“Jesus, James. The last time we did this — ”
“The last time we did this it was because you wanted to investigate a situation and I went along with you.”
He was right. And James had taken a severe beating because of it. We’d almost lost our lives. And it had been my pigheadedness. I’d talked him into it.
“So you want to look into this?”
“I do. I really want to. I’d like to say you owe me, pard, but I won’t, because you don’t. Good friends don’t owe each other. Am I right?”
I should have hit him.
“I’d like to know if we’re hanging out with a bunch of murderers. I’d like to get the guys who tried to sabotage our truck. I’d like to find the person who told us to leave, because, pardner, I have no intention of going anywhere. There’s still money to be made.”
“James, I think you’re crazy. But I’m in, because you’re right. You’re an asshole, but I do owe you.”
I could see a smile trying to form on his face. He’d won, but he didn’t want to gloat.
“Nah, I shouldn’t have said it. You don’t owe me anything, Skip. Seriously. You want to take a hike, hell, I’ll drive you home right now. On brand new tires. I’d like this to be an equal decision. Somebody is messing with us. We’ve stood up for each other since we were kids, am I right?”
He was.
“We’re in this together, amigo. Tell me I’m right.”
Selling his ass off, and I wasn’t even sure why. The thrill of the adventure, the stupidity of youth, I don’t know for sure what it was. “You’re right. I’m in.”
As we sat there sipping our second beer, the phone rang.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“H e’s going to pick us up.”
“Why? Where do I want to go with Styles?”
James looked around, as if to make certain no one was listening. “He said he’s got some information we might find interesting.”
“This guy is a scam artist. He was a crook in school, and I will bet he hasn’t changed.”
“Skip, he needs our help. He said he had a little favor and, if we help him, he’ll help us.”
I didn’t want to go anywhere with Daron Styles. The last time we’d met with him, he’d treated us to breakfast at a Hampton Inn on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. I’d been impressed — eggs cooked to order, bacon, toast, coffee, juice — until I found out he’d stolen a room key and was using it to get free breakfast two or three times a week.
“And I come back at four and get free cocktails. It’s a sweet deal, Skipper.”
First of all, I hate it when people call me Skipper. Skipper sounds like a ten-year-old kid in a sitcom, who is still looking for a best friend. Second of all, his scam to get free food and free booze pissed me off. Maybe because I hadn’t thought of it. Now, I pictured the punk, coming to get us in his big Buick. He wore his hair shaggy, down around his collar and always wore a flowered shirt and cargo shorts. James liked him because he was an entrepreneur. He was the wrong kind of entrepreneur. He sold illegal merchandise and financed his business with scams like the Hampton Inn deal, but, in James’s mind, the guy was a sharp businessman.
I had James get the money out of the truck. I didn’t know where it was in more danger, in the truck where it could be stolen or in the Buick where Styles could get his hands on it. James put it in a small canvas bag and tied it to his belt. Somebody would have to have a pretty sharp knife to take it off.
When the Buick arrived, I knew why James’s favorite con man drove it. The trunk was a mile wide and almost as deep. Jeez, you could pack watches, silver crosses, stolen Coach purses, and a small army in there and still get the trunk closed.
“James. Skipper.” He had a two-day growth, the flowered shirt, and a funny round porkpie hat that made him look like Kid Rock. And he still called me Skipper. “Hop in, boys. I’ve got a brief stop to make at the airport, then we can grab a cup of coffee and talk.”
Styles and James bullshitted each other for twenty minutes, talking about girls and schemes, and generally catching up. I kept quiet and thought about Em being back in town. Twenty minutes later Styles pulled off onto the access road and parked in front of terminal H.
“You guys hold down the car, I’ll get Aunt Ginny and be back in just a minute.” He left the engine running, jumped out, and popped open the cavernous trunk. I watched him stroll into the terminal. James and I looked at each other.
“Aunt Ginny?”
“Hey, James, he’s your friend. Did he say anything during the trip about picking up his aunt?”
James shrugged his shoulders and we waited. Maybe three minutes later he came bustling out, an overnight bag strapped to his shoulder, and two large suitcases that he pulled behind him. His pace picked up as he approached the car, and he tossed the three pieces of luggage into the trunk, slammed it closed, and stepped into the car. He closed the door, hit the gas, and shot out onto the access road.
“Daron.”
“Dude.”
“Didn’t you forget something?”
“What?”
“Aunt Ginny?”
He shook his head. “Nah. That’s just for airport security if they asked you why we were parked there.”
I glanced at James. “There is no Aunt Ginny?”
“No. I just needed you guys to cover the car. There’s no security on the luggage carousel. All you’ve got to do is go in and grab a couple of bags off the belt. If someone says you’re taking their bag, you apologize, tell them they all look the same, and put it back. Ninety percent of the time no one says a word.”
“What? You steal luggage on a regular basis?”
He pulled out of the airport, checking the rearview mirrors.
“Depends on what you mean by regular. When I can get someone to watch the car. You’d be surprised what you find in people’s luggage. There’s usually something that you can sell. I bet I average fifty bucks a bag. One trip to the airport, you can make one, two hundred bucks.”
James smiled. I closed my eyes. Now we were accomplices to a crime. Hanging with James was always an adventure.
“I sold a GPS for four hundred bucks last week. It was right on top of this lady’s underwear. And that stuff was pretty kinky. She had a vibrator in the suitcase too. I couldn’t sell a used vibrator.”
Ten minutes later we were inside a coffee shop named Miles’s. Styles sat across from us, breaking open multiple packets of sugar and shaking each one into his creamed coffee.
“I told Skip that you used to work for Cashdollar’s traveling circus.”
“I did. Nice little business. I sold cheap little crosses, some Bibles that I got from China, wooden charms, wall plaques, and statues. You’d be surprised what kind of junk is made for the religious trade. Christ, napkin holders with scripture engraved on them, flower vases that look like the tomb Jesus was buried in, and everything in the world in the shape of a cross.”
“Good money in those things?”
“A gold mine, my friend. And speaking of that, I found out about the gold Bible that the rev always carries with him. He’s rumored to never go anywhere without it. So I got some little keychain gold Bibles and those sold like hotcakes.”
“But you’re not with him anymore? Even though you made good money?”
“Obviously, no.”
James and I waited. Finally, my roommate asked the question. “Why?”
He hesitated. “Couple of reasons. I guess the best is it wouldn’t have been a good business decision. The rev works these things about six times a year, mostly in the South. If you want to work for him you’ve got to commit to full time.”
There it was again. Full time.
“When you get called, you show up.”
“For his shows, right? Six a year?” James was eagerly eating it all up.
“His shows, and whatever else he wants.”
James looked at me. I looked at Styles. “What else does he want?”
“I never found out.” His eyes left us and he stared over my shoulder, out the window.
James took a swallow of his coffee, while Styles kept stirring his sugary drink with his finger.