Box Nine

by Jack O'Connell

  Lenore and Woo catch each other in the rearview mirror.

  “Are they dead?”

  Max scrunches up his face and says, “You kiddin’?”

  “What did Cortez do with the bodies?”

  “Wyatt and Mingo took the truck. Hauled them up to Galloway and dumped them in the Passaconaway River. Listen, the fish are gonna be buzzing from those guys …”

  “Any of the girls been acting strange lately?”

  “The secretaries?” Max asks, delighted, like it was a new and filthy word. “They’re all strange to me. You should hear the crap they say to me.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary?”

  “We had a runaway last Thursday, but that’s not like out of the ordinary. You know, one of them bolts every couple of months. Wyatt brings them back most of the time …”

  “She have a name?”

  “Called herself Vicky. She was probably like a couple years older than me. Redhead. She was really into those Harlequin books, those paperbacks, you know, at the supermarket. I talked to her a couple times, just joking around.”

  “Vicky have any relatives in the city?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not in Quinsigamond, I mean. She had a sister back home, she said. Darleen, I think. She was southern, from some small town in Mississippi.”

  Lenore stares at Max for a long minute, then looks away, out over Quinsigamond. She studies the landscape, tries to pick out monuments, buildings, and streets she knows. Max fidgets, twists his neck around like it was stiff, scratches at his nose.

  “That wasn’t bad, Maxie,” Lenore says finally. “That was okay. We’ll call it okay. Not great, not quite what I needed, but it’ll do for now. There’s always tomorrow, right?”

  “I guess,” Max says, unsure and nervous.

  Lenore pulls the portfolio into her lap and takes out one of the drawings. “What do we have here?” she says, seemingly to herself. “We got a Ripped-Up Man. Oh, dammit, you like the Natema strips, don’t you? Doesn’t it figure?” She sighs and nods to herself. “I’ll tell you what, Max, you take the Ripped-Up Man print here, you take this one and I’ll hold on to the other two. Then when you find out something more, something pretty specific about Cortez’s shipment and plans and all, we’ll get together again and you can pick up the other two prints …”

  Max’s jaw goes rigid. He bites in on his lips and stares at Lenore. He says, “That wasn’t our deal. You said three Menlos. Three originals …”

  Lenore matches his heat. “Things change, you little brat. You just calm down this second. You’ll get the other two. I just need a little more information …”

  “But this isn’t what you …”

  “Forget what I said, Max. This is how it is. You get the one print now. You get the rest later. That’s it. End of discussion. Just do what I want and you’ll have them all. And you know a smart little bastard like you might have thought for just a second that if I can get my hands on these, I can get my hands on others. Smart little bastard like you might have thought about the future a little.”

  Max shuts up, slumps in the seat, and sulks for a second, then says, “Just drop me behind Gomper’s station, I’ll walk home from there …”

  “You got a stash there? You’ll want to keep that clean …”

  “Hey, don’t worry so much,” Max says. “I know how to take care of things. I’ll need at least twenty-four hours. Look for me about this time tomorrow. I’ll see what I can get.”

  “I’ll bring the prints.”

  Max spits the words out like seeds from a piece of overripe fruit: “I bet.”

  Lenore kicks over the Barracuda and drives down Symon’s Hill. Max hops out at the burned-out remains of the old train station and Woo climbs back in front. They idle for a second, watching the boy disappear inside the Gothic rubble of cracked marble and broken hunks of granite, into the rail pits where the trains used to roll in, away to some labyrinth of hiding places with his new joy protected inside his coat.

  Lenore wonders as she watches: could he really be Cortez’s son?

  Eva locks up her office door, even though she knows the next shift-supervisor is in the locker room talking with the night sorters. She walks out of the station without a word to anyone, gets into her Volkswagen, starts the engine, looks in the rearview, applies the too-red “Summer Flame” lipstick she picked up this morning. She pops the cassette of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung into the tape player, pulls a harsh-bristled brush from her pocketbook and runs it through her hair, and shifts the car into reverse.

