W e walked back up the muddy path, past the pasta wagon, Henry’s hot dog stand with the picture of a pooch in flames, the Freedom Fry cart, and other assorted grease traps.
“So all the poker players down there are full time except us?”
“There’s what? Six? Must be.” James still had the cash in his hand, rubbing his thumb over Franklin’s face.
“James, I’d put that money away. Somebody here is not above taking it away from you.”
“But there are people who are also giving it away. How about that cash bonus down at Stan’s?”
“Yeah. Cashdollar pays them back when the collection is good? What’s that all about.”
“Well, if you think about it,” James said, “he needs these vendors. Without us, he wouldn’t keep the flock. Knowing there’s food, a little community can stay here for three or four days.”
“Yeah. Just seems strange. I wonder how the congregation would feel if they knew that the money they gave to Cashdollar went out to the food vendors who are overcharging like hell for their product.”
“Take notes, amigo. Cashdollar is a smart cookie. He knows what he’s doing, and obviously he knows how to get loyalty.”
“Yeah. Buy it.” It took money to make money.
“Unusual group of guys.”
“You know the story on Mug? Three felonies. What do you think they were for?”
James thought for a moment. “Well, they weren’t for cheating at cards. I cleaned Mug out tonight.”
I heard the pops about halfway to our truck. Four of them. Pop, pop, pop, pop. It sounded to me like someone had set off some of those small firecrackers that you light on the Fourth of July.
“Skip, did you hear that? Like a banging?”
“Whatever. I heard it.”
Everything went quiet. We kept walking, finally making out the truck in the faint moonlight.
“Thank God we don’t work tomorrow.”
“Actually, James, this is more work than my day job.”
“Yeah, but if the weather holds tomorrow, think of the money we’ll make.”
He was right. If the sun shone, we would have lunch and dinner. Could be one heck of a day. And then I saw it, up ahead. My business partner was not going to be happy. “Oh, no. James, this is not good.”
“What’s the problem now, pardner?”
“You don’t even want to know.”
“It’s not…” He stood there with his mouth hanging open. I couldn’t even look back at the truck.
“Who the hell would do this?”
“Carneys?” I ventured.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“My God, Skip, do you know how much it’s going to cost to get someone to come out and replace all of these?”
“I can guess. About six hundred dollars.”
James just kept shaking his head, staring at the four flat tires on our traveling kitchen.