The Box, Jeremy Brown [big ebook reader TXT] 📗

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