The Box

by Jeremy Brown

“What about her?”

  “Well, I called her to get in touch with you about this, so I assume you two are still on speaking terms?”

  Bruder said, “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “She might come in handy. I mean, a bunch of dudes rolling around town could raise eyebrows. A guy and his lady, or just a single lady…”

  Bruder shook his head.

  “That won’t work.”

  Rison looked at Kershaw, who just shook his head and refused to participate.

  Rison said, “Why, because she’s your ex…?”

  He didn’t know how to finish the question—Wife? Girlfriend? Lover?—so he just let it dangle.

  “No. She would do fine pretending to be with any one of us to blend in, but she won’t be bait or a honeypot.”

  “Really? Not even chatting somebody up?”

  Bruder said, “Look, if one of these Romanians tries to touch her, she’ll kill him. Job over. It’s not worth the risk.”

  Rison blew his cheeks out, then turned to Kershaw and the laptop.

  “Go back to the school for a minute.”

  Kershaw clicked over. The only job openings were for a custodial engineer and assistant wrestling coach.

  “I could put in for the custodian thing,” Rison said.

  Kershaw shook his head.

  “I’ve seen your hotel room. Have you ever wrestled?”

  “Not that kind. I—oh, shit.”

  Bruder and Kershaw both looked at him.

  “Have you guys ever worked with a dude named Connelly? Aiden Connelly?”

  “No,” Bruder said.

  “He’s solid. He’s a safe guy, a vault guy. Gets through doors, walls, you name it. So we could use him for the armored car. And I think he wrestled in high school. Or maybe he just likes to fight, I can’t remember.”

  “You trust him?” Bruder said.

  “Yeah. I worked with him once, in Florida, and we agreed to call each other up if something came along that looked like a good fit.”

  Bruder looked at Kershaw, who nodded.

  “Call him,” Bruder said.

  Rison called Connelly with the speaker on.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, you and me, did some work together near Tallahassee a couple years ago. We joked about draining the swamp and turning it into a prison for politicians. You remember that?”

  The man on the other end laughed.

  “Yeah, shit yeah, I remember. What’s up? You got something?”

  “I got you on speaker with two other guys here, we’re looking at some work. Let me ask you this—you ever done any wrestling?”

  Connelly paused.

  “Like, professionally?”

  “I mean high school or college.”

  “Oh, real wrestling. I thought you were asking about the off-the-top-rope kind. Um, no. I mean, headlocks and shit like that, but no real training or competition. Have you ever seen a wrestling practice? It’s insane. Running around in garbage bags to cut weight…So no, I’ve never wrestled. I’ve fought some wrestlers, and that sucked. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

  He paused to take a breath.

  “Why, does that take me out of whatever you got going? Because my curiosity is piqued.”

  Rison looked at Bruder and Kershaw.

  Bruder didn’t want his voice on the call, so he just nodded.

  Rison said, “How soon can you get to Vegas?”

  Connelly arrived the next morning on a flight from Nashville.

  They met in Rison’s suite and after a round of handshakes and some talk about common acquaintances they got him caught up and into the planning.

  Connelly looked out the window at the Strip for a few moments, then said, “I could do the resume for the coaching gig, but they take their wrestling pretty seriously in Iowa. My concern is they’ll offer an impromptu interview right then and I end up sparring with the head coach or something. It’ll take them about two seconds to realize I’m full of shit. And—hey, do you guys mind if we go outside somewhere? It was gray and raining in Nashville when I left and I’m dying for some sunshine.”

  Bruder was irritated by the delay, but they split up and met at Rison’s comped poolside cabana fifteen minutes later.

  When they were settled and Rison had drinks and lunch on the way Bruder asked Connelly, “What about the other options?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and I like the bar. I can play the guitar halfway decent. If they’re looking for jackasses to come in and play and sing covers, I can do that.”

  “That’s not bad,” Rison said. “I bet they get a lot of people from out of town doing that. You know, traveling bands and shit.”

  “People in bars talk,” Kershaw added. “You sit next to the right person, we could get some good info.”

  “Show me the website,” Connelly said.

  No one had a phone on them, per Bruder’s rules, and Kershaw’s laptop was the only electronic device in the cabana. He flipped it open and got to the website via a satellite or radar dishes or something. He’d explained it to Bruder once, and Bruder said, “Is it secure?”

  “Yes,” Kershaw told him.

  “Fine.”

  Now Connelly looked at the website for Len’s, scanning for anything about open-mic nights.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What?” Bruder said, ready for bad news.

  “This place has been on Dash & Dine.”

  Bruder, Kershaw and Rison all exchanged looks.

  “That’s bad?” Rison said.

  Connelly shook his head.

  “No, it’s great. You guys don’t know that show? Oh, man. They drive these crazy fast cars, motorcycles, whatever, around the country and visit restaurants to try their signature menu items. If they’ve been to this place, Len’s, we’re golden.”

  “Why?” Bruder said.

  “Because they must have people coming in from all over to try the, what is it…Lenburger. Just because it’s been on the show. So goons like us stopping in for a meal? Totally normal.”