  She pulls out of the station parking lot onto Sapir Street, takes her first left onto Breton, her next immediate left onto St. John Court, and another left onto Fairlane. She drives halfway down Fairlane and parks, locks up the car, and walks a block until she’s on Sapir again.

  She heads for the Bach Room, starts to walk past the entrance, then wills herself to move under the awning, to take a breath and pull open the front door. Lyons and Wales, whom she worked with downtown, come walking out, both talking at the same time. She holds the door for them and looks down to the ground. They move past her without a word, but as she lifts her head, she sees Lyons glancing back over his shoulder, still talking but staring at her with a puzzled and slightly sad look on his face. She hesitates, watches the pair move down the sidewalk, then steps inside.

  The place is completely empty. She wishes her eyes would adjust to the dimness more quickly, but she knows they work at their own speed, and so she calms herself, walks slowly to the bar, and takes a seat.

  Marconi walks to her slowly as if he’s not sure what to do. She knows who he is from the mail-burning scandal, but they never worked at the same station at the same time, and she thinks it’s unlikely he’d recognize her. He dips his head toward her and raises his eyebrows like they could communicate fully and with just gestures, muscles contracting and expanding.

  When Eva doesn’t speak, he says, “Can I help you?”

  She begins to order a drink, a shooter of schnapps maybe, but before the words come out, she changes her mind and says, “I was wondering …” She pauses and looks behind her. She registers that one table in the room is covered with empty glasses and beer bottles. She turns back to a confused Marconi and says, “I need some directions. Do you know how to get to Umberto Ave?”

  Marconi just stares at her for a good ten seconds like she’s spoken in some archaic tongue that he has vague and troubling memories of. Then he says, “Jesus, I thought I knew every street in this city, but that’s a new one on me. Is it ’round here? Is it supposed to be near here or something?”

  Now it’s Eva who pauses, until finally she volunteers, “Yes, I mean, I think so. I mean, that’s what I was told.”

  “Umberto Ave?” Marconi repeats, giving the words an almost Italian accent.

  “Umberto,” Eva says.

  “Do you have anything else? Do you know what street it’s off?”

  “No idea. I think it might be a new street, though. Is there any new development going on around here?”

  Marconi nods vigorously, thrilled that they’ve found some common ground, some sort of clue. “Okay, that helps. You’ve got some new condos going up off of Eagleton. Pieces of crap really, but people are idiots, right? Then there are some duplexes, maybe a dozen new duplexes, being tossed up over behind the ball field off Sheary. Both of those are within a couple of miles.”

  “Eagleton and Sheary,” Eva says as if she were trying to memorize the names.

  Marconi nods and slaps the bar lightly. “I’ve got a street directory around here somewhere. Only about a year old. Where the hell …”

  “Is there a ladies’ room?” she asks suddenly.

  “Absolutely,” he says, “of course. Right in the back.”

  She slides off the barstool and heads in the direction he motions with his head. At the back of the bar is a small doorway that leads into a tiny alcove. Inside the alcove, smelling of an oily disinfectant, are two brown wooden doors,
one labeled Gents, the other Ladies. She enters the ladies’ room, a single toilet and sink. She locks the door with the small slide bolt and looks at herself in the oval-shaped mirror on the wall. She pushes some stray hairs into place, moistens her lips. Her heart is pounding, so rapid and forceful she feels a growing, frightening ache. She runs some cold water in the sink, lets the stream wash over her fingertips, then runs them across her forehead. She takes a series of deep breaths, tries to calm herself. She moves to the wall, touches it, then brings her ear to it.

  She hears voices on the other side, and though she can’t be sure, can’t at first pick out any discernible words, instinct tells her she’s listening to Rourke and Bromberg. Up in the corner, at the ceiling’s edge, she spots an old brown metal grille, some sort of vent. Before she can think, she slides out of her shoes and climbs up on top of the toilet. She rises slowly toward the grille, holds her breath, then brings her eye close to look.

