The Box

by Jeremy Brown

  “You can’t stay for the show?”

  “No, sorry. Maybe next time.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  Connelly looked at Marie for confirmation that was a possibility.

  She shrugged.

  “College football’s on, starting at noon. Before that, even, with the pre-game stuff.”

  “I’ll come in anyway, just in case.”

  He looked at Nora, who had her bag slung and was moving toward the back door.

  “I’ll see you then?” Connelly said.

  “Maybe. Sorry, I have to go. I’m…sorry.”

  She went down the hallway next to the bar and the light in there changed, then went back to normal when the door closed.

  Connelly asked Marie, “Was it something I said?”

  “Not you, hon.”

  She looked past him toward the Romanians and her mouth slashed into the grim line again.

  Connelly didn’t turn, playing oblivious.

  “She seemed scared about something.”

  “Yeah. She’s…she’s just dealing with a lot right now.”

  “In case I don’t see her tomorrow, will you give her my number? You still have it, right?”

  The smile threatened to come back, tugging at Marie’s lips in a sly way.

  “I do. You got a little crush on her?”

  “Naw, I just wanted to ask her some more questions about Minneapolis. I might head that way from here.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Seriously.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him, then took a deep breath and visibly steeled herself before walking around the end of the bar toward the table of Romanians.

  Connelly stayed facing the bar.

  He could feel the blue eyes on his back.

  Connelly texted Bruder’s current burner phone about the Romanians in Len’s without mentioning Romanians or Len’s.

  Bruder and Rison were already at the motel, packing up, and Connelly figured it would be odd for them to come back to the restaurant just to get a look.

  And sure enough, Bruder texted back: “No drama.”

  Meaning, don’t bring any attention to yourself.

  So Connelly stashed his guitar in the storage room off the kitchen and walked around town for a while, hoping to catch sight of Nora again, then watched a movie in his motel room before returning to Len’s just before the dinner rush to get set up.

  He had a decent set, nothing anyone would video and post online, and made a few lifetime fans when he sang Happy Birthday to a couple of twins turning six.

  No Romanians came in that he noticed, and neither did Nora.

  He spent the rest of the evening watching college football and chatting with patrons and staff—Marie’s shift ended halfway through his set and she departed with an enthusiastic double thumbs-up—and carried his guitar back to the motel at eleven, the cold country air a nice slap in the face after the thick odors of fried food and beer.

  He fell asleep wondering if he could find Nora’s farm from what she’d told him so far.

  He believed he could—but would she be happy if he did?

  When Kershaw went into room one at the motel at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, the first thing he did was unlock the adjoining door.

  Connelly was there, leaning on a palm against the doorframe like he’d been standing there for an hour.

  “How’d you get this room?” Connelly said.

  “I told the guy my lucky number is one, and I’m hoping to get a job interview on Monday. He said I could have his job if I wanted it.”

  “So you talked to Ed.”

  “That’s him.”

  Kershaw started moving clothes from his bag into the dresser.

  “Any more luck with the woman? Nora?”

  “Not yet. I’m playing Len’s again tonight, hopefully she’ll show up.”

  “And the Romanians haven’t flagged you?”

  “Just the usual stink-eye for somebody new. One of them really leaned into it yesterday, but I think it’s because I was chatting Nora up.”

  Kershaw paused with a stack of folded t-shirts in his hands.

  “Jealousy?”

  “Not the vibe I got. More like she was terrified of him, and he didn’t want anybody messing with that dynamic.”

  “Huh.”

  Kershaw finished with the clothes and dropped a small leather bag next to the bathroom sink.

  “You think you can sneak out to the car and get into the back seat without anybody seeing?”

  “Sure. We got a mission?”

  “Bruder wants me to check out some railroad overpass and bring you if I can. I looked at the satellite view, it’s outside of town, nobody around. So once we’re clear of here you should be able to sit up and look around.”

  “I wish you weren’t so ashamed of our friendship.”

  “Get used to it,” Kershaw said with a grin. “And I haven’t even heard you sing yet.”

  Chapter Nine

  Once they made the turn off the four-lane highway onto Pine they didn’t see another person or vehicle.

  They found the overpass up on the berm and the tunnel beneath—impossible to miss them—and Kershaw took some photos and videos of his own, and some requested by Connelly, things they wanted to be able to reference as the guys who’d design the explosives.

  They wore Department of Transportation hard hats and Kershaw had a clipboard in case anyone asked what the hell they were doing, but nobody even drove past.

  Connelly kicked along the sides of the tunnel and frowned up at the concrete ceiling, apparently strong enough to support the passage of freight trains. He crouched down and looked at the middle of the road beneath the tunnel, seeing how the charges would work.

  They chucked the hard hats into the trunk and got back into the car.

  Connelly said, “What do you think?”

  “If this is the road, it’ll work.”

  “I agree,” Connelly said. “Especially the ‘if’ part.”

  “I have a bet with Rison. One hundred American dollars, I’ll find out before you do.”

  Connelly was amused.

  “You? You just got here. I’m practically already sleeping with two women in town.”

