Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

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.