Stuff Dreams Are Made Of (28 page)

“Please, let me continue.” He waited, letting the voices die down. When he was in total control again, he continued. “The Reverend is in good condition, and was not seriously wounded.”

A light applause grew, and within thirty seconds the crowd was on its feet, applauding, stamping their feet, shouting amens, and whistling. Cashdollar was their guy, and they wanted a speedy recovery.

When it died down, after two or three minutes, LeRoy continued. “Sadly, Walter Bradley, one of the reverend’s loyal friends and bodyguards, was killed in the gunfire.”

“There’s a spin.” James looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Is LeRoy going to admit killing him?”

The crowd murmured again. I doubted if any of them knew Walter.

“Yesterday, Reverend Cashdollar told this assembly that there was a threat on his life. This morning, someone acted on that threat. We now know who that person is. It is a man who we trusted for many years, a man who many of you know.”

Em leaned over. “Is he really going to tell everyone that Walter shot Cashdollar?”

“This morning, we found the body of the killer.”

The suspense continued. The buzz under the canvas was audible. This is why they’d come. I half expected another collection before LeRoy told them it was Walter who’d shot Cashdollar.

“The body of Stanton Barnes, a food vendor on our grounds, was found in his trailer, where he apparently took his own life. Although all the evidence is not collected, we feel that the same gun used to shoot our Reverend Cashdollar, the same
gun that killed Walter Bradly, Reverand Cashdollar’s trusted bodyguard, and possibly the same gun that was used to kill, yes kill, Barry Romans, was the gun that Stanton Barnes used to take his own life.”

“Stan?” James threw up his hands. It made no sense at all.

“Is anyone going to address this?” Em stood in the rear of the truck, cleaning off my grill and the frying pan. “We just heard a story that we know isn’t true.”

James took a deep breath. “Em, we’re the only people who know that it’s not true. And what if we report this and they don’t believe us?”

“We can’t just let it go.” She paused, then, “Oh my God. You’re right. What if they don’t believe us? They don’t listen, and Thomas LeRoy starts looking for us.”

“As it is, nobody knows that we know.” I was still trying to wrap my brain around the situation. They were blaming Stan for shooting Cashdollar and killing the bodyguard, Walter. If we told the truth, there was a good chance LeRoy and company would come after us. “Nobody knows, Em.”

“But we do, Skip. We’re not going to be able to live with ourselves. We have got to tell someone.”

“There are two things I need to tell
you
.” Styles was separating paper plates and cups as the four of us worked in the truck, getting the meat ready, cooking up the onions and peppers, and
getting ready for one heck of a rush. There were more trucks, vans, and SUVs than I’d seen all weekend. Three trucks with satellite dishes on the top and station call letters on the side had pulled up next to us. Three cop cars were parked up by the tent, and three armed officers stood duty by the exit as people filed out from the morning service.

“First of all, I found out who the FBI plant is.”

I about dropped the spatula. “You waited this long to tell us?”

“My informant told me this morning. And the good news is, it’s not you.”

James put a thin coat of oil on his stove-top grill and started the first burgers of the day.

“All right, smart-ass, who is it?”

“Crayer.”

“No.” Em was helping me with the vegetables.

“Yes. But he’s not FBI.”

I had a hard time following him. Most of the time. “He is or he isn’t?”

“He works for them. He’s not an agent. Apparently, they brought him in right after the senator, Fred Long, was murdered. Maybe three years ago. It’s been his job to infiltrate the group and see what he could find out.”

Em turned pointing her finger at him. “The man put a gun in Skip’s stomach and said he was tired of our interfering. He threatened to kill him. That’s what somebody from the FBI does?”

“My guess, okay?”

“Make it a good one.”

“I don’t think he was threatening you with your life. I think he was trying to get you to either shut up or leave.”

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.”

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 donuts, 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.