by Jeremy Brown
He leaned forward and touched her hand.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She turned and looked down at her food and got busy moving things around. The ketchup bottle got nudged a few inches, then her glass of water slid where the bottle had been.
Connelly said, “Those guys friends of yours?”
“No.”
“This is gonna sound like a crazy jealous guy thing, but…ex-boyfriend?”
She reared back.
“Oh, hell no. You think I’d…no. Ug.”
She shuddered and poked more things around, taking her anxiety out on the salt and pepper shakers.
The men took a table near the front of the restaurant and sat so all three of them could watch the booth.
Connelly didn’t know if they were the advance team, checking things out before more showed up—possibly the tall one, to terrorize Nora—or if these three were just there to make her jumpy.
Either way…why?
Nora had something they wanted, or knew something they didn’t want her to know, and they were making a concerted effort to keep her uncomfortable.
Maybe it had something to do with the farms and the money, maybe not.
Regardless, Connelly decided to make something happen before the place got more crowded with Romanians or otherwise.
Connelly said, “I’m gonna hit the bathroom. You need anything?”
“From the bathroom?”
She was distracted now, thinking about something else and working hard to keep from looking over her shoulder at the three men.
She didn’t want him to leave the table but didn’t want to say so either.
He said, “Yeah, you want some soap? Toilet paper?”
“No. Thanks.”
Connelly stood up and unzipped his sweatshirt and tossed it onto the bench, then turned and walked toward the back hallway.
After two steps he heard one of the Romanians yell, “Ey!”
Then a chair scraped back on the floor.
Connelly kept walking but looked back, naturally curious about the racket, and saw one of the men standing and pointing at him.
The other two were looking but still sitting.
The one on his feet said, “You! You Hungary?”
Connelly stopped and frowned, then looked at Nora, who was just as confused but on the verge of alarm.
Connelly said, “Me?”
“Yuh, you.”
“Am I hungry?”
“The shirt, man. You like Hungary?”
Connelly looked down at the shirt he was wearing. It was dark red with some stripes on the shoulders and was made of thin, sweat-wicking jersey material. It had a brand logo on the right side of the chest and a golden crest on the left.
He looked back at the man.
“I don’t get it. What’s wrong with my shirt?”
He actually knew exactly what was wrong with it.
Back in Vegas, when they were brainstorming how to pick a fight with the Romanians without actually picking a fight, Rison had come up with the jersey idea. Being a professional gambler—some, including Bruder and Connelly, would call it compulsive—he’d placed bets on just about every sport at one time or another and recalled the Romanians having a soccer rivalry with somebody…
A quick internet search turned up Hungary, and it was even better than Rison remembered. The two teams and their fans shared a mutual hatred, getting into brawls with each other, cops, the military, pretty much anyone within reach of a punch or kick or thrown chair or burning shoe. Some of the games had even been played in empty stadiums in a failed attempt to curb the violence.
So when Connelly stood up and waved the Hungarian flag in front of the Romanians, he may as well have spit in their faces.
The man took a few steps toward Connelly and jabbed a finger toward him.
“You like the Magyarok?”
“The what? Look man, this isn’t even my shirt. I mean, I got it at a Goodwill, I just like the color.”
He looked down and touched the crest on the left side, the traditional Hungarian coat of arms.
“I don’t even know what it means.”
“It means fuck you, man.”
Nora said, “Hey! Knock it off!”
The man ignored her and took another step forward.
Connelly put his hands out, open and appeasing.
“Whoa, easy buddy.”
The other two men stood up and spread out behind the first, closing in and pressing Connelly toward the back hallway.
The other people in the restaurant were silent, either unable to look away from the incident or staring down at their tables.
Connelly glanced behind the bar, where Marie stood frozen with empty burger baskets in each hand.
She yelled, “He’s supposed to play here tonight, Grigore!”
The Romanian in the middle—Grigore, apparently—scoffed.
Marie gave Connelly a helpless look and mouthed, “Run.”
He looked at Nora, perched on the edge of the booth, looking like she was going to step out in front of the man coming up on Connelly’s left flank.
“Guys! I said knock it off!”
The three men didn’t even glance at her.
Connelly told Grigore, “Bro, take it easy.”
What he needed was for one of them to say something to her, or make a move toward her, before he shifted from confused and easygoing to aggressive, possibly ballistic.
But they just swept right past her, closing in on him, and now he was stuck with defending himself instead of both of them, or just Nora.
It would have to do.
Grigore had a crooked nose, a mangled ear, and scars running through his eyebrows.
He was also smiling.
This told Connelly the man had been in fights, had gotten hurt, and he still enjoyed it.
He was going to be a handful.
As for the other two…if they were around to keep him from squirting away while he and Grigore squared off, great.
If they were around to stomp him once he was on the ground, there was a good chance he wasn’t going to walk away from this without some damage.
