by Jeremy Brown
The four lanes spread to five at the main intersection to include a left-turn lane. Connelly could see where they’d had to encroach upon the sidewalk at some point to add the extra lane, and he could picture what it looked like years ago, just dirt tracks with the two-story buildings on all four corners.
He didn’t see anybody who looked like a Romanian thug, but he also didn’t know if he would be able to tell the difference between that and a farmer.
So he turned left and headed straight for Len’s.
The buildings along the north side of the main drag were all two levels, connected to each other by shared walls with no alleys or sidewalks in between.
The facade for Len’s was made of faded and warped wooden shingles with a row of short windows running along the top half of the first floor. The second floor had standard double-hung windows. Connelly figured that level was either offices, apartments, or a more formal dining area for people who didn’t want the bar experience.
The first floor windows had neon signs in them, but they couldn’t compete with the daytime sun and Connelly couldn’t tell what they said. The shingles were covered with paper posters advertising the kinds of beer and liquor you could get inside—exotics such as Bud Light and Captain Morgan.
There was also a wind-whipped banner, a physical version of the image Connelly had seen on the website proclaiming the world-famous Lenburger, as seen on Dash & Dine. This banner included a faded photo of the two hosts of the show flanking a short, pudgy man with a red face beneath a blue trucker hat with Len’s Bar & Grill on the front.
Connelly committed the face to memory, assuming it must belong to Len.
He pulled the heavy steel door open and stepped into what seemed like a pitch-black cave compared to the street. His eyes adjusted and he found himself in a small waiting area enclosed by a paneled half-wall with thick wooden newel posts forming the upper half. Wooden benches ran along the walls, and all of the wood from floor to ceiling was stained dark brown.
The laminate flooring had a pattern of brown and maroon tiles, and the array of six gumball and candy machines had greasy fingerprints on the chrome and glass.
The gap in the wall that led into the bar had a podium next to it with a sign that said, “Please wait to be seated.”
Connelly put his stuff down and waited.
Through the gaps between the newels he could see four-top tables spread out in an area between booths along both walls. TVs mounted near the low ceiling showed football and hockey highlights, with one of the sets running some sort of truck drag racing event.
A few of the tables and booths had patrons; a young mother trying to keep her two kids from toppling out of their chairs on purpose, two grizzled men in work clothes and hats perched high on their buzz-cut heads drinking coffee with baskets of burgers and fries, a chubby man wearing a shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up, talking to a woman in between bites of salad. The woman wore a blazer and skirt and was taking notes on a legal pad.
Past all of them was the actual bar along the back wall.
Two men sat with an empty stool between them, talking and laughing with a woman behind the bar. She looked to be in her forties, but it was hard to tell with people in the restaurant business.
A short hallway in the back right corner had a sign for the bathrooms and an exit sign.
Another woman who might have been the first woman’s twin sister came through a door behind the bar and saw Connelly all the way at the front. After a brief exchange with the bar group, she wove her way through the tables and stopped to check on the mother and kids before getting to the podium.
“Sorry hon, you didn’t really have to wait.”
She leaned over the podium, giving him an eyeful of breast spilling over the top of her shirt, and flipped the sign over.
Now it said he was free to seat himself.
“Stupid sign, we always forget to change it.”
She raised an eyebrow at the duffel bag and guitar case at Connelly’s feet.
“You get here on the bus?”
“Nah, my limo’s waiting for me outside.”
The eyebrow went even higher, though that hadn’t seemed possible a moment earlier. She planted a hand flat on the podium and put her other hand on her hip, cocked out to the side.
“Oh, you’re gonna be one of those, huh?”
Connelly grinned.
“One of what?”
“Trouble. Not here five minutes yet and you’re already giving me grief.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Not if you’re smart, buster. Now come on.”
She pulled a menu out of a bin and led the way to a booth near the front of the restaurant, away from the other diners and the bar. The mother with kids didn’t notice, but the two farmer-types paused to look him over then went back to their late lunch or early dinner. Or supper, if that’s what they called it in Iowa.
Connelly dumped the bag on the bench on the left and set the guitar case on top, then slid into the empty side. From there he could see the whole dining area, the bar, and the door off to his left.
The woman said, “I’m Marie, I’ll be taking care of you today.”
She used a painted fingernail to tap the name tag on her shirt, giving Connelly another reason to glance at her chest. She noticed and didn’t seem to mind.
“Where you coming in from?”
“Omaha,” Connelly said.
Marie made a face, scrunching her nose up.
Connelly played along with whatever she was conveying.
“Yeah, that’s why I left.”
She laughed and pointed at the guitar case.
“Can you actually play that thing or is it just to get girls?”
“Marie, can I tell you a secret?”
She leaned forward.
“It’s both.”
“Bull. I bet you have a bunch of dirty laundry in there, taking it home to your momma. I raised three boys, and not one of them can wash a pair of jeans to save their lives.”
“Are you offering to do my laundry?”
“Hell no!”