  It’s a small, bland room. There’s a round wooden table in its center with five chairs pulled around it. One chair is empty. At the bend opposite her, Eva can see Wilson, still in uniform, holding a bottle of beer up near her chest with both hands. Jacobi is to her right, Bromberg to her left. That means the person with his back to her is Rourke. They each have something on the table in front of them, what looks like a tiny manila envelope, like a miniature pay envelope, maybe only an inch long.

  Eva gets nervous and brings her head down below the level of the grille. She listens:

  ROURKE: Don’t be an asshole, Jacco. You let me worry about the Paraclete. You don’t trouble yourself about it.

  BROMBERG: Have you got a location picked out yet? We’ve got what … how many days?

  ROURKE: We’ve got plenty of time. Jesus, would you people get a grip, take a few Valium or something? Goddamn.

  BROMBERG: Screw you, Billy. It makes sense to be nervous. You’ve never worked anything like this before. You’ve never even come close.

  ROURKE: Will you relax, for Christ sake, it’s a broker situation. You’ve brokered one deal, bang, you know the ropes. You bring people together, you arrange the terms, you find the common ground.

  WILSON [laughing]: Common ground? You been reading a book or something?

  JACOBI [laughing]: He’s been watching cable. He’s been watching those guys in the shiny suits with the cassette tapes …

  BROMBERG: You ever deliver a set of those things? Those home study things? Weigh a ton …

  ROURKE [yelling]: Shut up … Will you all shut the fuck up? Goddammit, this is serious here. For Christ sake.

  BROMBERG: Why don’t you tell us how serious, Billy?

  There’s a few beats of silence, then,

  ROURKE: What do you mean? What do you mean, how serious?

  BROMBERG: Well, I don’t know about Wilson these days, but Jacobi and I, we haven’t seen dime one for all this serious business …

  ROURKE: You’re an impatient little bitch, you know that, Lisa? Huh?

  BROMBERG: Just didn’t know if you only gave a cut to the people you were drilling.

  WILSON [yelling]: Oh, screw you, you jealous little brat.

  ROURKE [yelling]: Hey! Shut up! Just everyone shut up! Right now.

  There’s a couple of seconds of silence.

  ROURKE: You keep this up and nothing’s going to work out. Now, I’ve brought us this far, am I right? I’ve got both sides involved here. I’ve brought them to the table. I’ve made the connections, communicated the offer, communicated the negotiations, complimented everyone, kept the wheels turning, kept the cogs free. Now it’s about to come together. Don’t screw us up now. Jesus. This will be the sweetest move you’ve ever walked into, if you just let it happen. You’ve just got to learn some patience. All of us have to learn patience. You people don’t understand the kinds of people we’re dealing with here, the type of mentalities. There’s a whole cultural thing going on here. From both sides, both directions. That’s why we’ve got to be extra careful, make sure no one gets accidentally insulted, rubbed the wrong way, culturally, you know. Now, Lisa, you’re all tight about the money end, which I understand. You’ve put yourself at risk, like the rest of us. We’ve got to remember, we’ve all shared equally in the risk. That was part of the price of admission. You’ve got to be a risk-taker to achieve anything in this world, right? Okay, today is a little preview. A little advance, a little look at what the future holds for everybody …

  BROMBERG: You’re kidding me. You’ve got some cash? You really got some cash?

  ROURKE [laughing]: Relax, Lisa. What I’ve got is something better than cash. What I’ve got you can’t get out of your all-night teller machine …

  BROMBERG: No money, do you believe this?

  JACOBI [quietly]: Let the man talk.

  ROURKE [quietly]: You can open the envelopes now.

  Eva raises her head slightly until she can see out the grille again. Everyone at the table is busy ripping open the flaps of the small envelopes. Jacobi gives himself a paper cut on the thumb and says, “Oh, shit,” and plugs the thumb into his mouth and starts sucking.

  Bromberg is the first to spill the contents on the table. Eva can’t see much, just something tiny and reddish, smaller than a dime.

  “Oh, you stupid mother,” Bromberg says, her voice so low and halting, Eva thinks she might fall off her chair.

  Rourke seems to be dancing slightly in his seat. There’s another uneasy silence, as if no one knows what to say. Eva gets nervous and ducks again to listen.

