to take from it? That if something bad happened to Jacy back in seventy-one, the cops might’ve known who did it and closed ranks? Engaged in a cover-up?”
“No, Lincoln, that’s not remotely what I’m saying.”
“This hypothetical guy of yours who beats up women? Are we talking about Troyer?”
Now Coffin started massaging his temples with his thumbs. “Jeez, Lincoln, I have to say this is really discouraging. No, we’re talking about men in general. As a species. Was I unclear about that? Troyer’s a man, so sure we’re talking about him, but also about you and me and your pal Mickey.”
“Yeah, okay, but—”
“And there’s one other person we’re talking about.”
Here we go, Lincoln thought, back down the rabbit hole. “Who would that be?”
“My own son, Lincoln. We’re also talking about him.”
Lincoln wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Suddenly the man looked ill, his pallor dark gray, and his breathing had become ragged. Then it finally occurred to Lincoln that this was where they’d been headed all along. “Beverly’s husband?”
“Ex-husband. Tell me something, Lincoln. Can you imagine raising your hand to a woman like her?”
“Mr. Coffin?” Lincoln said. “I know it’s none of my business, but you don’t look well. How about I give you a lift home? You’re having surgery tomorrow, right?”
“That surgery’s elective, Lincoln. I’m electing not to have it. I just decided.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Search me,” he said. He was regarding Lincoln with increased interest now, apparently puzzled about something. “You said earlier that your life has pretty much worked out?”
“Yes,” Lincoln told him, feeling in this admission both its truth and something akin to shame. Like most blessed people, he probably didn’t count his blessings nearly often enough, but he was keenly aware of them and aware, too, that good fortune in general and his own in particular had little to do with virtue. In this he was different from Wolfgang Amadeus, and it might well have been the main difference between them. Dub-Yay was a Calvinist. Wherever he looked he saw signs not just of his own election but also of Lincoln’s. Other people, not so much. He’d taken one look at Teddy and seen no evidence of godly favor. Was he wrong? Earlier tonight, as he’d followed the gurney that wheeled Teddy into surgery, Lincoln couldn’t help wondering if what had happened back at Rockers was best viewed as an isolated incident or as part of a long-established pattern, one that could be summed up as Teddy’s life not, to borrow Coffin’s term, working out. Even back at Minerva, Teddy had seemed resigned to the likelihood that it wouldn’t. Which begged a question: was such resignation a cause or an effect? Had Teddy meekly accepted what he saw as the inevitable trajectory of his life, or had he courageously accepted what he couldn’t possibly change?
And what of Mickey? Had life worked out for him? Earlier, watching him play his beloved rock and roll at very high volume, Lincoln would’ve said yes. Wasn’t that what he’d told Anita? That of the three of them Mickey seemed to be the one who was living the life he was supposed to? Now, a few short hours later, he wasn’t so sure. Thanks in large part to the philosophical ramblings of a world-weary drunk, doubts about his old friend, however hard Lincoln was trying to resist them, were emerging, and he again recalled the expression on Mickey’s face this morning as he sat astride his Harley and stared off into the distance, his face a mask of…what? Disillusionment? Sorrow? Regret? Was music his life, or his escape from it?
“Well, I’m glad it did,” Coffin said, without apparent irony or bitterness. “Maybe you’ll stay lucky. In my experience lucky people usually do.”
More Calvinism. The elect stayed elected, the damned, damned. Having once made up his mind, God never wavered in his judgment, which was just fine with Wolfgang Amadeus Mosher, convinced as he was that he’d somehow merited his election and that others had somehow failed a crucial test, possibly in utero. By contrast, Coffin seemed exhausted by a lifetime of attempting to alter a foregone conclusion.
“Mr. Coffin?” Lincoln said.
“Yes, Lincoln?”
“I really have to pee.”
“You don’t need my permission.”
“Somehow I was under the impression I did.”
In the men’s room Lincoln took out his phone and scrolled through his RECENTS log until he found the number Beverly had called from that morning. When a groggy female voice answered, he said, “Beverly? It’s Lincoln Moser. Remember