Stan stood up and walked out onto the dark path. The game came to a halt and I could see James’s eyes darting around. He was on a roll. Don’t fuck with Mug? Heck, don’t fuck with James.
I struggled to see who the man was in the dim light. Taller than Stan, someone with a jacket on.
In a minute, Stan walked back to the table. “Men, the collection tonight was pretty good.”
James and I looked at each other, wondering how Stan knew.
“Share was a little up from last time.” He held a canvas bag in his right hand. “You see boys,” he looked hard and long at James and me, “for the full-timers among us, Cash shares the wealth. Like he says, if you give, the Lord will give back.”
The assembled, as one, murmured, “Amen.”
I knew who the visitor was. Thomas LeRoy.
James looked at the bag, then up at Stan. “How much?”
“Tonight? About $800 per man.”
“No shit?”
Stan stared down at James. “No shit.” He held James with his eyes, as if daring him to make another comment. Just a little tension, bubbling beneath the surface. Stan didn’t seem to like us too well.
“Bruce,” I looked at the donut man sitting next to James, “you never told us about this.”
“Are you ready to be full-time vendors?”
We spoke in unison. “No.”
“Then there was no reason for you to know.”
“Will somebody deal?” Obviously irritated, James had lost all patience.
Henry dealt the cards and James won the pot. Three more times. I know it sounds crazy, but we walked away from the table with $620 in cash and three free beers for each of us.
Stan stood up, stretched, and picked up the canvas bag of cash. “Gonna get some air.” He reached into the bag and pulled out prewrapped bundles of cash, handing them to the full-timers. No one bothered to count it. They just shoved the bundles into their pockets as if someone gave them $800 every day of their lives. Stan surveyed the assembly then pulled a silver-looking palm-sized item from his shirt pocket. He used his thumbs like he was text messaging, nodded, and put it back in his shirt. “Well,” he nodded to the guys, “right now I need to get rid of some of this beer.” He walked away from the group, heading up the path toward the row of portable johns.
The others stood, picking up chips and counting their remaining money from the poker table. Crayer, Dusty, Henry, Mug, and the guy who had been stone-cold silent both nights. I could barely make him out in the dim light.
Crayer tapped James on the shoulder. “Got kind of lucky tonight, didn’t you?”
“I’ve played a lot of poker. When I should have been working, when I should have been studying.” James smiled. “I hope it was more than just luck.”
“Yeah. Well, we’ll see how it goes tomorrow night, okay?”
“It’s a date.” It would have been like stopping a runaway train, trying to get James not to show up.
“We’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Mug mumbled.
Finally, James turned to me. “I’ll make up the other five hundred tomorrow night, pardner.”
“James, did you notice Stan, after he handed out the cash bonuses?”
“What about him?”
“He pulled out a pocket organizer and punched some stuff in.”
“Yeah? So what?”
“He and Thomas LeRoy. They really depend on those.”
“It’s like I told you, we’ve got to get us one of those.”
“I just thought it was a little strange that they both use the same — ”
“Skip,” he jumped in, “I swear you are worrying this thing to death. Just drop it, man.”
I thought about the night. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was paranoid. I felt like we were surrounded by crooks, thieves, and murderers. And I was even wondering about the card game. All I had done was watch, but it just didn’t feel right. It was as if they were setting him up, hoping tomorrow he’d lay it all out. So they could take it all away. Because when James thought he was hot, no one could convince him he wasn’t.
“Okay, you’re right. I’ll get it under control. And by the way, quite a comeback, James.” I nodded. At that point, I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Tomorrow night would be a different story.
“I’m the comeback kid, Dude. Remember that.”
And in some ways, he really was.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
C rayer showed up two minutes later, as if he knew. “Boys, I am sorry to see this, but you can’t go callin’ the cops.”
“No?” James was wired. He unlocked the padlock on the back of the truck, slid the big door up, and climbed in. He fired up the stove and began heating some coffee, something he seldom drank. A couple cups of strong black coffee along with the beers we’d had was exactly what we needed. We’d probably go out and kill someone.
“No.” The voice was forceful. “You’ve got to remember where you are. This is a spiritual revival meeting. Any sign of crime or interest by law enforcement would send the wrong signal to followers.”
James shook his head. “I thought they were rubes. Isn’t that what they were last night?” He spit sarcasm with every word. “I believe you called them rubes. Now, all of a sudden they’re followers? All of a sudden you become pious? You need to get your terms down, Bruce.”