  ROURKE: Yeah, yeah, so I scammed a little off the top. Who’ll notice? They’ve all got enough to worry about. Think of it like we’re these quality-control guys, okay? We’ve got to randomly sample some of the merchandise before we can vouch for it.

  BROMBERG: No one’s asked us to vouch for it.

  ROURKE: Relax. Think of it like the way you read Playgirl before you deliver it. Or how I’ve seen you take home those detergent samplers when the people are on vacation, right? Relax.

  WILSON: Weird stuff. Kind of like a noodle, you know. Like the noodles in soup or something.

  JACOBI: Little harder than a noodle. But just a little. A little more rubbery.

  BROMBERG: Is everyone’s in the same shape?

  JACOBI: The letter Q?

  ROURKE: Like alphabet soup. Like one letter plucked out of a bowl of alphabet soup.

  WILSON: Why the letter Q?

  ROURKE: Who freakin’ knows? These chemist guys are weird mothers. Who knows what reasons they got?

  Eva lifts her eye to the grille and watches them all studying the substance in their palms until Rourke says, “Since this is our first time, I think it might be a good idea here to go easy, if you know what I mean. Why don’t we just break them in half if we can?”

  “Just half?” Jacobi asks.

  “Better make it a quarter,” Rourke says, hunching over the table and going to work on his Q. The others follow his example. Someone says, “Not that easy to break.”

  When they’re all done, Rourke says, “Cheers,” and brings his hand up to his mouth. Then they take turns swallowing while the rest watch, no one swallowing at the same time, as if a capacity audience were needed for the ritual to be legitimate.

  BROMBERG: How long does it take to kick in?

  ROURKE: Guess we’ll find out. We’re explorers.

  WILSON [upset]: What about the beer? What if it doesn’t mix with the beer? Maybe we shouldn’t have drank the beer.

  ROURKE: Knock it off. Don’t you think they would have taken that into consideration?

  WILSON: Who? Who’re you talking about?

  ROURKE [exasperated]: The chemists. The freakin’ doctors who invented the shit in the first place. You think they’re morons? You think they’ve got no feel for their market? For the social settings this thing will be introduced into? They think crap like this out. They take stuff like this into consideration. You people have got to learn to relax or you’re not going to make it—

  WILSON [int
errupting]: Not going to make it? Do you mean like in general, in life in general, we’re not going to make it, or do you mean right now, when the thing takes effect, like if we’re tense or nervous or upset it will have some awful side effect—

  ROURKE [yelling]: Just cut it out right now. Knock it off right now. Let’s just take it easy here and give this thing a chance.

  There’s a second of silence and then,

  BROMBERG: Yeah, okay, I feel something happening already.

  WILSON: I think I feel something too.

  JACOBI: Is it getting hot in here?

  ROURKE [cutting him off]: Now, everyone calm down. We’re not—

  BROMBERG: Oh yeah, I’ve got a rush starting here. I’ve got—

  WILSON: Jesus, Billy, I feel—

  ROURKE: I know what you mean. I know what you’re saying.

  JACOBI: I’m getting a little, ah, Billy, you feeling kind of—

  ROURKE: I know what you’re saying—

  Bromberg gets up out of her chair suddenly and knocks it over. Eva watches her face as she cranes her neck out a bit and starts to look quickly around the table, an odd smile spreading over her lips. There’s a small flutter of her right eyelid, but either she’s not aware of it or it isn’t bothering her. She runs a hand around the back of her neck, comes around the front, and runs her index and middle fingers down the line of her Adam’s apple and into the shallow cavity below, then further inside the front of her blouse. She says, “I am fucking buzzing,” in a quick, clipped voice that raises slightly in pitch with each word. Her free hand starts to slap against the side of her leg.

  Rourke leans over to Wilson, gives out a quick, high laugh, sticks his tongue into her ear. Wilson starts a rolling giggle and Rourke tries to whisper, “I’m hard as a freakin’ rock,” but it comes out fast at full volume and suddenly the whole room is convulsing with laughter.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Jacobi chokes out. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”