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over. The only job openings were for a custodial engineer and assistant wrestling coach.

“I could put in for the custodian thing,” Rison said.

Kershaw shook his head.

“I’ve seen your hotel room. Have you ever wrestled?”

“Not that kind. I—oh, shit.”

Bruder and Kershaw both looked at him.

“Have you guys ever worked with a dude named Connelly? Aiden Connelly?”

“No,” Bruder said.

“He’s solid. He’s a safe guy, a vault guy. Gets through doors, walls, you name it. So we could use him for the armored car. And I think he wrestled in high school. Or maybe he just likes to fight, I can’t remember.”

“You trust him?” Bruder said.

“Yeah. I worked with him once, in Florida, and we agreed to call each other up if something came along that looked like a good fit.”

Bruder looked at Kershaw, who nodded.

“Call him,” Bruder said.

Rison called Connelly with the speaker on.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you and me, did some work together near Tallahassee a couple years ago. We joked about draining the swamp and turning it into a prison for politicians. You remember that?”

The man on the other end laughed.

“Yeah, shit yeah, I remember. What’s up? You got something?”

“I got you on speaker with two other guys here, we’re looking at some work. Let me ask you this—you ever done any wrestling?”

Connelly paused.

“Like, professionally?”

“I mean high school or college.”

“Oh, real wrestling. I thought you were asking about the off-the-top-rope kind. Um, no. I mean, headlocks and shit like that, but no real training or competition. Have you ever seen a wrestling practice? It’s insane. Running around in garbage bags to cut weight…So no, I’ve never wrestled. I’ve fought some wrestlers, and that sucked. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

He paused to take a breath.

“Why, does that take me out of whatever you got going? Because my curiosity is piqued.”

Rison looked at Bruder and Kershaw.

Bruder didn’t want his voice on the call, so he just nodded.

Rison said, “How soon can you get to Vegas?”

Connelly arrived the next morning on a flight from Nashville.

They met in Rison’s suite and after a round of handshakes and some talk about common acquaintances they got him caught up and into the planning.

Connelly looked out the window at the Strip for a few moments, then said, “I could do the resume for the coaching gig, but they take their wrestling pretty seriously in Iowa. My concern is they’ll offer an impromptu interview right then and I end up sparring with the head coach or something. It’ll take them about two seconds to realize I’m full of shit. And—hey, do you guys mind if we go outside somewhere? It was gray and raining in Nashville when I left and I’m dying for some sunshine.”

Bruder was irritated by the delay, but they split up and met at Rison’s comped poolside cabana fifteen minutes later.

When they were settled and Rison had drinks and lunch on the way Bruder asked Connelly, “What about the other options?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I like the bar. I can play the guitar halfway decent. If they’re looking for jackasses to come in and play and sing covers, I can do that.”

“That’s not bad,” Rison said. “I bet they get a lot of people from out of town doing that. You know, traveling bands and shit.”

“People in bars talk,” Kershaw added. “You sit next to the right person, we could get some good info.”

“Show me the website,” Connelly said.

No one had a phone on them, per Bruder’s rules, and Kershaw’s laptop was the only electronic device in the cabana. He flipped it open and got to the website via a satellite or radar dishes or something. He’d explained it to Bruder once, and Bruder said, “Is it secure?”

“Yes,” Kershaw told him.

“Fine.”

Now Connelly looked at the website for Len’s, scanning for anything about open-mic nights.

“Oh, shit!”

“What?” Bruder said, ready for bad news.

“This place has been on Dash & Dine.”

Bruder, Kershaw and Rison all exchanged looks.

“That’s bad?” Rison said.

Connelly shook his head.

“No, it’s great. You guys don’t know that show? Oh, man. They drive these crazy fast cars, motorcycles, whatever, around the country and visit restaurants to try their signature menu items. If they’ve been to this place, Len’s, we’re golden.”

“Why?” Bruder said.

“Because they must have people coming in from all over to try the, what is it…Lenburger. Just because it’s been on the show. So goons like us stopping in for a meal? Totally normal.”

Bruder relaxed a bit.

“A meal, maybe, but what about a few days? We still need a reason to linger.”

“Okay, so I’ll still do the guitar thing. Kershaw still does the granary. You and Rison, you can be separate, or maybe a pair of salesmen driving through, or just some old guys checking stuff off your bucket list.”

“Careful,” Rison said.

Connelly grinned, then said, “Oh, what about a band?”

He got blank stares in return.

Rison said, “Huh?”

“Do you guys play anything? Or sing?”

Rison glanced at Bruder and couldn’t help snickering.

“I don’t think so. I can play a little piano, but it’s limited to exactly the number of notes needed to get a woman naked.”

Kershaw said, “How many is that?”

“About twelve, but the women are hookers, so maybe it doesn’t count.”

The ice bucket of beer arrived and Connelly passed them around, taking over the role of host.

He said, “Okay, so I’m on guitar and vocals. Rison plays the keyboard. Kershaw, you strike me as a bass guy—pretty steady and low-key, but you can slap it around and get chunky with it if you have to.”

Kershaw accepted the beer and the compliment, if that’s what it was.

Connelly looked at Bruder, who looked back at him and wondered how he’d respond to being told to shut his trap so they could get to work. Connelly seemed like the type who needed to talk everything through out loud, asking himself questions and answering them halfway through.

Bruder’s method was to sit and think or move and think, mulling over the facts and variables and pinch points, and not say anything until he emerged from his cave with,