as I knew James was on the grounds. But where, I had no idea. No idea at all.

  Em looked at Styles with uncertainty. They stood, leaning against the truck, warily watching each other. “So you’re saying that this guy trusted you with the information that he worked for the FBI?”

  “Look, I’m telling you what I know.”

  “And you know about the FBI? You can get license plates tracked, you know about FBI plants? Excuse me for questioning this, Daron, but you seem like the least likely person to have any knowledge of the FBI.”

  “Yeah. I would normally act offended, but I know what my reputation is. And I’ve fostered it to a certain extent. You probably have every right to question my qualifications. I’m very close to the core of this situation. And I’ll tell you why. But I don’t want this to go any further. Do you understand?”

  I couldn’t wait to hear this one.

  “Do you know what I do for a living?”

  Em stared back. “As far as I can tell, you steal suitcases and try to sell women’s shoes.”

  She’d figured it out.

  “No. That’s a sideline. I sell knockoff stuff. Basically from the trunk of the Buick.”

  “Knockoff stuff?”

  “Louis Vuitton handbag
s, I’ve got ’em. Coach purses, you can’t beat my price. Fendi, Chanel, Versace, they’re my specialty.” He talked with his hands. Dramatic, like a cheap hustler. Which I guess he was. “All cheap imitations. Although,” he paused, “they’re not as cheap as they used to be. These knockoff companies are getting pretty damned good, and a good fake costs a little more than it used to. You take the Emporio Armani sunglasses, I mean —”

  “What the hell does this have to do with the FBI?”

  Styles dropped the sunglasses story. “More than you think. The FBI investigates intellectual property crimes.”

  “What kind of crimes?” I had no idea what he was talking about. When someone mentioned intellectual I was usually lost.

  “Intellectual property crimes. Trademark and copyright infringement.”

  Em nodded. “So you, selling knockoff purses —”

  “Purses, watches, DVDs, perfumes.”

  “You could get arrested by the FBI?”

  “I could.”

  “For a couple of purses out of your trunk?”

  “The cops are involved too, and they’re a bigger worry. But, the FBI is in charge of that shit, and when they are trying to bust one of the big warehouses where we get our stuff, or they’re trying to track down some importers and arresting people at the port authority, then I’m in a lot of trouble. They can take me in, arrest me, get me a federal conviction if they think it helps their case.”

  “Really?” I had no idea I was dealing with a Federal criminal. I thought he was just a two-bit crook. I wondered if James knew. It would elevate Styles in his book.

  “Yeah. You’d think they’d all be working on terrorists, but there’s some of ’em who work the DVDs and watches and purses. So I’m always looking over my shoulder. If I see a suspicious car, there’s a friend of mine who can run the plate. If I see a suit approaching my stash, I wrap it up, real fast. I can be gone in about twenty seconds. I have a healthy respect for the cops and especially the FBI.”

  “I didn’t realize you had job hazards like that.”

  “That and shoplifters. I hate those people. No respect for what I go through to get the merchandise in the first place.”