Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  “Michael Bland?”

  “You see?” LeRoy, held up the knife, waving it in the air. “Mr. Moore, it’s obvious you’re involved as well. When I call the police and tell them that you broke into our office — that you both may have committed murders, well —”

  “Murder?”

  “Bruce Crayer, Mr. Moore. I think someone in your little band may have killed him.”

  It was tough, grasping the situation. Styles was dead. And LeRoy was blaming me for Crayer’s possible death. All of this in a matter of seconds. I closed my eyes for a brief moment and tried to regroup. Not more than two minutes ago Styles was reading a list of the sins of Thomas LeRoy, LeRoy’s startling accusation regarding Styles, oh my God, Styles, and now —

  “You killed Walter, the bodyguard.” I blurted it out. He’d never admit to that.

  LeRoy shook his head slowly. Almost as if he disapproved of my statement. “Walter was a soldier in the war.”

  I stood in the room, physically frozen, with the Bible clutched tightly in my hand. “A soldier?”

  “Let me explain. In Christ’s work, in the Lord’s mission, all is fair. Our mission, the Cashdollar crusade, is to destroy the oppressor.”

  “The senator? Fred Long?”

  He captured me with his cold gaze, and he tapped the blade of the knife in his palm.

  “And Barry Romans?”

  I tried to look into his eyes, to see if I was getting through. They were lifeless. And the steel blade kept beat to a silent tune.

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to keep going. “And this has nothing to do with the amount of cash you receive? Come on. Every time you pull one of your stunts, your donations go through the roof. You and Cashdollar figured out that when people die, you make money. A lot of money. Am I right?”

  I was shaking. Styles was four feet from me, blood running from his neck. To make it worse, his eyes were open, as if he was taking this all in. It was all I could do to keep it together.

  “You broke into our office, Eugene.” The guy had done his homework. He even knew my given name.

  I tried not to look at the lifeless body of Daron Styles. I had to keep LeRoy going. The longer he talked, the better my chance for living. Goddamn James. He’d put me in a life-or-death situation, and I silently swore I’d never, ever, do anything he suggested again. I had to pin this guy, and I did just that.

  “Do you know we saw you? Saw you shoot Walter in the head?”

  He was quiet for a moment. The sheer bulk of the man kept me on one side of the room. While his tailored suit, the flawless way his jacket hung from his frame, was impressive, I still realized he was probably six foot four and weighed 230 pounds, and I was sure he could toss me around the room like a sack of potatoes. That and the fact that he had a sizeable weapon in his hand made me decide to keep the desk between us.

  “There are agencies that are against the reverend. They’d like to bring him down. It was time to disarm those agencies.”

  Disarm? “So you made up the story about Cashdollar’s death threat? It was all a way for you to lay the blame for the murders on someone else.” I felt the perspiration soaking my T-shirt, beading on my forehead, and running down my face. And LeRoy, looking very cool.

  He stared at me, still tapping the knife blade in his palm.

  “Made up? I can tell you that every day of his Christian life, the reverend has had death threats.”

  That was probably true. He’d pissed off a lot of people.

  “You had the bodyguard, Walter, shoot him in the leg. Just to make it look like the threat was real. Then, you shot the bodyguard with Cashdollar’s gun. We saw it, and we bought into it. We thought you were killing the guy who shot Cashdollar to protect the reverend. It was all smoke, wasn’t it?”

  It struck me again. Like Styles had said, you can see something plain as day, and not see it at all. Like watching two men drag Styles from the office when it wasn’t Styles. Like hearing Styles say he took the money from a dead man, when he never said that at all.

  “And then, then when you laid it on Stan we knew the whole thing was a set up.”

  “Should I applaud?” Tap, tap, tap. “Should I congratulate you?” Tap, tap, tap. “Should I confess to whatever you are suggesting?”

  “No.” I tried to give him the same cold, calculating look that he was giving me. “You don’t have to.” I held the front cover of the book and let the gold Bible fall open, the cut-out shape of the gun hanging down for anyone to see. I would bet my last beer that the shape fit a Glock nine-millimeter gun perfectly and, until this morning, I didn’t even know what a Glock was.

  “Strong words from someone who just broke into our office. I think you need to pray that God accepts your soul, brother Eugene.”

  “Do you understand what I said? Until you got up in front of your congregation and said that Stan had killed the bodyguard, we were buying into the whole thing. And now what are we supposed to do?”