On the bright side: Maybe Nora would feel sorry for him.
Grigore was almost within kicking range, so Connelly brought his hands up to keep Grigore’s eyes high.
That part worked, but Grigore showed another sign this wasn’t his first go-round when he turned his hips sideways and covered his balls with his left hand.
There went Connelly’s Plan A.
The other mitt reached out toward him like a scrapyard claw, grabbing for shirt or hair or flesh.
Connelly backed up until he hit the wall just inside the hallway. The corner leading to the bar was on his right, and Grigore shuffled that way to cut off any escape.
The only way was back, out the rear exit, and if Connelly went for that he’d have more room to work in the parking lot, but so would Grigore and his comrades.
Better to get it done here—whatever it turned out to be—where Nora had a good view.
He pushed off the wall, straight into Grigore’s outstretched hand, and let it grab the front of his shirt. Grigore responded the way Connelly wanted.
He shoved the hand forward, pushing Connelly back, and cocked his right hand back for a punch.
Connelly reversed and twisted, using the momentum to pull Grigore off balance. He also smacked his right ear with a hard open left palm and kept that hand going, driving Grigore’s face into the corner of the wall.
When the face bounced back Connelly slammed the heel of his right hand into it—had to keep those guitar fingers safe—then kicked him in the balls, wide open and exposed now.
Grigore stumbled back but didn’t fall. He blinked through the blood coming from his forehead and snorted more blood out of his nose, then shook his head and grinned, showing Connelly red teeth.
Fuck, Connelly thought.
Grigore brought his hands up and stepped in ag
ain, and this time the other two came with him.
When Nora racked the slide on the compact pistol, everybody froze.
Grigore frowned at Connelly and turned his head, and Connelly peered over his shoulder at Nora, standing there with the gun aimed at the floor somewhere in the middle of the triangle formed by the Romanians.
“I told you idiots to knock it off.”
She spoke through bared teeth, her eyes slashing from Grigore to his two pals and back.
“Now turn around and get out of here.”
Grigore chuckled and looked at Connelly.
“This woman, she is something.”
“You heard her,” Connelly said, with no idea how he should be acting right then.
The man to his right, furthest from Nora, said, “Grigore.”
Grigore looked at him and the man lifted his shirt, showing the butt of a pistol stuck in his belt.
Grigore shook his head, then turned and put a row of tables between himself and Nora while he strolled toward the front of the restaurant, watching her the whole time.
“Who give you gun?”
“Shut up and keep walking.”
Grigore tsked.
“Guns, very dangerous. You need to be careful.”
The other two backed up to their table but didn’t move any closer to the front door.
Grigore joined them and sat down, still watching Nora.
“I told you to get out of here,” she said.
“I’m hungry,” Grigore said. “Not bullshit Hungary, like your friend. Hey, friend.”
Connelly waited.
“I’m going to bury you in that shirt.”
Nora said, “Adam, get your things.”
She kept her eyes on the Romanians and the gun pointed at the floor while Connelly got his guitar case and sweatshirt and coat. He carried all of that with his left and used his right hand to dump Nora’s food into his basket, which had his half-finished burger and most of his fries.
He backed toward the hallway again and told Marie, “I’ll bring the basket back tonight.”
She was still standing there with the two empty baskets, her eyes wide and blinking like hummingbird wings.
Connelly went along the back hallway with Nora right behind him, both of them watching their trail and listening for chairs scraping on the floor.
Connelly used his butt to open the door and they pushed out into bright sunshine and a shock of cold air.
“My car,” Nora said.
Connelly followed her to the Lexus. She used her fob to pop the trunk and Connelly dumped his stuff in but kept the burger basket and carried it to the passenger seat.
Nora left ruts in the dirt when she pulled out of the spot, then another set when she turned onto the road and accelerated away from Len’s.
Nothing was happening in the rear-view mirrors.
Connelly glanced down at the pistol, which was resting barrel-first in the middle console cup holder.
He looked over at her, and she looked back at him with wide eyes and pursed lips.
He said, “Holy shit, Nora.”
Then he burst out laughing and she joined right in, releasing stress like air shooting out of a balloon, the adrenaline coursing and letting them know they were still alive.
Chapter Ten
Nora drove them out of town in the passing lane of the southbound road, whipping past other cars and big rigs until Connelly reached over and touched her hand on the steering wheel.
“I think we made our getaway.”
She glanced down at the speedometer.
“Oh, shit.”
She let the Lexus coast until it was at the speed limit, then set the cruise control.
“Where are we going?” Connelly said.
“I don’t know. I’m just driving.”
“Burger?”
He held the basket up, and she seemed to notice it for the first time.
“Oh, no. I think I might throw up, actually.”
She pressed shaking fingers to her lips.
