“Hey. I assume someone will be here to work on the truck. Who’s gonna fuck with us at nine in the morning? Besides, Brook is coming in sometime in the a.m.”
“All right. That does it. Want to do shifts tonight, stay awake and watch for trouble, or do you think we’re safe?”
“Nah. We’re safe.”
But I stayed up half the night. Coffee, beer, being robbed, having the tires blown out, being threatened by a carney, and thinking about my breakfast with Em, I couldn’t clear my head.
About three in the morning I took a slow walk down to Stan’s wagon. Everything was still, quiet, and the grass was wet from the rain. A night bird let out a low moan. Maybe an owl, maybe a dove.
“You got business here?”
The voice scared the hell out of me. A tall, skinny, shadowy figure stepped out from behind the tenderloin truck parked one up from Stan’s.
“Ah, you’re one of those kids who played poker with us, right?” It was Dusty, the retired schoolteacher. He’d reminded me of a math teacher I’d once had. Slim, glasses, and his remaining blond hair going gray.
“You scared me to death.” I could make out his silhouette in the moonlight, and it looked to me like he was carrying a pistol in his right hand.
“Some of us take turns as night security. That way we don’t have to hire off-duty cops. We just take care of our little community by ourselves.”
I wondered how many of them had guns. “How many are some of us?” My guess was the six full-timers.
“Do you need to know?”
I was wired, and probably a little mouthier than I should have been. “Where was someone when somebody broke into our truck and stole today’s receipts? Where was security when someone shot out the tires on our truck? It doesn’t sound to me like your security is very effective.”
The slight man was quiet for a moment. “Didn’t say it was a perfect setup. What is? You’ll get your truck fixed.”
“And the money?”
“Grow up, son. You paid to play. Accept the consequences.”
He seemed to be totally aware of the situation. Even though we hadn’t told a soul.
It was the beer talking, two cups of coffee keeping me awake past my bedtime, and the thought or maybe the dread of seeing my once-upon-a-time girlfriend for the first time in three months, but I decided to push my luck. “Dusty, how long have you been with Cashdollar?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“I don’t need to know. No. But I’m curious. How many years? Come on. I know Crayer has three years. I get the impression that Stan goes back further than that.”
“Five years.”
“You? Five years full time?” Full time seemed pretty important to these guys.
“Yeah. Full time.” He hesitated.
“Cashdollar isn’t on the road twelve months a year. So full time is what? Whenever he’s doing his revival meetings?”
I could barely make him out in the darkness, but I could see his arm swinging the pistol back and forth.
“And there are six full-time vendors who share in Cashdollar’s success?”
I could see him shake his head. “There are six now. Full time is when the rev needs us. Now go back to your truck. Like I said, this is none of your businss.”
“What does that mean ‘when he needs us?’ ”
“I said it doesn’t concern you.”
“Can’t you answer a simple question?”
“What did I tell you? Mind your own business.”
“Dusty, just because it’s been a really crappy twelve hours, humor me and answer me one more question. Have you ever heard any rumors that Reverend Cashdollar was in any way involved in the murder of Senator Fred Long, or a seventeen-year-old girl named Cabrina Washington?” Stan had warned me. Don’t go to anyone else with your questions. What the hell could he do to me in the next two days? “What do you know about Michael Bland, the vendor? Did he die in some strange accident?”
His voice quivered and he raised the pistol and pointed it at me. “Go back to your truck. Now. I’m not supposed to talk to you. Do you understand? Go.”
“You’re not supposed to talk to me? There’s an edict out on this?”
“I don’t think you get it. Leave.”
I did. My blood pressure was up another notch and I was shaking by the time I got to our flat-tired moneymaker. James was lightly snoring in the truck, and I lay down on the rain-damp ground and stared up at the stars, the water seeping through my T-shirt and jeans. The clouds had cleared and the Big Dipper looked like it was ready to spill something all over me. I couldn’t get the image of the former math teacher out of my head. He wasn’t supposed to talk to me? Someone actually told Dusty that? James and I were just trying to make a couple of bucks. That’s it. And people were told not to talk with us? It made no sense.
I watched a shooting star and tried to make a wish but it was much too fast. The wish would have been that Em and I could pick up like nothing had happened. Or, the wish could have been that James and I would make a million dollars. Or, the wish could have been that the recent run of bad luck would stop. By the time I decided, the star was a distant memory.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
T he camp woke up about six a.m. I could smell wood smoke, and a couple of the tents had grills fired up for an early breakfast. By seven, one of Cashdollar’s assistant ministers was in the tent with a Saturday morning service. I wandered to the opening and watched for about fifteen minutes. This was a wake-up service, and this minister didn’t tote a gold Bible. Even though there was a mention of God making you rich, I didn’t hear anything about Barry Romans. However, there was one constant in the service. They took up a collection. And when it was over, they took up another one. Maybe he needed to give his employees a raise. Or maybe he needed a bigger closet or a couple more suits.
The sky seemed to be rained out, and what appeared to be a cloudless pale blue canvas stretched out above us. James made some more of his really bad coffee, and he fried a couple of beef patties and had what passed for a morning meal. I sipped the coffee and watched the park grounds come alive. Already you could feel the heat and humidity.
The early risers walked from the parking lot to the shelters spread out by the Intracoastal Waterway, watching the Saturday boaters who were already out. I could hear the engines as they slowed down for the “no- wake zone” on the narrow channel.
“Hey, pal. When you and the ever-lovely Em have your expensive breakfast at News Cafe or wherever, see if you can find a couple of six packs of beer, would you. This breakfast would have gone down a lot better with a little cold beverage.”
“I’ll do it.”
I watched the distinguished black man come walking from the tent, the sharp crease in his gray trousers, a pale blue shirt with button-down collar, and a well-tailored jacket giving him the appearance of someone of great importance. I knew him before he got to our truck.
“Skip, do you know who that is?”
I did.
He approached us and nodded, giving a brief glance to the four flat tires. “Boys, I’m Thomas LeRoy. I handle the finances for Reverend Cashdollar.”
With my coffee in my left hand, I extended my right. He made no effort to take it. You always feel so stupid when that happens.
“I’ve authorized an emergency vehicle to be here in — ” he glanced at what appeared to be a solid-gold Rolex