  “Die.” He took two steps toward me, the knife in front of him.

  “Wait.” I needed to stop him.

  He hesitated.

  “Did Stan have anything at all to do with this?”

  LeRoy smiled. For the first time.

  “Stan? Stan wouldn’t have understood any of it. In case you hadn’t noticed, he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the circuit. Stan and the full-timers were loyal only because of the money. When we wanted them to help us with a project, I would call Stan and he would get them all together. They were paid quite well. Money, women —”

  “He was a stooge?”

  LeRoy shook his head. “A soldier. Not a very bright soldier, but a soldier nonetheless.”

  “You made it look like suicide. You used Cashdollar’s gun. His Glock. So Stan appears to be the master criminal who killed Fred Long. The guy who shot Barry Romans.”

  “He was a soldier. We needed him to do his part.”

  “His part?” I watched LeRoy’s eyes. I’d always heard that you can tell what someone is going to do if you watch his eyes. But all I could see were black pupils that stared directly back at me.

  “This is getting tedious.” He took a step toward the desk and I backed up. “Stan will be accused of the murders. It was necessary for the ministry.”

  “You’re crazy. Do you know that? You’re bonkers — off the chart.” I had to try to get him off balance. Somehow I had to get out of that door.

  “There are agencies that were looking for Senator Long’s murderer. We just handed them their killer.”

  “The FBI?”

  “Are you part of that agency?” He raised his voice. His eyes grew wide and I knew I’d tapped into the true secret. The guy was a raving lunatic.

  I had him going. Because of Styles, I knew more than he could possibly imagine. “No. I’m not a part of any agency. But you’ve got notes on your computer that suggest you think I’m FBI.”

  Outside I could hear a roar and I realized the service was still in progress. The noise, the confusion, would cover up any sound of my death. I assumed LeRoy was counting on it.

  “Brother Eugene, you are about to join your friend, Daron Styles.”

  He took two more steps around the desk as I backed up.

  “You guys poisoned Michael Bland, the FBI informant. You did, didn’t you? And you’re going to point a finger at,” I felt sick to my stomach and kept my eyes focused on LeRoy, “Daron Styles. You’re going to blame him. And you killed Cashdollar’s girlfriend? Ten years ago.”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Little Cabrina Washington. No. I didn’t. But that’s in the past, Eugene.”

  “Cashdollar? He did it? Tell me. He strangled Cabrina Washington? And Cashdollar is the shooter, am I right?”

  He came around the desk. “I sent you a friendly note. I told you to move on or you might be a victim, but apparently you and your friends don’t take a hint.”

  “You stole our money?”

  He stared at me. “Eugene, I have money.
I have no need of yours.”

  Damn carneys.

  “There is nowhere else for you to go. You and your friend here have caused enough problems. It’s time to put an end to them.”

  The trailer door slammed open and he spun around. The wind, one of the full-timers, it didn’t make any difference. A momentary distraction was all I needed. I was about to save a life. Mine. I reached under my T-shirt, pulled out the gun that had been digging into my gut for four or five hours, pointed it in the general direction of Thomas LeRoy, and pulled the trigger. Twice. He went down and didn’t get up. I hoped I hadn’t killed him. I remember whispering a silent prayer. And then, I hoped I had.

  Em stood in the doorway with her mouth hanging open. Finally she looked at me, her eyes as big as saucers. “Oh my God, Skip, I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I can’t either.”

  She was shaking. I was shaking. I dropped the pistol on the floor and stumbled to her, hugging her as she sobbed. I may have sobbed too. It was an emotional time and I can’t account for my actions.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The cell phone rang. “Hey, dude, Cashdollar is on the radio.” James was at work boiling the crab, and listening to an all news station.

  “And what’s he saying?” I looked down and saw I was on empty. I still had about five miles to go to my next appointment, and I couldn’t remember a gas station anywhere nearby. I couldn’t afford gas, anyway. Sales were slow, and we’d pretty much gone through any profit we made at the revival meeting.

  “Same shit. He says he was not aware that Thomas LeRoy was working behind his back. He says he is astounded that LeRoy and possibly Stan were going around killing people without his knowledge.”

  “So he’s not going to help defend LeRoy?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. According to the interview, when LeRoy gets out of the hospital, he’s on his own.”

