The Box by Jeremy Brown (ebook reader play store txt) 📕

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 again, and