Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  James looked up from the grill. “Why?”

  “For the same reason you’ve known since you got here. You asked too many questions. You were stirring things up. Son, Thomas LeRoy and the guys thought you were FBI plants. And you were about to upset the apple cart. The real FBI plant needed some space and you weren’t giving him any.”

  “What cart?” I was lost.

  “My informant says that Crayer was close to proving somebody in the organization killed senator Fred Long. Very close. And you guys came in and got everybody paranoid.”

  Em touched my arm. “That’s my Skip. Scaring the hell out of people.”

  “So, Crayer decided to get rid of you.”

  “But you don’t think he was going to kill us?”

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  I had a hard time with it. This group, with millions of dollars at stake, couldn’t figure out who the FBI plant was? Styles could figure it out in one night?

  We saw the crowd, staring at the parking lot, talking loudly and waving, pointing, pushing, and shoving to get closer. The four of us jumped from the truck and tried to see over the ever-growing crowd that was spilling from the yellow tent. I watched Styles working his way through the crowd, as if he was on a mission. James, Em, and I stayed back, watching from a distance.

  A big black limo was slowly making its way up the small road, inching along as the crowd parted. People were reaching out and touching the car, and it kept coming, up near our truck, then around the tent. For just a moment, a brief second, I saw the Florida license plate. CSHDLR 2.

  “Skip?” Em grabbed my arm, squeezing it tightly. “We can’t just accept that story.”

  “I know. I know. We should be talking to the police right now, telling them our version but this whole thing is surreal. It’s — it’s —”

  “Bigger than we are?”

  “Yeah. I’m overwhelmed. I mean, what are the three of us supposed to do? I mean, if we had a little experience in these matters —”

  “In these matters? That could be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. Ever.”

  “Em. Let’s serve some food. We’ll figure it out.” I’d said dumber things before. She just wasn’t there.

  We’d started taking orders, and they were coming fast and furious when Styles appeared, climbing up the fold-down steps onto the truck.

  “Hey, boys and girls, the rev is back.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Got out of the limo back at the office. They’ve hauled that other car away. Anyway he gets out with a cane, and what looks like some padding on his leg. Couldn’t tell for sure under the suit.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s okay.” Em flipped some onions onto a bun, leaned down and handed a burger plate to a lady with bleached blond hair and flabby arms. “Guys, LeRoy is blaming Stan for shooting the bodyguard. We have got to do something.”

  Styles ignored her. “Something strange behind the tent. I’ve seen the rev enough to recognize it when something is different.”

  “What’s different?” I loaded up three plates, the works, and stooped down to a lady with two little kids and thirty dollars in her hand.

  “He got out of the limo and something was missing.”

  James shouted it out while he flipped three burgers in one toss. “The gold Bible.”

  “Give that man a cigar.”

  Em brushed her blond hair from her face, the heat, humidity, and grease from the grill giving her a little problem with her sexy coiffure. “How does that matter? Is that a big deal all of a sudden?”

  Styles was rummaging around in our refrigerator, pulling out cold beef patties and making a mess on the truck bed. Finally I saw him pushing everything back into our refrigerator, and he stood up, a green bottle in his hand. The son of a bitch had hidden a green-label beer in the back. He glanced at Em. “It could be a big deal.” He forced the cap over the edge of the grill, smacked the top with his hand, and the beer cap snapped off. Styles put the bottle to his lips and drained half of it. He could have offered to share.

  Em gave me a wide-eyed look. She didn’t have to forgive James’s friend. I did.

  “Why?”

  Styles tugged on the brim of his hat. It came down almost to his eyebrows. “Instead of looking for something, look for something that’s not there.”

  It actually made sense. It was thinking outside the box. Instead of seeing what was there, see what wasn’t there. The gold Bible was conspicuously missing.

  “I don’t see what —”

  Styles jumped in. “Skip, I’ve got an idea. Cashdollar is going in for the evening sermon. He’ll kill.” He grimaced. “Sorry for the pun. This will be the biggest collection sermon of his career.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “You and me, we’re going to be actively involved in this sermon.”

  “And how is that going to happen?”

  “Trust me. When it starts, I’ll let you know.”

  “Hey,” the voice was below the truck bed. “There are about one hundred people in line here. Are you guys going to serve or do we have to go to the pizza place?”

  Em looked down, and smiled at the man. “Yeah. Please go down there. And let us know how that works out for you, okay?”

  I was piling on the toppings, serving the burgers, and Em was right beside me, doing the same.

  “Working for Daddy is a whole lot easier.” She wiped sweat from her brow.

  “So you appreciate what I do for a living?”

  “I think you’re dumber than hell. But hey, I’m attracted nevertheless.”

  I spun around, in a rare second of free time, and shouted back to Styles. He was just finishing his beer. “Daron, you said you had two things to tell us. Number one was that Crayer was an FBI plant.”

