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 evening meal to serve. I decided on a quick shower in the block building, and Em had decided to go home.
“I’m taking off, Skip. I hope you guys will be all right.”
“I’d love to join you.” I really wanted to.
“You’d join me in a good sleep, and that would be about it.”
“And I could use one of those.” Trying to figure out how safe James and I were. That and where his buddy had disappeared to. I may have mentioned that Daron Styles was good at getting out of jams. He’d just disappear.
I grabbed a towel and an old bar of soap and eased myself off the truck.
“Watch your face.” She walked me to the building. “Don’t want to touch that cut or get it wet.”
We watched the black limousine as it slowly drove up the road, past the vendors’ trucks and trailers. The parking lights were on, but no headlights, as if the driver didn’t want to telegraph his presence. Em and I stopped to watch it as it reached our truck.
“What’s that all about?” She was whispering again.
“I don’t know. Cashdollar is the only one I know with a limo.”
The car turned left in front of our truck and drove through the grass and disappeared around the side of the yellow tent. I saw the license plate. CSHDLR1.
I motioned to Em, and we quickly walked to the truck. James was standing in the shadows, his eyes cast in the direction of the departed vehicle.
“Did you see who it was?”
“Yeah. It was Cashdollar and LeRoy. And a couple of bodyguards. A little early for those two.”
“Want to take a little walk?” James looked at me.
“Back to the office?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Just kind of ease our way back there, just taking a walk. I’d like to see what they’re up to.”
Em grabbed my arm. “You’ve skated on all kinds of problems tonight. Don’t put yourself out there. I’m serious, Skip. They already think we were involved in the break-in.”
James gave me that look. Are you a man or a mouse?
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Then I’m out of here.” Em shook her head in disgust and walked toward her car, shaking her head.
“Come on, pard.” Still some alcohol in his bravado. “Let’s just see what they’re up to.”
“Let’s leave it alone, James.”
“They think we’re FBI, amigo. As funny as that may seem, they killed the last guy who was FBI. Don’t you think we should find out if we’re going to live or die?”
“My guess is die.” He stepped out from behind the donut trailer, the gun pointed right at me.
“Bruce?”
“You keep asking questions and fucking around with this operation, somebody is going to kill you.”
He kept coming, the gun never wavering.
“Look, I’m all for just leaving right now. Let us get our food straightened up and we can be out of here in twenty minutes. Right, James?”
James was frozen, not moving and not talking.
“You broke into the office, you stole files from the computer, they’ve taken Dusty to the hospital in serious condition, and kid, it’s time to put a stop to it. You’ve fucked up this operation for the last time. Comprende?”
“Look, Bruce -”
“No, you look. You’ve screwed this whole thing up. In the short time you’ve been here, you’ve gone totally overboard. To put it bluntly, I’m tired of your interruptions.”
He stood toe to toe with me. He pressed the barrel of the gun into my stomach and I closed my eyes. I sincerely thought my time had come. The Lord’s Prayer came to mind and I remembered the first line. Our Father, who art in Heaven. I couldn’t remember anything else.
“Mr. Crayer?”
He spun around, and Em swung the cast-iron frying pan as hard as she could. In the dim light I could see her damage. Crayer swung around, facing me. The front of his face was a grotesque configuration of broken nose, smashed lips, bloodied gums, and broken teeth. His hand dropped the gun and he staggered several steps, finally falling on his face. She’d saved my life, and all I could think about was how much Crayer’s face had to hurt.