He could have told her about the blood sugar drop that came after an adrenaline dump, and how when that passed her body might want to feast on food and drink and pleasure.
But Adam the wandering bard wouldn’t know all of that, so he stayed quiet and put the food between his feet.
“Take some deep breaths. If we see a gas station, let’s stop and get you something to drink.”
She moved her hand back to the steering wheel.
“I think I’m okay.”
“Then can you please put the gun away? I think it’s still loaded.”
“God, yes, you’re right. Here, steer for a sec.”
Connelly put a hand on the wheel while Nora ejected the magazine and worked the slide to eject the round in the chamber. She pressed the round back into the top of the magazine and slid it home, then put the pistol in her bag.
“Uh, okay, Annie Oakley,” Connelly said.
Nora shrugged.
“You grow up around here, you learn to shoot.”
“I kinda figured that, but like…shotguns and deer rifles. What is that thing?”
“It’s a Sig Sauer P365.”
“Sure. Of course. Look, Nora, I know this is all happening fast and we don’t know each other very well, but…”
She glanced over at him.
“Will you be my bodyguard?”
She laughed, relieved he didn’t ask her to let him out of the car.
“Sorry buddy, that was a one-time deal. You didn’t know what you were getting into back there, I did.”
“What was I getting into?”
“They were going to hurt you. Badly.”
She stared out at the road and Connelly assumed she was replaying the incident and her role in it, the decisions she’d made, what she could and should have done differently, if anything. It was keeping her from focusing on what he had done—namely splitting Grigore’s face open—and that was good.
He said, “Just because of this stupid shirt?”
She nodded.
“Yeah, that stupid shirt. Well, and because of me.”
“You? Why?”
She took a deep breath and told him.
Nora said, “You know how I asked you about corporate takeovers last weekend? And you took a guess about how that’s what happened with my folks?”
“Sure. I remember everything we talked about.”
She indulged him for a moment, letting him know with a look she knew what he was doing, then moved on.
“Well, that’s pretty much what happened, except it wasn’t a corporation. It was—still is, actually—a group of people.”
“Like a co-op?”
“No. More like a gang.”
Connelly leaned toward the door to get a better look at her.
“A gang? In Iowa?”
“It’s…How can I explain this without sounding racist? Or maybe nationalist.”
“Just go ahead. I’ll assume you aren’t a racist or a nationalist, and if you convince me otherwise I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. Fine. So when we were at Len’s and you caught me talking about people from around here—God, that seems like it was days ago—and I said I’m not a xenophobe, I just don’t like assholes.”
“Right.”
“This gang, they’re Romanians. But really, they’re just assholes who happen to be Romanian.”
Connelly said, “So those guys back there were in the gang?”
“Yep.”
“And they…what? Just go around harassing farmers and people in Hungarian soccer jerseys?”
Nora shook her head.
“They came here five years ago and started making trouble, scaring and intimidating people, and they have a whole thing going on where they’re defrauding the government but nobody wants to make it worse, so they just go along and keep their heads down.”
Connelly put on an even more confused face.
“Defrauding the government? How?”
�
�It’s this whole thing with farm subsidies. It’s not worth explaining, just know they’re using the people here to steal a lot of money.”
“So…they’re like Romanian mafia?”
“Pretty much, yes. And my parents were some of the people they scared. My dad almost shot one of them once, when they came to look around and wouldn’t get off the property. They came back with more men and told my dad if he did that again, they’d set the house on fire and shoot anyone who tried to run out.”
“Holy shit,” Connelly said.
“I know. And that’s when my folks decided to move to Arizona. Since then I’ve been trying to sell the farm, but nobody from around here wants to buy it and add to their troubles. The Romanians don’t want anyone from outside this little kingdom they’ve created buying it, because that person might not understand the gravity of the situation and do something stupid, like go to the police.”
“That was going to be my next question. I mean, why—”
“Why hasn’t anyone reported them? Other than the whole burn-your-house-down-and-shoot-you part? Well, the local cops are in on it, more or less. They’re on the payroll. I guess we could go to the state police, or the FBI, but people would still get hurt. One of the Romanians, the one in charge, he’s made it clear that even if they all get arrested, there are more of them who will come here and make us all pay for it.”
“Who’s the one in charge?”
“He came into Len’s last weekend, when we were there. That’s why I had to leave.”
“Wait, the skinny guy?”
Nora’s mouth twisted in disgust.
“That’s him. Razvan.”
“He looked like Skeletor.”
“He’s a monster. He wants to buy the farm, in cash, and I won’t let him.”
“But…won’t that solve it for you? Sell the farm to him, you’re free and clear.”
Nora shook her head.
“I already broke my parents’ hearts by not taking over the farm myself. If I sold it to Razvan and his crew…I think it would kill them.”
They both stared through the windshield for a while, then Connelly said, “Nora, are you even trying to sell the farm?”