  “Oh yeah. It may not mean anything, but Cashdollar had a meeting with the Congressional Black Caucus in Washington, D.C. The same day that Fred Long was murdered.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The crowd had grown. How that was possible, I have no clue, but the spillover factor was unbelievable. Where there had been two thousand people, there were now three or four thousand. If the fire marshal had appeared, we would have been closed down. People were parking at restaurants and gas stations up to a mile or so away and walking down to the park. The state of Florida would have been proud of their park, but the natural beauty, the river, and the Intracoastal Waterway was not what the crowd was coming to see.

  The buzz was out that Cashdollar had made it back for the last event of the weekend. I couldn’t fathom how much money the man would collect tonight.

  “It’s going to be a night to remember, Skipper.” Styles smiled, a sly look on his face.

  Even more satellite trucks lined up inside the camper village, and a Fox News affiliate had a camera positioned outside the tent. Local news stations were lined up inside and camera flashes popped every quarter of a second. Standing on the ground, looking up at the truck, I saw James pose every once in a while.

  “So, when do we go in?” I wanted a decent seat.

  “We don’t.”

  “Daron, Cashdollar is making his debut. Less than twenty-four hours after being shot, he’s going to preach. We should be in there.”

  We were probably already in trouble for not telling the authorities what we’d witnessed. I wanted to see Cashdollar’s spin on the event.

  “Skipper,” I hated that name, “everyone will be in the tent.”

  “Yeah? You think?”

  “I’m banking on it, son.”

  “And we’re not going?”

  “No.”

  “So not everyone, just —”

  “Almost everyone.”

  And the crowd continued to file in. Past our truck, past the police armed guard, through the opening in the canvas. And they filed and they filed and they filed.

  Finally, with three hundred or more people outside the entrance, and several hundred lined up on the road past our truck, Crayer’s d
onuts, and the rest of the vendors, the sermon started. The speakers blared outside the yellow tent and the choir started singing. It was going to be one hell of a night.

  “Ten minutes, son.”

  We stood there as LeRoy spoke. “Today,” the voice echoed from the speakers, “in the last twenty-four hours, Reverend Preston Cashdollar was shot. No one knows the reason, but a threat on his life brought a serious threat to this ministry. God steps up, brothers and sisters. God works miracles. Tonight, it gives me a great honor to welcome back our own, the Reverend Preston Cashdollar.”

  The crowd erupted, screaming louder than I’d ever heard. They shouted out hosanna, whistled, cheered, and screamed. In the midst of the greatest commotion I’d ever witnessed, including a John Mayer concert and a Dave Matthews show, Daron grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me away.

  We fought our way around the outside of the tent, bumping into people every second. Finally we had rounded the left side of the big monstrosity and we were standing in front of the office. The first thing I noticed was the padlock wasn’t on.

  “I’m going up.” Styles gave me a cold look.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You said it yourself, son. Everyone will be inside the tent, seeing if miracles really do come true.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Come on up with me.”

  “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but the last time you were in there, you almost got killed, and you almost killed someone.”

  “Won’t happen this time, Skipper. Everyone is inside big yellow. The last thing they’re going to worry about is someone inside their trailer.”

  He walked up the wooden platform and twisted the handle. The door opened, and he stuck his head in.

  “Come on up, buddy. Nobody here.”

  I’d been through a lot. I didn’t understand most of what was going on around me, but for some reason that escapes me today, I figured at this point I had nothing to lose. I put my foot on the stair and walked up to the landing. Styles was standing there, waiting for me.

  “Nobody here but us chickens, Skipper.”

  In my high school history class we had a chapter or a page or maybe just a paragraph on Napoleon Bonaparte. The French general had a quote that I memorized, not because I understood it, but because I thought it was cool. Now, I understood it. And it made perfect sense. Men are moved by only two things. Fear and self-interest. I think that talk-show host Barry Romans said the same thing. Fear and self-interest. And I was in agreement. That quote pretty much summed up the last three days.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I walked in and the desk was directly in front of me. The computer that Styles had hacked into was sitting, totally exposed, on top of the desk, and to the right was a set of filing cabinets. No safe. Because the money was picked up as soon as it was collected. My bank took five days to process and cash a check I deposited. Cashdollar could get an instant credit. James often said it. You’ve got to have money to make money.

  Styles was pulling open drawers and clawing through files. “We’re going to find something. Start looking.”

  I had no idea what I was looking for.

  “Skipper, go into the other room. See what you can find. I’m going to hack the computer.”

  A narrow entrance led to the second half of the trailer. It appeared to be more of the living quarters, and as I walked in I saw two vinyl recliners, a flat-screen television, a bar, and two bookshelves. There must have been thirty or forty bottles of booze behind the laminated wood bar. I felt like pouring myself a drink. Or two or three. And again, I didn’t have a clue as to what I should look for.

  I walked behind the bar, a narrow area with a sink. I shot a quick look over my shoulder, imagining what would happen if we got caught.

  The crowd noise from the big tent outside was muffled but loud, and I caught myself listening, straining to hear any sound that wasn’t contained in that tent. At the first sign of anyone discovering us, I wanted to be ready to bolt. A large cabinet was beneath the wall-mounted flat-screen television and I opened the right door. There were dozens of DVDs. The titles that caught my eye were several movies that James and I considered our favorites. Dumb and Dumber, Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Midnight Cowboy, and Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. The second shelf contained more of the same, but a couple titles I’d only heard about. Star Whores, Laying Private Ryan, and some others I couldn’t believe had been invented.

