The Box by Jeremy Brown (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📗

we get some of the high school kids renting a bunch of rooms on prom night and they open all the adjoining doors and have a big sleepover.”

He looked up, suddenly alarmed.

“The parents know about it, of course. Sometimes they even chaperone.”

“I hope they get laid too,” Connelly said.

“Oh! Oh, uh, well…just the one night then?”

Connelly made a show of thinking about it.

“At least two, so let’s start with that.”

“Wonderful. I just need a credit card to put on file.”

“I’m only carrying cash these days, but I’m happy to pay for the first night now.”

Ed feigned shock.

“Cash? What is this thing you speak of? Of course, cash it is! And I see you have a guitar there—I hope you aren’t planning on busking.”

“I stopped in at Len’s before here. I might get some mic time there tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. It’s just, we have some local ordinances about that sort of thing, and some of the folks around town wouldn’t really go for it, even if it was allowed.”

“No worries,” Connelly said, getting a strong feeling Ed was one of those folks.

He got the key to unit two and left Ed to his scandalous show watching and carried his things along the left wing, almost to the end. It was colder there, under the overhang and out of the sun.

The key worked and he opened the door. The carpet was thin and brown, like the bedspread on the queen-sized bed against the left wall.

And the fabric on the single chair in the corner, next to the big window by the door. The chair had a round table next to it, just big enough for a game of solitaire.

The air smelled like old smoke and air freshener, so Connelly dropped his bag next to the door to keep it propped open.

He walked between the foot of the bed and the low dresser on his right. The dresser had a cheap flat-screen TV on top of it, along with a compact coffee maker and two mugs stuffed with packets of sugar and powdered creamer. A framed print on the wall above the TV showed a small pond with a bunch of cattails and ducks coming in for a landing.

The back wall had a short hallway with a closet along the right wall and a door into the small bathroom on the left.

The bathroom contained a shallow sink, a toilet, and a cramped tub caulked into three walls. The shower curtain was brown with flying geese on it. The tub and toilet and sink all had brown stains and Connelly swiped a finger across the one in the sink. It didn’t budge or leave any residue on his skin—iron, possibly from the Iron Age.

The closet had a dozen wire hangers with thin paper wrappers advertising a local laundromat. A light blue cloth bag hung on a hook. Connelly pulled one corner to spread it out and saw the same name printed on the side along with brief instructions—leave your dirty laundry in the bag outside the door and they’d handle it for you and add it to your motel bill.

Connelly thought about it for a moment and decided: If he stayed here long enough to need fresh laundry, things had either gone horribly wrong or shockingly well.

He stepped back into the main room.

The solid metal door between units was next to the bed, in the corner made by the main room and the bathroom. It was locked, and when opened would hinge toward the bathroom and take up zero real estate.

Connelly went back to the front of the room and lifted his gear, then closed and locked the door.

He put the duffel and guitar case on the bed. They sank about six inches into the mattress, not a good sign for sleeping or any other bed-centered activities he might engage in.

He went back to the adjoining door and unlocked it and pressed it against the wall, where it stayed.

He tapped on the door locked from unit one.

After some snapping and clicking the door opened and Rison was there, looking him up and down.

“You get laid yet?”

Rison sat on the edge of the bed and punched the Mute button on the remote, silencing the sports highlight show.

Connelly went into the room, a mirror image of his except for the print above the TV. This one showed a fish jumping out of a lake to catch a wily dragonfly.

Bruder was in the chair by the window. He had a cup of steaming coffee next to his arm on the small round table. He and Rison both wore suits with no ties, looking like road warrior salesmen or reps for a heavy machinery company.

Bruder said, “How’d you do?”

“I hit Len’s on the way out here,” Connelly said. “I might have something lined up for tomorrow night. I left my number with the waitress, she needs to check with Len about it. If she doesn’t call I’ll go back tomorrow, but something tells me she’s gonna call.”

He stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and grinned.

“Let me guess,” Rison said. “This waitress’s name is Marie.”

Connelly’s grin fell.

“You guys met her?”

It was Rison’s turn to smile.

“Oh, I imagine there isn’t a man who passes through this town who doesn’t get to meet Marie.”

“Son of a bitch,” Connelly said.

“Don’t let it get you down, sport. She’s a nice woman and I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

“Yeah, shove it. And hey, it’s still a good lead. If she gets around like that, maybe she’s spent time with the Romanians. Who were at Len’s when I left, by the way.”

Rison looked over at Bruder, who said, “Just now?”

“Twenty minutes ago, maybe? They just sat down when I was walking out.”

“How many?”

“Four of them.”

Rison looked at Bruder again.

“What do you think?”

While Bruder thought about it, Rison told Connelly, “We went there for lunch yesterday and got the impression it’s pretty common for people to come into town just for the Lenburger.”

“Told you,” Connelly said. “And I got the