  “You and I have a vastly different definition of ‘practically’.”

  “How are you gonna find out?”

  Kershaw pulled a tight u-turn and got them pointed back toward town.

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is it gets done. And that I get a hundred bucks from Rison when I get it done before you.”

  “You’re on, buddy. Wait a minute, I’m not even in on the bet. How come I don’t get any of this cash?”

  “Because you’re already getting all those tips from your rock shows. But man…John Cougar?”

  “Ah, fuck all you guys.”

  Connelly played that night with Kershaw in the dinner audience.

  Kershaw only acknowledged him once, when he broke into Little Pink Houses, and Kershaw looked up from his burger and fries to shake his head.

  He didn’t see Nora again and no Romanians showed up.

  Connelly was disappointed about Nora and Kershaw was disappointed about the Romanians—he wanted to get a look at them.

  Connelly coordinated with the staff at Len’s to come back the following Friday and run the same schedule. He checked out of the motel on Sunday morning and took the two-hour bus ride to Sioux City, where he walked around for a while until he was absolutely sure no one was following him from the bus, then he took a cab to the Sioux Gateway airport and used the ticket Kershaw gave him to fly to Vegas.

  Rison picked him up and took him to the suite, where Connelly and Bruder each had their own rooms.

  After a long steam shower Connelly emerged into the common area of the suite where Rison and Bruder were going through the online property deeds for the farmland around the Iowa town.

  They were focusing on the plots northwest of town, in particular the spot they’d seen t
hrough the tree line with the silos and grain elevators but were also giving attention to every public record they could find in case something caught their eye.

  Connelly said, “You know, I could get used to this. Most jobs, I’m holed up in some shitty motel the whole time or sleeping in a van.”

  Bruder said, “Will sleeping in a van help you actually do your job?”

  Connelly stopped halfway to the open balcony doors.

  “Hey, I’m working on it. We got time.”

  “First we find out when it’s happening. Then we’ll know if we have time.”

  Connelly went onto the balcony and looked down at the Strip for a few minutes, then came back inside.

  “You want me to go to Minneapolis?”

  Bruder didn’t look up from the laptop he and Rison were using.

  “Will that make Nora happy? Or will she think you’re a stalker?”

  Rison did turn and look at Connelly, waiting for an answer.

  Connelly said, “It would be weird. She’d shut me out.”

  “Then don’t go,” Bruder said.

  “Make up your mind, man. Should I wait and go back on Friday, or should I get out of here and do something? Do we have time or not?”

  Bruder sat back and explained it to him.

  “If what you’re doing isn’t working, don’t just do it faster. Change your angle. You’re sure she’s coming back to town on Friday?”

  Connelly nodded.

  “Every weekend. She’s been doing it for months now. No reason to stop.”

  “And when the Romanians came in, she spooked.”

  “Big time. There was one guy, I hadn’t seen him before, and he seemed to be the reason. He was bird dogging her pretty bad, staring at her with these blue eyes like butane torches. Tall dude, real skinny. As in, prison camp skinny. You guys see him when you were there?”

  Bruder and Rison exchanged a look, then both shook their heads.

  Bruder said, “Can you be the white knight? Without actually fighting anybody?”

  “Yeah…maybe. I don’t know if she needs one, though. She got freaked out, but she’s tough. She has this undercurrent of farm girl, like if she had to, she’d kick her heels off and use a shotgun to put a wounded animal out of its misery.”

  Bruder said, “Everybody out in that world needs a white knight. Somebody to come along and wipe their biggest problem right off the board.”

  Connelly chewed his lip.

  “She’s too proud to ask for help.”

  “Then don’t make her ask,” Rison said.

  “Okay. Yeah, okay. I might have to lay into somebody, but yeah, it could work.”

  “Try to not to do it in front of the whole restaurant,” Bruder said.

  “Of course. I’ll also try not to get shot or stabbed.”

  “That’s up to you,” Bruder said.

  They agreed Connelly should have a vehicle in case he needed to extract himself—and possibly Nora—in a hurry, so Bruder worked with a man he knew in Denver to get a fifteen-year-old Honda Civic with clean numbers, registered under the name of a non-existent friend Connelly was supposed to be borrowing the car from.

  Connelly spent most of Thursday driving it into the northwest corner of Iowa, then chatted with Ed for a bit when he checked into room number one at the motel and slept in late on Friday.

  He parked behind Len’s and carried his guitar inside, where Marie actually gave him a hug and got him set up at the bar with coffee. She was an excellent hugger, pressing her whole body into it instead of just her shoulders.

  Connelly took his jacket off, keeping the hooded sweatshirt he had on underneath zipped up, and spent a moment lamenting the likelihood they’d never get a chance to explore anything beyond the hug, then Marie said, “Did Nora ever call you?”

  “No. You gave her my number?”

  “You asked me to.”

  “I was kind of joking,” Connelly said, acting half-embarrassed. “But she took it?”

  “She laughed about it, but she took it.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Marie put a hand on her hip.