  From the muffled cheering, I was sure that Cashdollar had been announced, and had probably taken the stage. I looked behind the furniture, still not sure what I was looking for. A three-tiered bookshelf was set into the rear wall, and I glanced at several of the titles. Most of them were what I would consider religious works. The Record of Christian Work, Paul: A Work In Progress, Institution of the Christian Religion, and others.

  I scanned the three shelves and turned to the outer room. I can’t say what caused me to look back at the shelves, but there, on the top shelf, was a gold book. A Bible. I slowly walked back and, stretching, I reached as high as I could and pulled down the large volume. It felt surprisingly light in my hand. The roar of the congregation grabbed my attention.

  “Daron.”

  “Skipper.” I walked to the other room.

  “Daron, you’ve got to see —”

  He didn’t even look up. “Here, on the computer. Man, the other night I didn’t look deep enough. Listen to this —” He looked up for just a brief moment. “LeRoy writes this shit. I can’t believe he keeps this on record.”

  “What? What did he write?”

  “Listen. You’re not going to believe it.”

  I listened.

  “The crusade has led us to this. Fred Long. Enemy combatant killed in the war. Michael Bland, enemy combatant. Killed in the war. Barry Romans, enemy combatant, killed in the war. Walter and Stan, trusted sacrificed soldiers.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus. Anyone could copy this. Download this. The man is crazy. I can’t believe it. I fucking cannot believe it.”

  I shuddered and my hands were shaking. We both looked at each other, realizing the implications.

  “Skip, we need some more evidence.”

  “Christ, you’ve almost got a signed confession. Daron, we’ve got to get out of here. This is bullshit.”

  “Give me something else.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Try to find something. We need to nail these guys.”

  “Why?”

  Styles ignored me. “Look, here.” I tenatively walked behind the desk. There on the screen was a short paragraph, a note that LeRoy had written to himself.

  Daron Styles. Reason for Bland’s overdose. $800 in

  cash that came up missing. Styles killed Bland for the

  money. When feds start getting warm, give them

  information on Styles.

  “That’s why.”

  And if they thought we were spying on them, they’d find a way to turn over information on us. James, Em, and me. Em had possibly killed Bruce Crayer with a frying pan and, if they had a clue about that, we could be in big trouble. So, like a dumb-ass, I decided to listen to Styles and look for whatever I could find.

  Walking back into the living area, I listened carefully. Every quiet moment from the tent made my heart jump. Every eruption of applause caused me to catch my breath. My hand caressed the cover of the golden Bible. I hoped it would calm me a little, but it didn’t. The cover on the book was leather and it had been dyed a deep gold. The letters on the front were raised and simply read, THE HOLY BIBLE. Was it Cashdollar’s book? It was beautiful, almost awe inspiring, but our brief conversations about the book and its importance as to what had happened to us seemed insignificant. This was the real deal.

  “Hey, Daron.” I shouted in a coarse whisper. He needed to see this.

  No answer. It occurred to me that he’d left. I wouldn’t put it past him to lea
ve me, if he thought there was the least bit of trouble. And he’d just uncovered a boatload of trouble. I glanced at the doorway. There was no sign of him.

  Running my hand over the gilt-edged pages, I realized I was holding something of true beauty.

  “Hey, Daron.” Nothing. Then a sound outside the trailer. Maybe footsteps or a shovel turning over dirt.

  I flipped open the first couple of pages and rested on Genesis. Chapter 45, verse 18 should have been one of Cashdollar’s slogans. Ye shall eat the fat of the land. I opened the book partway and I swear my heart stopped. I coughed to start it again. The hollow shape of a handgun was cut into the pages. The shape was there. The gun was not.

  CHAPTER FIFTY–THREE

  For at least a minute I gazed at the perfect shape of a handgun carved out of the pages in the book. I tried to grasp the situation. Cashdollar, carrying the book everywhere he went. Cashdollar, carrying a gun, even to his revival meetings. Cashdollar, being in Washington, D.C. the same day that Senator Fred Long was shot, carrying his gun-toting Bible. Who would ever question a minister with a Bible? Who could ever question his intentions, question his geographic location, question his reason for anything? For God’s sake, the guy was Preston Cashdollar. Beyond reproach.

  Finally, I walked into the main room, the book in my hand. “Daron,” he sat in the small swivel office chair behind the desk, eyes staring, his life having oozed from the deep, blood-red gash in his throat.

  Deacon Thomas LeRoy stood next to him, an eight-inch knife in his hand. “Ah, Brother Skip. So you are one of the culprits as well?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Praise him. He is why we’re here.”

  I tried to catch my breath. Styles was dead.

  “Put down the book, brother.”

  “You killed Daron?” It wasn’t registering.

  “He broke into our office. And, we have suspicion that he may have murdered a gentleman who used to work for us.”