  “And Cashdollar gets off, no questions asked?”

  “Amigo, there’s no proof.”

  “The gold Bible, James. Jesus.”

  “You know what they said, pard. No Cashdollar fingerprints on the weapon or the Bible. And you know they found that second gold Bible, with Cashdollar’s fingerprints, and no pages cut out to hold a gun.”

  I knew it all. It had been front-page news for a week. Cashdollar had been on Larry King just last night. I also knew that Cashdollar was guilty as sin.

  “James, let me know what else he says.” The radio in my used Prius had crashed two weeks ago.

  “Will do. Eventually, LeRoy is going to go after Cashdollar, but it could take a long time.” He paused. “Pard, have you heard from the cops?”

  I hadn’t. Not since that night, and five hours of being interrogated. I did have an attorney. Em’s dad stepped up and hired a guy to represent me if there were any charges. So far, there hadn’t been. “Since we were taken in for questioning I haven’t heard anything, James. No news is good news.”

  “Solid. And the pistol?”

  “The last I heard, nobody had ever registered it. And Em’s and my fingerprints were the only ones they could recognize on it.”

  “Not Crayer’s?”

  “They claim that any other prints were not identifiable.”

  “Man.”

  The phone beeped. “James, hold on.”

  “Hey, you.”

  “Em.”

  “Are we on tonight?”

  “Yeah. Something very cheap, okay?”

  “You bring a bottle of wine. I’ll provide the entertainment.”

  I liked the sound of that.

  “Skip?”

  “Same question.”

  “Same answer. I haven’t heard a thing about Crayer. No one knows where he is or even who he is.”

  “It bothers me. A lot.”

  “I know. I’ll see you tonight.” I pushed the button and James was back.

  “What do you think, James? How did he do it?”

  “I don’t have the answer, bro. Just a guess.”

  “Yeah, you and your friends have some pretty good guesses.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I think the rev walked up to them, pulled the Glock from the Bible and shot them. Put the Glock back in the Bible and walked away. As simple as that.”

  “How about your tires?”

  “LeRoy. I’d bet on it. Trying to scare us off.”

  We were both quiet. Finally, I said it. “I really came down on you about Styles. I’m sorry. He turned out to be a stand-up guy. Really.”

  “Amigo, I still don’t understand. He normally wasn’t the kind of guy who just jumped into other people’s problems with both feet.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. But he did.”

  “He did. And I miss him. Hey, I’ve got to go. There’s a line of people waiting for food, and you know how that is.”

  I did.

  Two days later I got a call from an unidentified number. I’m one of those guys who picks up anything. I’ve been sorry once or twice.

  “Is this Eugene?”

  “It is.”

  “Eugene,” the voice was soft and sexy, “I was a —” she paused, “a friend of Daron Styles.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You may receive a phone call regarding him in the next several weeks.”

  “I was there when —”

  “I know. There are going to be more questions. They’re going to ask you about his contacts. Please, you and your friends, simply say that you were casual friends and there’s absolutely nothing else you can add.”

  “Casual friends?”

  “That’s right. Eugene, it’s very important.”

  “If you were his friend, I need to tell you that I misjudged him. What happened to him should never happen to anyone.”

  “Eugene. Please. You were casual friends. Nothing more. That’s all you should say.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  In the movies, on TV, in books, the ending always ties up the loose ends. It doesn’t seem to be that way in real life. At least for me. I’m still waiting to see if I’ll be charged for shooting LeRoy. I’m still waiting to see if Bruce Crayer surfaces. I’m still waiting to see if Cashdollar gets away with murder, and I’m still waiting to see if Em and I will survive. I keep remembering my uncle Buzz, saying we’re all waiting for the next revival. I wish that was the only thing I was concerned with. Actually, I don’t think I could ever visit another revival meeting. And I mean ever.

  I saw Cashdollar on TV that night. I think it was Fox News that interviewed him. His ministry was skyrocketing. They showed him in front of a large gathering. The banner was behind him.

  YOU WILL BE MADE RICH IN

  EVERY WAY SO THAT YOU CAN BE

  GENEROUS ON EVERY OCCASION.

  I’d donated to that cause. I’d bought into the concept, just a little bit, and I still didn’t have more than five bucks in my pocket and four beers in the fridge. Cashdollar’s ministry. The stuff dreams are made of.

  «——THE END——»