rule.” He gave me a wicked grin.
“So you’re breaking your rule and — ” and then it hit me. “Bill Murray, from Ghostbusters?”
“Let’s do the tent, compadre. Let’s see what makes a possessed man tick.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
J ames was my best friend. We’d known each other since we were in grade school, and we balanced each other well. James was a little headstrong, I was a little cautious. I’m not saying that the balance stopped us from making some pretty big mistakes, but we did have a good relationship.
I also used to have another good relationship. My on-again-off-again relationship with Emily. Emily was what I affectionately call my “Rich Bitch.” Her father was a wealthy contractor in the Miami area and she didn’t do too badly herself. She worked for the old man as they built multimillion dollar mansions in the tonier sections of Miami Beach. Em kept the books and invested the spoils for the old man as he continued to expand his empire. She and I had been through some really good times and some really bad times. Good times when we could laugh, talk about the future, and I could dream a little. Bad times when she found out she was pregnant. It turned out to be a false pregnancy, but she left town for about three months and I hadn’t heard from her since she got back. I knew she was back. I saw her flashy red T-Bird convertible at her condo on Biscayne Bay. I drove by the condo about every other day. The T-Bird just appeared two days ago. I’d driven by only about twenty-two times to make sure it was hers. Twenty-two or thirty, who was counting? I figured she’d call eventually, maybe today or tomorrow.
She had issues to work out. She was back, so I assume she’s worked through them. Of course, I was probably one of the issues and if she didn’t call, then I assumed she’d worked that issue out as well.
I could talk to Em. I could talk about things that I can’t even broach with James. And I miss her company, in every way.
I thought about her as we drove from Carol City to the park. She’d be the first person I would talk to about Cashdollar and the odd assortment of people he collected as vendors. She’d sit back and listen, study the situation, then suggest that I back off. She’d tell me that James was a bad influence, and I was better off distancing myself from anything he was planning. And, of course, I wouldn’t listen to her. Maybe that’s why I’m an issue with her.
Oleta River Park is right off 163rd street, the Sunny Isle Causeway that runs down to A1A. A1A runs down to South Beach. Distance-wise nothing is that far away. Traffic-wise, it can sometimes take forever. Friday afternoon for some reason the traffic was light and we got to the park a little before four. James parked the truck in our great up-front spot, hooked up water, plugged in our refrigerator, and I sorted out the plates and plastic utensils.
I’d been here before. With Emily. It was a great place to visit, lots of things to do like hike, explore, kayak, and visit the butterflies. CSI Miami and other TV shows and movies shot here on a regular basis, and Florida’s largest urban park had a sense of familiarity. “Could be another big night, Tonto.” James laid out his stained apron. “Look at all the cars.”
“So the meeting starts at five — ”
“And we can visit the tent from five to six. We didn’t do much dinner business until about seven.”
I glanced next door. There was no sign of Bruce Crayer or any of the vendors. Cars pulled into the paved lot, a steady stream of vans and trucks, Cadillacs and SUVs, all depositing the faithful where they could walk to the faded yellow salvation tent.
“Apparently the early birds get salvation.” James watched the parade. “Lots of Cadillacs, Skip.”
James’s dad died several years ago. He’d been an entrepreneur, just like his son, but he’d run into a partner who skipped out and left Mr. Lessor with a whole bunch of tax and other financial liabilities. Between prison and cancer, his old man was beat to death, but his biggest regret was that he’d never driven a Cadillac. That defined success for the man. We all have our own definition of success. I watched James, nodding his head up and down almost in respect as every Cadillac rolled past our truck. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
Silently we walked up the path, following the disciples to the open flap. Most of them carried Bibles, and they were dressed in shorts, jeans, Sunday finery, suits, and even bathing attire. It was as if some of them had come straight out of the lagoon, off the beach, or maybe they’d just been kayaking the Oleta River. Em and I had taken that tour one afternoon just last year. I had fond memories of the place.
“You can’t stereotype this bunch. Some look like they’re already rich and famous.” James pointed to a couple of men in suits and ties.
“And then there are all those who look like us.” I looked at James with his one-day growth, his Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and jeans, and me with my cutoffs and uncombed hair.
“The Lord doesn’t care who you are, Skip.” James gave me that big grin. “As long as you come with an open heart.”
“You’re gonna go to hell, James.”
“I go to work there every day, pardner. I’m used to it.”
We worked our way through the thickening crowd, looking for seats on the aisle so we could make a fast getaway when it came time. Halfway to the big stage we found the perfect chairs.
“Look at that stage.” James was staring in awe at the mammoth structure in front of us. It rose probably ten feet in the air, and was maybe sixty feet wide. The stage was covered in a shimmering gold cloth that caught the colored spots from above and reflected blinding patterns of light into the crowd.
“There are three semis parked out to the side of the tent that must carry that thing everywhere.” I glanced up and in block letters probably five feet tall I read,
You will be made rich
In every way so that
You can be generous
On every ocassion
— 2 CORINTHIANS 9:11
“One truck just to carry the message.” James whispered it to me as the throng milled about.
Three podiums graced the glittering stage, each one with a large cross on the front and the two monster screens were mounted on either side of the stage. The Reverend Cashdollar’s huge face and toothy smile covered the screens.
“Wonder how much it takes to fund this extravaganza every night?” James kept staring at the spectacle.
“We’re helping pay for it.”
“Yeah, but think about how much we’re making.”
I had thought about it. We owed Skip’s girlfriend Brook $500, we owed the cost of our basic food products, the money every night to the rev and his crew, cost and maintenance of the truck and equipment, and whatever James was losing in poker. It never seems as good as it seems, if you know what I mean. Or maybe I should be an optimist and think positively. As Tim Holt said in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “You know, the worst ain’t so bad when it finally happens. Not half as bad as you figure it’ll be before it’s happened.” Then again -
The congregation provided a pretty good sideshow, but as James said, “in the house of the Lord — ” The appointed time grew near and the wooden folding chairs were full as far as the eye could see. It was warm and whatever breeze blew outside was certainly not available under the hot canvas tent. I remembered a song, from the sixties I think, by a guy named Diamond. Neil I believe it was. Something about a hot August night and a revival meeting. A traveling salvation show. That was it.
“Pard, in the wings over there.” James pointed to the side curtains where I could barely make out two figures huddled just off the stage. “I swear that’s the pizza guy. I can tell by the gut hanging out.”
“Stan?”
“Yeah. The guy who had the poker game last night.”
“I can’t tell.”
“I think it’s him. I guess if you’ve been with the rev long enough, you get to go onstage.”
I shook my head. “That’s what I aspire to. Being on stage with the rev. Who’s with him?”
James squinted. “That’s our finance guy. The one who gets the money, Thomas LeRoy.”
I could make out the well-dressed man talking to Stan. The guy would talk, nod, then glance into the palm of
