James came home about three, begging off early so we could get to the park.
“I ran into Rick Mosely at Esther’s today.”
“Rick? I saw him last week. Told him about our gig with the rev.” James walked to the refrigerator and grabbed one of my long necks. We were fifty-fifty on expenses, but my fifty was usually about seventy-five or eighty.
“Yeah, well he told me something I’d forgotten.”
James pulled a brick of cheddar cheese from the fridge and took a bite off the end. My cheese, his germs. “And what was that?”
“About ten years ago, I took a weekend with my Uncle Buzz.”
“I sort of remember that. You came back and raved about the pleasures of Jack Daniels. Hell, I thought that he was your new best friend.”
“Buzz and I went to a revival meeting.”
“And?”
“And, the girl who took collections from us was murdered. They found her body the next morning in the park. She’d been strangled.”
James took another bite of cheese and washed it down with my beer. “You forgot that?”
“No. I think I probably told you about it.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you did.”
“However, I forgot that it was in Oleta River Park. And even though I was at the revival, I never really knew who the minister was. It was Cashdollar.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Rick said she was Cashdollar’s underage girlfriend.”
“That’s it? The underage girlfriend?”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. It lacks any passion, romance, or decadence.”
He had a point.
“So Rick was insinuating that the rev killed the girl?”
I joined the party and pried the top off a long-neck beer. I decided against the cheddar cheese. “Rick said he’d never heard anything about that. He figures that if Cashdollar is still on the circuit, it must be because no one ever accused him.”
But, man, Cabrina Washington, Senator Long, the food vendor, and who knows how many other deaths — all happening under the shadow of Cashdollar’s tent.
“Man, we’ve got to go into the tent. We’ll leave now, set up the truck, and we can catch an hour of this guy’s spouting before we have to serve the starving masses.” James swallowed the last of his beer. “Help me get the stuff organized. I went out and got more patties and brats. I think we’ve still got enough peppers, onions, and potatoes to feed a Third World country for six weeks.”
“And once more, tell me why we really care what the reverend has to say. Why do we even want to involve ourselves in the dreams and schemes of a man who may have been implicated in two murders and a mysterious death?” The food vendor that James had mentioned — it bothered me.
My partner was silent for a moment. He tossed his beer bottle toward the kitchen trashcan, it missed with a thud, and rolled across the cheap linoleum floor.
“Why do you want to do this, James?”
“It’s not so much the intrigue of foul play at the revival meeting, amigo. It’s not that I want to see how he’s going to bring down the talk show host, Barry Romans.”
“Then what is it?”
“He’s successful. I think we need to explore success, whenever the opportunity arises.”
It sounded like James. Always trying to find the next get-rich-quick idea. “Okay, I’ll go with you. We’ll see what this man has up his sleeve. But, James, I can’t help but believe the guy is a little crazy.”
“And I make it a rule to never get involved with possessed people. Actually, it’s more of a guideline than a rule.” He gave me a wicked grin.
“So you’re breaking your rule and — ” and then it hit me. “Bill Murray, from Ghostbusters?”
“Let’s do the tent, compadre. Let’s see what makes a possessed man tick.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
J ames was my best friend. We’d known each other since we were in grade school, and we balanced each other well. James was a little headstrong, I was a little cautious. I’m not saying that the balance stopped us from making some pretty big mistakes, but we did have a good relationship.
I also used to have another good relationship. My on-again-off-again relationship with Emily. Emily was what I affectionately call my “Rich Bitch.” Her father was a wealthy contractor in the Miami area and she didn’t do too badly herself. She worked for the old man as they built multimillion dollar mansions in the tonier sections of Miami Beach. Em kept the books and invested the spoils for the old man as he continued to expand his empire. She and I had been through some really good times and some really bad times. Good times when we could laugh, talk about the future, and I could dream a little. Bad times when she found out she was pregnant. It turned out to be a false pregnancy, but she left town for about three months and I hadn’t heard from her since she got back. I knew she was back. I saw her flashy red T-Bird convertible at her condo on Biscayne Bay. I drove by the condo about every other day. The T-Bird just appeared two days ago. I’d driven by only about twenty-two times to make sure it was hers. Twenty-two or thirty, who was counting? I figured she’d call eventually, maybe today or tomorrow.
She had issues to work out. She was back, so I assume she’s worked through them. Of course, I was probably one of the issues and if she didn’t call, then I assumed she’d worked that issue out as well.
I could talk to Em. I could talk about things that I can’t even broach with James. And I miss her company, in every way.
I thought about her as we drove from Carol City to the park. She’d be the first person I would talk to about Cashdollar and the odd assortment of people he collected as vendors. She’d sit back and listen, study the situation, then suggest that I back off. She’d tell me that James was a bad influence, and I was better off distancing myself from anything he was planning. And, of course, I wouldn’t listen to her. Maybe that’s why I’m an issue with her.
Oleta River Park is right off 163rd street, the Sunny Isle Causeway that runs down to A1A. A1A runs down to South Beach. Distance-wise nothing is that far away. Traffic-wise, it can sometimes take forever. Friday afternoon for some reason the traffic was light and we got to the park a little before four. James parked the truck in our great up-front spot, hooked up water, plugged in our refrigerator, and I sorted out the plates and plastic utensils.
I’d been here before. With Emily. It was a great place to visit, lots of things to do like hike, explore, kayak, and visit the butterflies. CSI Miami and other TV shows and movies shot here on a regular basis, and Florida’s largest urban park had a sense of familiarity. “Could be another big night, Tonto.” James laid out his stained apron. “Look at all the cars.”
“So the meeting starts at five — ”
“And we can visit the tent from five to six. We didn’t do much dinner business until about seven.”
I glanced next door. There was no sign of Bruce Crayer or any of the vendors. Cars pulled into the paved lot, a steady stream of vans and trucks, Cadillacs and SUVs, all depositing the faithful where they could walk to the faded yellow salvation tent.
“Apparently the early birds get salvation.” James watched the parade. “Lots of Cadillacs, Skip.”
James’s dad died several years ago. He’d been an entrepreneur, just like his son, but he’d run into a partner who skipped out and left Mr. Lessor with a whole bunch of tax and other financial liabilities. Between prison and cancer, his old man was beat to death, but his biggest regret was that he’d never driven a Cadillac. That defined success for the man. We all have our own definition of success. I watched James, nodding his head up and down almost in respect as every Cadillac rolled past our truck. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
Silently we walked up the path, following the disciples to the open flap. Most of them carried Bibles, and they were dressed in shorts, jeans, Sunday finery, suits, and even bathing attire. It was as if some of them had come straight out of the lagoon, off the beach, or maybe they’d just been kayaking the Oleta River. Em and I had taken that tour one afternoon just last year. I had fond memories of the place.