She winced and looked back over her shoulder to make sure the mother and kids hadn’t heard.
“Okay, Springsteen, what do you want to drink?”
“You got anything local on tap? Any microbrews?”
“We got Hawkeye Hops, one of the families makes it in their barn. Some people like it. I think it tastes like a stick.”
“I’ll give it a shot. You like Springsteen?”
“No. I like country.”
“How about Johnny Cash?”
The eyebrow went up again.
“Maybe. If it’s done right.”
“I wouldn’t do it any other way.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She turned with the eyebrow still raised and went to get the beer.
Connelly watched, and waited, and when she turned back to see if he was watching he knew he was off to a good start.
Connelly ended up getting the Lenburger, and it wasn’t bad, though he needed ten napkins to get through the mess.
Obviously, Marie would be used to the burger crime scene, but he was still concerned about blowing whatever mystique he’d built up. He made sure she wasn’t looking when he licked his fingers.
They chatted and flirted some more, then an early bird crowd came in and things picked up and he had to make his move when she brought him the bill in a black leather folder.
He put cash in with a hefty tip and said, “So, do you do music here on Thursdays?”
“Like, tonight?”
“Sure.”
“It’s football season,” Marie said, like that explained it.
Connelly nodded, but she could tell he wasn’t up to speed.
“Thursday Night Football on the TVs,” she said. “Plus, the crowd that comes in after the freshmen and JV games. If you tried to strum that thing tonight, you’d get drowned out.”
“You don’t have any regulars coming in and
playing?”
“Not this time of year. They know better.”
“What about Fridays?” he asked.
“Varsity football,” she said. “But hold on…It’s an away game, so it would be a late crowd. Maybe something before? I can check with Len.”
“Great,” Connelly said, and sat back.
“Oh, he isn’t here right now. What’s your number?”
Connelly kept from smiling while he gave her the number of the burner he carried. She jotted it down on her pad.
“I’ll let you know, hon. Don’t get too hopeful, unless all you want to play is the Iowa fight song and the Monday Night Football theme.”
“It would be my honor to play any requests. Where’s a good place to spend the night?”
The eyebrow moved again but Connelly didn’t expect an invitation, not that quickly. If it happened he wasn’t sure what he’d say—shacking up with Marie so soon would limit his mobility and options for chatting with other people, and she’d mentioned three sons…if they still lived with Marie he didn’t want any part of it.
But she did seem like a wildcat…
She said, “There’s the motel, less than a mile down the road we’re on.”
“What’s it called?” Connelly said, like he didn’t already know.
“The Sleep Inn. Just keep going east, you can’t miss it.”
“It’s clean?”
She stepped away to wave a new group of four men, farmers in flannel and jeans, to one of the tables.
Then she looked back at him and winked.
“Clean enough for Springsteen.”
Connelly grinned and gathered his duffel and guitar case.
He walked past the table of farmers and didn’t slow down or look over when he heard them speaking Romanian.
The walk in the crisp late-fall air and sunshine was good medicine after the restaurant’s darkness and beer, burgers and fries.
The breeze coming from the west nudged him along and he had to keep to the left of the sidewalk to avoid the full brunt of the wind generated by the traffic going into town, mostly big rigs pulling trailers. It was nearly impossible to look cool while getting buffeted around in the vortex, so he kept his head down and wished he’d opted for the motorcycle instead of the bus.
Bruder and Rison both thought the bike would be over the top—a guitar-wielding stranger rumbling into town would get too much attention—and when Connelly revealed he didn’t know jack shit about motorcycles, that was the end of it.
He crossed five side streets running north and south into quiet neighborhoods. From what he could see, and what they’d all seen from the satellite map view, the blocks nearest the main intersection had tall Victorian-style homes that took up a quarter or even half of a block. This, according to the town’s website, was considered the historical district.
As the grid of streets expanded away from the center of town the houses turned into small post-World War II homes with aluminum siding and square yards.
He walked in front of a large gas station with pump stations coming out of both sides like unbalanced wings, one side for civilian vehicles and the other for big rigs, then crossed the last side street and found the end of the sidewalk.
He had to walk along the shoulder of the four-lane highway, the jet wash unavoidable, until he came to the crushed rock driveway leading to the motel.
The motel was set about fifty yards back from the road with a horseshoe-shaped driveway sweeping in from both ends of the parking lot. The space in the middle of the horseshoe had a sign by the road with The Sleep Inn outlined in neon with a trail of Zs coming off the end of Inn, like the two Ns were sleeping eyes.
The sign also announced free cable and discounts for multiple nights and Connelly thought the Vacancy neon was lit, but as with the bar signs, it was impossible to tell in the full sun.
The rest of the horseshoe infield had at one time been a miniature golf course. Now it was a series of landscaping bricks and concrete curbs outlining the holes and speed-bump hills and ragged green turf. A central pile of fake rocks looked like it might have included a waterfall at one time and now had a summer’s worth of weeds sprouting around it.
