“So Cashdollar could pay these two hot-shit entrepreneurs some big bucks. What the hell does he care how much. Fifty, one hundred thousand? It may be pocket change to these young guys, but pocket change is good.” Styles tugged on his hat, pulling it down almost to his eyebrows.
“They’d do it for one hundred thousand?” James was mesmerized.
“They would. Wouldn’t you? Think about it, James. You’re worth half a billion. It’s tied up in stocks and bonds and whatever rich assholes do with their money. Maybe real estate and other stuff. Somebody offers you — maybe under the table — one hundred thousand dollars. Have you ever, in your wildest, seen that kind of money?”
Neither of us had an answer. Figures we’d never even pictured. Hell, we were excited about making four or five thousand dollars. One hundred thousand? We could probably own our entire apartment complex for less than that. Not that we’d want to. Our complex is a piece of crap.
“Pretty good money. And don’t forget, my friends, this is a cash business. The rev and Mr. LeRoy can claim they only got four or five hundred bucks in the collection if they want to. They can pocket thousands in cash. And, as I said, pay the boys from Meet and Greet under the table. No tax consequences for anyone.”
“So that’s what he did? Cashdollar?” James was salivating.
“How the hell do I know, James? I’m throwing out the possibility. That’s it.” He paused, getting his thoughts together. “The word spreads. The rev, he’s got a huge online business. I’d bet he gets a couple hundred thousand a week just from his Internet pledges. And when people hear that the Meet and Greet guys got rich because of Cashdollar? Trust me, the money gates are going to open wide. Remember the second half of that scripture, boys. So that you can be generous on every occasion. Generous to the rev.”
“Holy shit.” James was glassy eyed. He’d almost died and gone to heaven. “Internet. I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Daron opened the bottle and drained half of it. Our beer. Technically Brook’s beer.
“He’s got more arms than an octopus. This Thomas LeRoy, his finance guy? He’s hooked into so many outlets, these guys are making millions in their sleep. Television, newsletters, the Internet, a radio network, a direct mail campaign — and LeRoy is working on a text-message campaign that they figure will rake in a cool million a year.”
I was stunned. “How do you possibly know all of this?”
“I know, okay.”
My God. A text-message campaign that would rake in a million by itself? I’d been thinking small time. I’d been thinking thousands, not hundreds of thousands. I’d never dreamed of millions. And today we’d been in the presence of billions. I couldn’t get my mind around it. Billions. And the funny thing was, these two guys who started this huge Internet site, Meet and Greet, were maybe three years older than James and me. I finally got it. James was seeing the big picture. I was in the Stone Age. It was time to rethink my position. If James wanted to stay and learn, even though our lives were threatened, then we were going to stay and learn. Em would never get it. Ever. I had to live with that. But I got it.
“And the funniest part of this to me,” Daron appeared to be winding up his delivery, “is that it’s run by a handful of carneys.”
James gave me a look. “That’s what Skip said. I take it that’s not a good thing.”
Daron smiled at me, a look of respect. “Oh, I think it’s a real good thing. If you’re Cashdollar.”
Dinner was huge. The crowd had worked up an appetite, and after six collections during two services, they still had enough money to pay ten bucks a head for our meager meal.
“I’ll guaranfuckingtee you that was a record collection, boys.” Daron had probably called it right. “A record collection by anyone’s standards. To come out of an attempted murder on a radio celebrity that the Lord had sanctioned, a death threat against the rev that the Lord was against, and then to bring out the two guys responsible for the business success story of the year? I’m tellin’ you Skipper, James, people will be telling their great-grandchildren about that one. You were in the presence of greatness today. There is absolutely no question about that. If nothing else, I hope you appreciate how this is orchestrated. Every paper in the country tomorrow will have this story. And it’s one hell of a yarn, isn’t it?”
We agreed.
“It’s fun to watch this guy work. He’s just rakin’ it in, and he finds new ways to do it every day.”
During dinner, Daron stayed up near the front of the truck with James and I didn’t see a whole lot of contribution. He smoked cigarettes, finished our entire supply of beer, slowed James down on a regular basis with his conversation, and twice asked me if I could speed up the ordering process. I was ready to kill the son of a bitch by the time the dinner shift was over.
Things weren’t a lot different than they had been up front. There were long lines of hungry revival goers — angry people, pushy people, polite people, and people who just didn’t give a damn. I called them The Starved Masses. All they wanted was a ten-dollar fix. And I gave it to them. With potatoes, peppers, onions, pickles, and whatever else they wanted. Even with our step-up, I had to lean down, sometimes almost falling from the rear of the truck, but I gave it to them. Whatever they wanted.
I used the grill and my cast-iron skillet, and the stench of fried grease, the raw odor of onions and peppers, the lard that we used to fry the potatoes, all came back to saturate my clothes, my apron, my skin, and my hair. The money was going to be good. Getting the odor out was going to be tough. A shower would help get me back to normal, but there would still be a ways to go.
Daron smoked a cigarette and sucked on the last of the green labels.
And right at the end of the rush, right when I could see an end to the line and James and I had wiped the most recent sweat from our brows, right when I was actually trying to figure out about how many ten dollar bills we’d taken in, I saw them walking down the path toward our truck. The reverend Preston Cashdollar and his two deacons. And they seemed headed right toward our little hash wagon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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.