Stuff Dreams Are Made Of by Don Bruns Page B

I’d pretty much been celibate. I’d been out with James’s cousin Gail one night. So, as I said, I’d been celibate.
    We took the elevator up, and for the next hour we still didn’t talk. We looked out the window at the causeway with its stream of cars and trucks, the marina with its sailboats and yachts, and we viewed the islands and the buildings of South Beach just a little over a mile away. No talk, just the occasional grunting and groaning that come with the physical act of sex. Atabout twelve fifteen she rolled over, looked at me, and said, “Well, that was fun. We should do it more often.”
    I agreed.
    As we pulled into the park, the clock struck one. The story was breaking at the top of the hour.
    “Controversial talk show radio host Barry Romans, a syndicated right-wing conservative staple in the Miami area for the past ten years, was gunned down in South Beach this morning just two blocks from the former Gianni Versace mansion on Ocean Drive.”
    My eyes locked on Em’s. We’d been two blocks from the huge, gated mansion ourselves.
    “Romans remains in critical condition at Mount Sinai Medical Center. Personnel at the hospital refused to comment any further. Romans’s assailant remains at large and police are asking for anyone with information to please call the Miami-Dade Police Department.”
    “Does this have anything to do with your story about the reverend Cashdollar’s call for action against Romans?”
    I thought about telling her. I thought about Bruce Crayer being in the exact location at the exact time. I thought about our previous conversation, where she said that my being in trouble didn’t help a stable relationship. I didn’t want to go there again.
    “No. It has nothing to do with any of this. There are a lot of people who disagree with the guy. You’ve listened to him. I’m sure he’s a regular target for the lunatic fringe.”
    Em kissed me on the lips, I stepped out of the car, and before she’d disappeared from sight I was on a dead run to the truck. James had to hear this one.
    He was wiping his hands on his apron, the lunch crowd having disappeared. I motioned him down from the truck and told him my story. James glanced up at Brook, in her tight shortsand halter top, and she waved down at us. She was covering the pans of peppers, onions and potatoes.
    “Jesus, Skip. It doesn’t necessarily mean that —”
    “James,” I was whispering loudly. “I told Em, it could have been anyone. I mean this guy Romans agitates on a daily basis.”
    “Yeah,” he copied my hushed tones, “but it does seem to be an added coincidence that it happens as soon as Cashdollar starts ranting against him.”
    “And this thing with Bruce Crayer.”
    “But Skip, he had every right to be there. It’s stranger than hell, but maybe he’s thinking the same thing.”
    He’d lost me. He did that sometimes. “What?”
    “Crayer comes back here and hears the same story about Romans getting shot. So he remembers seeing you at almost the exact location.”
    “And he thinks that Em and I shot Romans? Give me a break.”
    “Dude, it makes as much sense.”
    “Not to me.” I glanced at the donut wagon. “James, this guy didn’t want me to see him. He ducked down, like he was trying to hide. Remember what he said about being there when Senator Long was shot?”
    “Yeah, but —”
    I glanced over at the donut wagon.
    “Was he open for lunch?”
    “Yeah. There was a long line. I didn’t notice who was running the show. He might not have been there. I didn’t have time to see. Hell, we were swamped. I’ll bet we did a couple thousand dollars.”
    “James,” she’d moved to the edge of the truck bed and sat her pretty butt down, letting her perfect, tanned legs swing over the edge. “I think everything is put away.”
    “Hey, babe, thanks. Skip was just saying that he is very appreciative of your taking over lunch today.”
    “Uh, yeah, Brook. It was great of you.”
    “Well thank