  Bruder relaxed a bit.

  “A meal, maybe, but what about a few days? We still need a reason to linger.”

  “Okay, so I’ll still do the guitar thing. Kershaw still does the granary. You and Rison, you can be separate, or maybe a pair of salesmen driving through, or just some old guys checking stuff off your bucket list.”

  “Careful,” Rison said.

  Connelly grinned, then said, “Oh, what about a band?”

  He got blank stares in return.

  Rison said, “Huh?”

  “Do you guys play anything? Or sing?”

  Rison glanced at Bruder and couldn’t help snickering.

  “I don’t think so. I can play a little piano, but it’s limited to exactly the number of notes needed to get a woman naked.”

  Kershaw said, “How many is that?”

  “About twelve, but the women are hookers, so maybe it doesn’t count.”

  The ice bucket of beer arrived and Connelly passed them around, taking over the role of host.

  He said, “Okay, so I’m on guitar and vocals. Rison plays the keyboard. Kershaw, you strike me as a bass guy—pretty steady and low-key, but you can slap it around and get chunky with it if you have to.”

  Kershaw accepted the beer and the compliment, if that’s what it was.

  Connelly looked at Bruder, who looked back at him and wondered how he’d respond to being told to shut his trap so they could get to work. Connelly seemed like the type who needed to talk everything through out loud, asking himself questions and answering them halfway through.

  Bruder’s method was to sit and think or move and think, mulling over the facts and variables and pinch points, and not say anything until he emerged from his cave with, “This is how it will go.”

  That wasn’t going to be possible with Connelly running his mouth, so he made himself be patient.

  Connelly said, “Now Bruder here, he’s a drummer all the way. A
s long as every song we play has war drums. BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom. Ever onward, into the breach, keep going lads, that kind of thing. A couple months of practice and we’d be onto something.”

  “We don’t have a couple months,” Bruder said.

  “Well fuck me then, forget I mentioned it.”

  Connelly kicked his feet up and gave a sigh of perfect contentment.

  “But I’ll still go in as a solo act. Stop in at the bar for a burger and beer, I’m wandering the countryside with just my wits and guitar to get me by, hey, do you guys need an opening act? Or just somebody to play something besides the four songs on the jukebox getting worn out?”

  “What if they tell you to go to hell?” Bruder said.

  Connelly flashed a smile.

  “Well, that’s when the conversation actually gets interesting.”

  Chapter Four

  Present

  When Connelly heard the engine coming down the road, he moved just enough to check his watch. His ass was sore and his foot kept falling asleep no matter which way he put the leg, and it turned out he’d been sitting next to the deadfall for just over two hours.

  He keyed his radio.

  “I got a vehicle coming from the south.”

  That meant it was coming from the direction of town, the same way they’d come in the truck.

  He let go of the radio and made himself become still.

  The engine was the only man-made sound. He still had the shooting earbuds in, and everything else was amplified, birds flitting around and snow plopping off branches and leaves rustling when something small rooted through them. At one point a doe had wandered within fifteen yards before hearing or smelling him, then bolting away like he’d goosed her.

  Connelly waited and slid his eyes to the right.

  As the car, a beat-up blue Honda Accord with one person in it, came into his peripheral vision he heard the engine sound change.

  The driver had taken their foot off the gas and was letting it coast.

  The driver’s face was turned toward the chain across the two-track and Connelly could see it was a man with a reddish-brown beard.

  Connelly watched without staring—he didn’t want the man to feel his eyes.

  His heart started bumping a bit, getting ready for whatever might happen next.

  This could be some random neighbor, or whoever delivered mail along this rural route, or the land owner—though that was unlikely—or the Romanians scouring the countryside.

  The engine continued to coast with the man looking out at the entrance to the two-track, then the sound picked up again and the Honda jumped forward.

  Then the brake lights flared and the Honda skidded to a stop just beyond the chained driveway.

  Connelly risked a more focused look.

  The man’s face was pressed against the glass so he could look back. Then the window came down and he stuck his head out and said something Connelly didn’t hear clearly.

  The door popped open and the man stepped out. He was a little taller than vehicle’s roof and had the beard and a receding hairline. He wore an unzipped hooded sweatshirt with a faded Metallica shirt underneath. The shirt was too tight, and Connelly caught a glimpse of his pale belly drooping over his pants.

  The man shuffled over, muttering to himself, and bent over with his hands on his knees to stare at the ground where the road turned into the track. His head swung around, looking at everything, then he stood up and went to the end of the chain closest to Connelly.

  He bent over again and peered at the wire holding the chain to the post.

  He reached out and almost touched it, then shot upright and turned to look at the other end of the chain.

  His head tilted to the side and his eyes moved to the two-track, scanning.

  Then his hand went to his pocket and he pulled out a cell phone.

  Connelly stood up, faltering a bit because of his damn sleepy foot, and got the rifle out from under the poncho and pointed it in the man’s general direction.

  “Stop right there.”

