D aron came down to the back of the truck and watched as Cashdollar and his two bodyguards paraded down the path, waving at surprised members of the congregation. I watched an old lady using a walker grab Cashdollar’s Bible-toting arm and hang on for dear life as she pleaded with him. One of the thick bodyguards immediately pulled her off as Cashdollar patted her on top of her thin gray hair and she moved on. Two middle-aged black men did a double take, then one produced a piece of paper and pen and offered them to the rev for an autograph. All the while he clutched the gold Bible, never letting go of it for an instant. It seemed to be the outward sign of his piety.
The two big guys on either side of him moved him down the path, never letting him spend too much time with any one person. The closer they got, the more I was certain they were headed for our truck.
I sensed, rather than saw, Bruce from the donut trailer leaning out, watching Cashdollar. When I turned and looked, he waved, as if nothing had happened between us. And, I have to admit, I was somewhat impressed with the fact that Cashdollar was mingling with the common folk. For all the talk about this man of the cloth, I had never thought about him going any farther than that sixty-foot platform inside the tent and his limo. James and I had seen the black Lincoln that deposited him behind the stage just minutes before the show, and that same limousine picked him up seconds after the last collection. I thought I’d even seen the limo that morning, down at South Beach. I had a very limited view of the man. Stages and limousines. The fact that Reverend Cashdollar would hang with the man on the street was impressive. Especially in light of what Styles had told us. The guy was in a league of his own.
James was staring intently. “Skip, is he coming over here?”
He was and he did. “Hello, boys.” He nodded at us, a serious look on his face. His gaze lingered on Styles. James’s friend seemed to wilt and I could sense some tension. Finally, Cashdollar looked at me. “I like to meet new vendors. You must be Skip Moore?”
I couldn’t believe it.
“And you,” he pointed up in the truck, “You’re James. Good name, son. You know James was a disciple. Jesus referred to him as ‘son of thunder.’ He supposedly had a pretty bad temper.” He paused. “I should clarify that. James had the temper, not Jesus.” Cashdollar never cracked a smile.
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for stopping by. We were in the tent earlier and you were great. I mean, really, really -”
“Thank you, son. The message was great. Powerful. The man is weak. And the two young men who graced our stage today, that could be you and Skip in the very near future.”
James’s eyes got big, and he had a goofy grin on his face. Cashdollar nodded again. “I’ve been told you had some misfortune during your stay with us.”
“Yes sir, but -”
“And Deacon LeRoy took care of you?”
“He did, sir.”
“Good. I trust you won’t have any other misfortunes. You see, it’s obvious that this business isn’t for everyone, is it?” He glanced once more at Styles, frowned, and his handlers moved him on down the row. I noticed he didn’t stop at Crayer’s donut wagon. He already knew who was in there.
Styles frowned. “ ‘You were great, sir, really, really, really.’ Could you have kissed his ass any more, James?”
“Daron, shut up.” James pointed at him. “The guy is good. Damn it, he’s very good at what he does.”
“Yeah. He is. He also threatened you.”
“What? He simply recognized that we’d had some setbacks.”
“James,” I watched Cashdollar heading down the path, “I took it as sort of a threat. Maybe I’m a little paranoid.”
“Maybe you are pardner. Maybe he was trying to tell us we shouldn’t come back, but did you hear what he said about -”
“We did. James, wasn’t that a little over the top, that bit about the two of us being the next billionaire boy wonders?”
“Pard, I wouldn’t be here, in this very spot, with grease on my apron, in my hair, in my clothes, and on my skin if I didn’t believe it could happen. You’ve got to have faith.”
“We’ve got two issues we’re dealing with.”
James was back on his pickle barrel, and he lit up a cigarette. “Pray tell, what are they?”
“One, you’re buying into Cashdollar’s dream.”
“Tell me you’re not.”
I couldn’t do that. Who doesn’t want to believe that they will be blessed? “All right, when he said we could be the next Meet and Greet guys, I got a little jolt.”
“See?”
Styles sat on the back of the truck, blowing smoke rings from a small brown cigar. He’d pulled his hat down to his eyebrows and he was slowly nodding, taking in our banter.
“The dream is okay. We’ve all got to dream.”
“Then what’s the problem, compadre?”
“It’s the messenger. Remember, you told him how great he was?”
“I did.”
“And he said -”
“The message is great. The man is weak.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. He pretty much told you what he is. Weak. Personally, I think this guy is a scam artist, probably a crook, and we know of two murders, a drug overdose, and a shooting that may be attributed to him.”
My buddy was quiet for a moment, sucking on his cigarette. “Fred Long, Cabrina Washington, maybe Michael Bland, and now Barry Romans.”
“Can I jump in for just a brief moment?” Styles blew a puff of smoke at me. “Michael Bland, the full-timer… there’s no question in my mind about an accidental overdose. There’s no maybe. He was murdered, boys. They stuffed him with drugs. I’d throw his name into the mix of murdered bodies just for fun.”
So we did. Just for fun. I was starting to wonder if there were more that we were missing. Cashdollar’s little enterprise was littered with bodies.
“Okay,” James processed it, “Michael Bland too. Three murders and a shooting.”
“Exactly.” I nodded to him. “You’re back and forth on the issue, James. You want Cashdollar to be the answer, but I don’t think he is. I think he’s the problem. I don’t want to think that, but I do. I think he’s a crook. Isn’t that one reason you brought Daron along?”
He nodded.
“And what was between you and Cashdollar?” I tapped Styles on the top of his hat. He looked up with a sleepy expression on his face.
“What do you mean?”
“The look he gave you? You, usually full of bravado, you backed up like you thought he was going to bite.”
“We’ve met before. He was probably just trying to place me, you know.”
“Bullshit. You said something back at the coffee shop about being warned by Bruce Crayer? You said that he tried to throw you out?”
“It was nothing, okay?”
I let it go.
“Skip,” James was standing, talking with his hands, in full sales presentation, “I’m fascinated with this guy. With this place. The more I see, hear, smell, and taste, the more I want to know. I can’t believe tomorrow is the last day. Hell, we’re learning more here than we picked up in four years of college. Dude, this is a primer on how to go big time. If we take this business model and legitimize it, there’s no telling how big we might grow.”
I wasn’t sure I could buy that, but then neither of us had done that well in college, so he could be right. I still wasn’t sure how you took a revival evangelist and turned the concept into another business, but I’m sure James had given it some thought.
“James, I think you’re riding with the wrong guy. You may be impressed with his business skills, but Cashdollar and company may be criminals. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Yeah, I want to know if he’s a killer. I guess, the more I look into it, I want to know if you have to break the law to control your own situation.”
“What?”
“I mean, when you get to be as big as this guy is you’ve got to control things. This guy is so much bigger than I realized. Does he have to manipulate things to keep them going?”
I stared at him. “Manipulate things? Break the law? We’re talking murder here. Pretty severe stuff. Have you lost your mind, James? If he’s killing people to keep the faith, then I want out right now.”
“I know. Dude, I just want to get as much information as I can.”
“Maybe Cashdollar should write a book. Answer all your questions.”
James considered that for a moment. “It would be the next logical step, pardner. I’d stand in line to buy it, wouldn’t you?”
Styles jumped down from the truck bed, stretched his legs as if he’d been working hard all afternoon, and pointed to the restrooms. “Got to get rid of some of this beer.”
Our beer.
He walked away with almost a swagger. Over his shoulder he shouted back, “Oh, and by the way, James, your namesake, the disciple? He was doing Jesus’s work when Herod cut off his head. Just for the record.”
We watched him slowly walk to the building.
“We ought to get more beer.”
James put his hand to his neck and stroked it.