“And he said?”
“He was gonna look into it. That’s good, eh?”
I kept my mouth shut.
“He reaches into a small dresser he’s got, and pulls out a semiautomatic pistol. He said it was a Smith and Wesson 39. I don’t know guns, but it looked pretty impressive. He says “this little beauty isn’t a tire popper. It’s a people stopper. When I’m on security detail, when I’m on the road or in some strange town selling pizza, this little guy is my best friend.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I imagine it’s a little scary to be on the road these days.”
“He called his Smith and Wesson a people stopper, Skip. Said it’s his best friend. Said his Smith and Wesson is the only real friend that he’s got. That scared me.”
It scared me too. It didn’t surprise me, just scared me.
“Then, I told him we’d been robbed. And he laughed and said it was probably one of the guys just giving us an initiation. See?”
“James, so far it doesn’t sound like you found out anything.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, pally. So then I asked him about his organizer. I told him I’d seen Thomas LeRoy with one, and Stan pulls his out, proudly, saying it was the same exact one. He and LeRoy would share information and stuff.”
Em sat forward. “What kind of stuff?”
“Well, financial stuff. What vendors had paid up. If there was trouble, like the tires being shot out. And then he told me that he keeps track of all the full-time vendors because sometimes these guys have to meet with Cash, he calls him Cash, and Stan needs to know where all of them are at all times. He’s got to be able to get ahold of them when there’s a problem, or Cashdollar needs to find out if they can show up for a revival meeting or other stuff.”
I’d poured coffee for Em and myself, and I could feel the warm beverage steaming its way through my veins. My head ached and I wished I had some aspirin, but aspirin thins the blood and I figured it was important for my blood to stay thick so the scab on my forehead could form. I don’t think strong coffee affects the blood, and the caffeine actually made me feel much better.
James seemed to be a little more clearheaded. He was rolling with his story. “So, I’m thinking, dude, I say to him, prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“Show me where everyone was, or will be. So he motions me over to this little table where we’ve been sitting and drinking, and he punches in a couple of numbers and there’s a list of everybody. Henry, Mug, Sailor, Crayer, Stan, and Dusty. Then he goes to one year ago, and there is a list of where they are. Henry and Mug are in Iowa at some convention. Sailor is in Key West, and Dusty is working in Michigan.”
“Crayer?”
“I knew you would ask. Crayer is in Washington, D.C. at some street fair, selling his donuts.”
“So he’s got them all accounted for.” I thought it was a neat trick, but it was nothing like the story I had to tell James.
“Oh, I poured him another drink, and he gets two beers and now we’re doing shots and beer. And he isn’t done with the organizer. He says ‘now look. I can go back to whenever you want, and these guys will always be in my system.’ ”
“It’s a good system, but what does it prove.”
“Stay with me, amigo. So I said, can I see the organizer. And he hands it to me. Just like that. He’s so proud of this thing. And I punched in the day that Fred Long was shot in Washington. He couldn’t see what I was doing.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”
“And?”
“Everybody is accounted for. Mug is in maybe Oregon. Dusty is in Ohio, Henry is in Georgia, I think, and Sailor was in Key West.”
“You said everyone was accounted for.”
“They were. So I change the screen, and go to hand it back to him and he’s passed out at the table. Skip, I actually drank this guy under, man. I could have walked out with the organizer or anything else he had.”
I took a swallow of the bitter coffee, and clapped him on the back, gently. Every move I made reminded me I had a head injury.
“He didn’t have much, but I could have.”
“James,” Em was terse. “You said everyone was accounted for.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“It’s a game he plays, Em. I’m sure he’ll tell us before the sun comes up.”
“I’ll tell you right now, pard. I kind of thought maybe you’d figure it out yourself. Stan and Bruce Crayer were in Washington,D.C'
We were quiet for a minute. I thought about the ramification.
“Doesn’t necessarily prove anything, does it? Crayer as much as admitted he’d been there. Remember? He told us he was there when the senator was killed.”
“Nope. Doesn’t prove anything. But it means there were only two people in the full-time group that had the ability to kill the senator. If a full-timer committed the murder.”
I leaned back on my elbows and saw just a hint of color in the sky. It was probably my imagination. “So Stan and Crayer were in D.C.?'
“They were.”
“So was Styles.”
“Styles didn’t kill Senator Long.”
“You never know. Em and I have some thoughts on who he might be.”
“Oh, come on.” James sounded put off.
“And Styles, Crayer, and Stan weren’t the only ones in D.C. on that weekend.
“Who else?”
“Em.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Hey, Skip.”
“Yeah, James.”
“I drank that son of a bitch under the table.”
“Hey, James?”
“Yeah, Skip.”
“You owe that son of a bitch seven hundred bucks and I don’t know where you’re going to get that kind of money.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
T he three of us sipped at the coffee and listened to early morning birds chirping in the trees that lined the parking area. I could hear a little more water traffic on the Intracoastal Waterway and the South Florida humidity was already building, even before the sun surfaced.
We told James about the FBI and, even though he seemed a little confused, I think he got the gist of it. Somebody thought we worked for the FBI, and somebody else thought the FBI was after us. We told him about Styles being mentioned as a suspect in a murder and theft, and the entire story about Michael Bland.
“And you could even think that I’d work for the FBI? Dude.” James, in his drunken state, was still miffed.
It was just about five a.m. and we’d slowed down. I’d been up for a long time, and we still had lunch and the