Connelly felt regret.
If the course was operational, he would have made it his secondary goal—slightly behind getting his share of the fourteen million dollars—to get Bruder to play a round of miniature golf.
The motel office jutted out from the center of the complex with ten units each on the left and right, set further back with a covered walkway running the length of each wing.
The parking lot looked about half full with cars and trucks parked in front of the units where, Connelly presumed, the tenants were staying. They were spread evenly across both sides of the office.
He went inside and smelled coffee and wood paneling and some mashup of apples and cinnamon and cloves coming from a candle the size of his head burning on the counter.
A bald and slope-shouldered man wearing a pink golf shirt with a toothpaste stain on the chest sat behind the counter staring at an iPad. The device was in a protective case that could be configured to prop the screen up like a TV, and the man watched it for a few extra seconds while Connelly stood there, then he tapped the screen to pause it.
He turned to Connelly with a sheepish grin and confided, “Don’t tell my wife.”
Connelly played along. The man had a name tag that said Ed, with Owner/Manager underneath.
“I wouldn’t dare, Ed. But, uh, what shouldn’t I tell her?”
“We’re supposed to be watching this show together. But she always falls asleep and gets mad if I keep watching, so we only get fifteen, twenty minutes a night. So I have a secret account and I’ve been watching it by myself.”
“I hope you have a good divorce lawyer.”
Ed found that hilarious.
“Oh lord, she would too! She’d rake me over the coals! What can I do for you?”
“First, don’t give me any spoilers. I haven’t started watching it yet.”
“Oh, you have to. It’s so good! I don’t want to root for the bad guys, but, you know? The good guys are just as bad! Maybe worse!”
Connelly put his hands over his ears and Ed lifted his arms, relenting.
“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up now, I promise. I’m guessing you’d like a room?”
“Indeed, sir. I’m on foot, so as close to town as you can get me. Even a few feet can make a difference at the end of the day.”
“Don’t I know it. I keep telling Barbara—that’s my wife, Barbara—we need to get one of those anti-fatigue mats for behind the counter here. You know what she told me? Just wear thicker socks.”
Connelly sensed about thirty years of Barbara resentment simmering under the surface and wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing ended with a murder/suicide over who got to hold the TV remote.
Ed said, “I can’t put you all the way at the end, but number two is open. I try to spread folks out with an empty room in between, like a sound buffer, unless we’re too full up and can’t do it. Not that the walls are thin, mind you, it’s just that most people like a little elbow room. So if you don’t mind a neighbor…”
“Number two is fine,” Connelly said.
“There is an adjoining door between one and two, but it has two doors and they lock from both sides, so it’s completely safe.”
“Can you tell me there’s a bunch of bathing suit models staying in number one?”
Ed laughed again.
“Oh no, no no. But it’s great for families with younger kids, you know; naps. And every year we get some of the high school kids renting a bunch of rooms on prom night and they open all the adjoining doors and have a big sleepover.”
He looked up, suddenly alarmed.
“The parents know about it, of course. Sometimes they even chaperone.”
“I hope they get laid too,” Connelly said.
“Oh! Oh, uh, well…just the one night then?”
Connelly
made a show of thinking about it.
“At least two, so let’s start with that.”
“Wonderful. I just need a credit card to put on file.”
“I’m only carrying cash these days, but I’m happy to pay for the first night now.”
Ed feigned shock.
“Cash? What is this thing you speak of? Of course, cash it is! And I see you have a guitar there—I hope you aren’t planning on busking.”
“I stopped in at Len’s before here. I might get some mic time there tomorrow.”
“Oh, good. It’s just, we have some local ordinances about that sort of thing, and some of the folks around town wouldn’t really go for it, even if it was allowed.”
“No worries,” Connelly said, getting a strong feeling Ed was one of those folks.
He got the key to unit two and left Ed to his scandalous show watching and carried his things along the left wing, almost to the end. It was colder there, under the overhang and out of the sun.
The key worked and he opened the door. The carpet was thin and brown, like the bedspread on the queen-sized bed against the left wall.
And the fabric on the single chair in the corner, next to the big window by the door. The chair had a round table next to it, just big enough for a game of solitaire.
The air smelled like old smoke and air freshener, so Connelly dropped his bag next to the door to keep it propped open.
He walked between the foot of the bed and the low dresser on his right. The dresser had a cheap flat-screen TV on top of it, along with a compact coffee maker and two mugs stuffed with packets of sugar and powdered creamer. A framed print on the wall above the TV showed a small pond with a bunch of cattails and ducks coming in for a landing.
The back wall had a short hallway with a closet along the right wall and a door into the small bathroom on the left.
The bathroom contained a shallow sink, a toilet, and a cramped tub caulked into three walls. The shower curtain was brown with flying geese on it. The tub and toilet and sink all had brown stains and Connelly swiped a finger across the one in the sink. It didn’t budge or leave any residue on his skin—iron, possibly from the Iron Age.