  The man jumped and almost dropped the phone, then stared at Connelly with his mouth open like he was a wraith risen from the ground.

  “Drop the phone,” Connelly said.

  The man looked down at the phone like he’d forgotten it was there.

  Then his face turned sly, just for a moment, and Connelly pointed the rifle directly at his chest.

  “I already have the slack out, buddy.”

  The man’s face twisted in disgust. He dropped the phone into the snow and let his arms hang at his sides.

  “Open that sweatshirt for me.”

  He pulled it open from the bottom corners.

  Connelly saw the butt of a pistol sticking out of his front pocket.

  “The pocket, huh? Keep your hands out like that.”

  Connelly kept the rifle on him and hit the radio again.

  “This is the man at the road.”

  Kershaw’s voice came back: “Go ahead.”

  “I got one. Bring the truck.”

  “On my way.”

  Connelly let the radio go and worked his way forward through the brush until he was on the edge of the track.

  The man had his head tilted back and was watching him with a small grin, like he was the one in charge and Connelly hadn’t figured it out yet.

  Connelly said, “You speak English?”

  “Of course.”

  He had a deep voice for his size, a little scratchy, and his teeth were white and straight.

  “But you’re Romanian, yeah?”

  “Unfortunately for you, yes.”

  Connelly pointed at his shirt.

  “I saw them at Madison Square Garden. Amazing show.”

  The man looked down at the shirt and shrugged.

  “I don’t care about them. I picked this shirt because I don’t care if I get your blood on it.”

  That was the end of the small talk, so Connelly just pointed the rifle at him and waited for the truck.

  Bruder was in the passenger seat of the truck with Kershaw driving.

  They didn’t know what they were going to find when they got to the road—it might require an urgent return to the trailer under gunfire—so Kershaw went down the two-track in reverse and swept around the final curve without slowing down.

  What they found was Connelly standing next to a stocky guy holding his sweatshirt open like he was trying to cool off or flap the sides and fly away like a bat. Connelly had his rifle pointed at the man’s face.

  Kershaw stopped the truck and they both got out and walked to the back of the truck, wading through the disappearing exhaust. They had their balaclavas pulled up to hide everything except their eyes.

  Bruder said, “Who’s this?”

  “I didn’t get his name yet,” Connelly said.

  “He’s alone?”

  “I didn’t see anybody else in the vehicle.”

  “Did he call anybody?”

  “Nope.”

  Bruder picked the phone up and brushed the snow off. The screen was locked.

  He thought about smashing it but didn’t yet know if they’d need any information it had, so he held the power button down until it asked for confirmation to shut down. He did that and put the phone in his jacket pocket.

  Connelly asked the man, “What’s your name?”

  The man just looked at Bruder and Kershaw like he was bored.

  “This isn’t an interrogation,” Bruder said. “It’s a negotiation. There’s no reason not to tell us your name.”

  “Then what’s your name? And show me your face.”

  “I didn’t say it was an equal negotiation.”

  The man shrugged. “Claudiu.”

  “What do your friends call you? Claud?”

  “No, but you’re not my friends, so that’s fine.”

  Bruder walked up to him and pulled the pistol out of his pocket. It was a beat-up Glock 23. Bruder ejected the magazine and put it in another pocket,
then pulled the slide back to spit out the cartridge in the breech. He put the Glock in the same pocket and plucked the shiny brass out of the snow and put that in with the gun and magazine.

  “Turn around.”

  Claud rolled his eyes and turned in a slow circle. Bruder patted him down and didn’t feel anything alarming.

  “Alright Claud, get in the truck. I’ll drive your car, so you don’t have to walk all the way back here to get it.”

  Claud’s eyes shifted between all three of them.

  “Back from where?”

  “Just up the track here. Not far.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. We’re negotiating.”

  “Ah. The terms of your surrender.”

  “Something like that,” Bruder said.

  Kershaw and Connelly switched places at the road.

  Kershaw donned the poncho and kept his own AR-15, and when the truck and Claud’s Honda were past the chain, he hooked it back up and did his best to remove the tracks. Then he found the spot Connelly had pointed out to him and settled in.

  Once the vehicles were far enough away the birds started moving around again and talking to each other. Kershaw was a hunter, when he had the time, and he enjoyed being in the woods.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the critters and trees and waited for anything louder—like a gunshot or detonating charge or fleet of incoming vehicles—to tell him things had gotten worse.

  Bruder dumped the Honda next to the truck where it wouldn’t be in the way. The interior was loud with squeals and thumps along the two-track and it smelled like stale tobacco.

  When he got out, he pulled his balaclava down for a moment and spat in the snow to get the taste out of his mouth.

  Connelly and Claud got out of the truck and Bruder pointed at the pile of duffel bags sitting in the thin snow and brown grass.

  “That’s the money.”

  “I recognize it,” Claud said. “Good. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Inside that pile are enough explosives to turn all of it into mulch.”

  Claud was horrified.

  “You wouldn’t do that to money!”

  “There’s always more money. When you go back, let your people know if they get too close they might get us, but they won’t get the money.”