  “Are we back in middle school? If you want to know if she likes you, if she thinks you’re totally rad, ask her yourself.”

  Connelly looked around the restaurant. A few farmers were at a table and some older people who looked like they’d just left church were in a booth, but that was it.

  “Is she coming back today?”

  Marie gave him a sly smile.

  “Just like every Friday. But she also gave me this and asked me to give it to you.”

  She held up a business card.

  “Did she now?”

  Connelly reached for it and Marie pulled it away.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  Connelly frowned.

  “I’ll probably call her.”

  “Probably?”

  “Okay, definitely.”

  “And then what?”

  “Marie, are you vetting me to date Nora?”

  “So you want to date her? Go steady? Or just screw her?”

  Connelly feigned shock.

  “Marie!”

  “I’m serious, buster. She is in no condition to be played around with.”

  “Then it’s a perfect match, because I am not a player.”

  “That’s the biggest pile of bullshit you’ve dropped so far. Now, I’m gonna give you this card because she asked me to. But if you mess with her—if you cause her any sort of trouble—you’re done here. No more shows. No more John Cougar. Mellencamp or otherwise.”

  Connelly placed his left palm on the bar and raised his right.

  “I assure you, my dear. My intentions are pure.”

  Marie raised an eyebrow and shook her head, and Connelly felt sorry for her. A woman who’d heard every line and lie and excuse possible from the sad, simple minds of men, yet knew she’d always be willing to at least listen.

  She gave him the card and said, “Just make sure you invite me to the wedding.”

  When Marie walked away Connelly sent a text to the cell number from the card.

  “It’s Adam, the rock star from Len’s. You in town?”

  He drank his coffee and waited.

  A few minutes later she called.

  “Returning a text with a call? I’m flattered.”

  Nora said, “Yeah, well, I’m driving, so calm yourself. I’m about forty minutes away, you want to meet for lunch?”

  “Sure. You want me to get some soup going for you?”

  “No, I’m starving. It’s a burger day.”

  “Then a burger shall be waiting for you.”

  “My hero. See you soon.”

  He put the phone down and couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. The fact that someone liked him—no matter who he was pretending to be—made him feel good.

  The inevitable fallout was for another day.

  Ten minutes later the lunch crowd started flowing in, so he relocated to the booth Rison and Bruder had used and let Marie know about the burger baskets he’d need in another fifteen minutes. He had a hunch Nora picked up speed after their call and he wanted the food waiting when she arrived.

  And if she was late, and the food was cold, she might feel bad and want to make it up to him.

  When she slid into the booth it was exactly thirty-three minutes after the call.

  “You made good time,” Connelly said.

  She smiled at him, then down at the food.

  “No offense, but I’m going to talk with my mouth full.”

  “Do your thing.”

  They ate and talked a little about her job—which was in the logistics department of a massive office supply company, not a submarine captain or Russian spy—and the drive, and what kind of car she drove: a leased Lexus paid for by the company, and he eventually turned the conversation to the farm.

  “So how long do you plan on making this trip every weekend? Is the end in sight?”

  “God
, I hope so. I mean, I love this place and the people, the ones from here, but the drive is killing me. And just the stress of it, you know? It’s like this thing hanging over my shoulder, and sometimes I’ll get caught up in work or a run, or whatever, and forget about it. Then I’ll go, wait a minute, what was I supposed to be worrying about? Oh yeah, that’s right. And boom, it all comes back down on me.”

  He said, “What do you mean, ‘the ones from here’? You’re not a fan of wandering musicians?”

  “Hm?”

  “You said you love the people from here. Like there are other people, not from here, who don’t deserve your adoration.”

  “Oh. I did?”

  Connelly nodded and squinted at her.

  “Nora, are you a xenophobe?”

  “Oh, please. No. Stop squinting at me. No!”

  She took a handful of his fries, and it worked. His suspicion became outrage.

  Nora said, “I’m not a xenophobe. But I don’t like assholes, no matter where they’re from.”

  “What’s that got to do with the farm?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”

  She pointed at his guitar case.

  “You’re playing tonight?”

  “I am. Did you bring your bongos?”

  She smiled, and Connelly was thinking about how to guide her back to the farm talk when the front door opened and three men came in, laughing and speaking Romanian.

  Connelly recognized them but couldn’t recall from which group.

  None of them were the tall bony one with the torch eyes.

  All three had wide shoulders and thick necks and big hands. They wore insulated flannel jackets and knit caps, and with the beards and neck and hand tattoos they almost looked like gym hipsters, but one look at their flat eyes—not a shred of irony or mirth in them—shattered that suspicion.

  Nora followed Connelly’s gaze.

  Her body stiffened and her knuckles turned white around the napkin clutched in her hand.

  The men saw her and did a terrible job of acting surprised. They waved and smiled, eyebrows cocked like the four of them were in on a secret, then their eyes slid to Connelly and they went back to looking like sharks.

  Connelly made a mental note that somebody at Len’s—and he really hoped it wasn’t Marie—was telling the Romanians when Nora arrived.