“You want to tell us exactly what it was?” Here was a guy who’d been asked to leave. Maybe he could give us a clue.
“Not right now. It’s something I haven’t talked about. Not a big deal, just better left unsaid.”
“Something about the accidental death of a food vendor?”
Styles frowned and gazed at James.
“What the hell happened?” I needed to know.
“I really don’t know. I heard stories, but — ” His eyes drifted off to a spot on the far wall.
I shrugged my shoulders. Sooner or later.
“Daron, what could be so important that you’d have to be that available twenty-four-seven? I mean, Cashdollar has a nice business, but why would the vendors have to be on call all the time?”
James sipped his black coffee.
“I don’t know, boys. I told you. I never went full time.”
“Well,” James stroked his chin, “it’s a big business. I mean, if he needed to meet with the vendors and get their take on setting things up, I mean — ”
I swirled a mouthful of Miles’s coffee, understanding why Daron had put so much sugar in his cup. The strong, acrid beverage almost took the enamel off of my teeth. “You said there were seven full-timers?”
“There were.”
“There are six now.”
“I heard. They never replaced Michael.”
“What happened to number seven?” I was still trying.
“Michael Bland. Nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He’d had a sandwich shop in Denver. He sold it and came to Florida. Guy was about sixty-two years old, seemed to be well adjusted, then, supposedly” he leaned on the word supposedly, “up and died of a drug overdose.”
“Wow.” James shook his head. “You usually think of drug overdoses with younger guys.”
“That’s what a lot of people thought.”
“When did this happen?”
“The weekend I was there. The Saturday night of revival.”
“Any idea that he was on drugs?”
“I think it surprised everybody. Well, except Stan. Stan claimed he knew all along that Bland was on something. Used to call him a — ”
“Druggy?” I remembered Stan’s comment.
“How the hell did you know that?”
I said nothing.
“Any investigation into the death?” James jumped in.
“Oh, there was. They never proved anything and I know they never found the money.”
“What money?”
“A couple of hours before he died he’d won a pot load at the nightly poker game. They figured he’d used it to buy the drugs, because no one ever found the cash.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A n old weather-beaten, white-haired man in a tattered gray jacket sat down at the counter. Fishing in his shirt pocket, he came out with a bent cigarette and tried to light it with a pack of matches that had seen too much moisture. I watched him as the waitress came down the seats, shaking her finger at him.
“Sir, sir, you know there is no smoking inside restaurants. Sir.”
His hands shook as he tried to strike the third match. There was no chance the older gentleman would ever get the thing lit.
“So you’ve got Stan — ” James was writing on a napkin, making a list, “- Bruce, Dusty, Mug, hot dog Henry,” he paused. “Who the hell else is there.”
“Invisible Sailor.” Daron smiled. “I always called him ‘IS’. Sailor is a real quiet dude, just sits there and quietly plays. Wins some, loses some, you never know. He blends in.”
I’d been down there twice, but I couldn’t put a face on Sailor. I’d seen him, but he was a shadowy individual and I hadn’t paid much attention.
“So that’s six. Any murderers in the group?”
Daron took a swallow of his creamy, sugary, caffeinated beverage. “One of the guys has some felony convictions. They’re upfront about him. Mug, I think. I would guess that some of the others have some felony convictions, too, but the rev doesn’t exactly do background checks on his vendors.”
I’d never considered that. Murderers, sex offenders, muggers, robbers, and rapists, after they’d done their time, what did they do with the rest of their lives? Work in a car wash? Fast food? Or work for somebody like Cashdollar? Because you’d almost have to move from your hometown, and you certainly couldn’t work for a bank, teach school, work as an accountant, or for that matter, much of anything else. Maybe you’d have to — and then it hit me. Maybe you’d have to sell security systems or work at a place like Cap’n Crab. Well, hell. We were both on the bottom rung of the ladder with murderers, sex offenders, muggers, and the like. That was encouraging. As far as I knew, no one had ever done a background check on me, or James.
“You know, there are some people like Cashdollar who have backgrounds in murder. I mean, celebrities usually skate on something like that. They don’t do any serious time. Don King, Phil Spector, Snoop Dogg. Major celebrities who’ve been implicated in murder. I mean, look at Robert Blake, O.J. Simpson — it hasn’t stopped most of them from going on with their lives.”
It hadn’t. As far as I knew. Of course, you only know what you read, see on TV, or hear on the radio. And I wasn’t sure that I should believe everything from the media.
The old man at the counter had laid his head down and appeared to be asleep, the cigarette and matches lying on the vinyl surface.
“Sir, sir, you can’t sleep here.” The poor waitress was shaking that finger and I was afraid she’d jam it in his eye.
I half listened to James and Daron speaking intently about the full-time players. I wondered what was happening to the people who were standing at the airport terminal’s Delta counter, asking about their missing luggage. I worried about Em, who was trying to figure out if I was full-time material, if I was worthy of being a husband, a father. I thought about Bruce Crayer and the attempted murder of Barry Romans on South Beach, and I kept thinking about James, the truck, and whether I wanted to get myself into another jam.
“What do you think, Skip?”
I hadn’t been listening enough. Damn.
“Well,” James was staring at me. “Should we have Daron spend tonight and tomorrow with us?”
I’d missed the turn in the conversation.
“Huh?”
“Skip! Give me a sign, amigo. I think Daron could help. He could be our eyes, our voice, and he knows the players.
Putting it to me, right in front of the guy himself.
“We had a good lunch, we’ll have a good dinner. Let’s say we pay Daron a couple hundred bucks,” he glanced at Daron and got a nod, “and he gives us a hand.”
I had no idea where this was going.
“Maybe we ought to kick it around? You and me?”
James frowned. I was embarrassing him in front of a business associate. Well, excuse me. I had an investment in this too.
“Skip, dude, Daron is going to help us.” And that was that.
I watched the counter, as the waitress patted the white-haired man on the head. She patted, then shook his head. He made no attempt to respond. Either he was passed out or dead.
“All right, James. Daron is part of your team. But his salary comes out of your half.” And that was that.
