Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,34
she says.
“Jane’s not back?”
“They’re strategizing,” says Erma. “We did a very low-impact tread today, then the rest of the afternoon is working on mind-set.”
Bob sighs and says, “’Bye, kids. Maybe we can go to the aquarium tomorrow. There’s a sea horse show.”
“Ro and I swam with sea horses last week.”
“Where?”
“The Great Barrier Reef.”
“These are real sea horses, though.”
“They look exactly the same. I see them through glass here”—she shakes her iPad—“and we’ll see them through glass at the aquarium.”
“That’s completely different, Margot.”
“It is and it isn’t.”
“Real sea horses will be in real aquariums.”
“My real phone contains real images of real sea horses really swimming. It’s six of one, half dozen of the other.”
Bob turns his attention to his youngest, asking, “Buddy? Aquarium tomorrow?”
Brent furrows. There’s brown fro-yo smudged on his cheek. He says, “Only if I get past level seven before then.”
“Okay, I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Text,” he says.
“I’ll text.”
Bob walks back out of his light gray house. He notices the front lawn is getting a little shaggy—better get the gardener in line or the HOA will no doubt pelt him with belligerent emails. They pounced quickly when Coffen hung that bird-feeder a few months back without proper consent. How might his neighbors feel about the decorative contraption? wondered a passive-aggressive note sent from the HOA’s commander-in-chief. What if everybody wanted to hang an unapproved birdfeeder out in front of their homes? Should such a slippery-sloped precedent be employed? One day, it might simply be birdfeeders, but what eyesores lurked around the corner? Pornographic statues? Could such a gamble possibly benefit the subdivision’s greater good? A zero-tolerance policy had to be maintained.
A meteorologist might call the conditions getting windier.
Coffen’s phone rings. The caller ID does not identify anyone he knows. Normally, he doesn’t answer these mysterious numbers because rarely are they anything but veiled hassles, but he needs a friend—even a pesky solicitor, or a receptionist reminding him of an impending appointment, or a local delegate hoping to win his vote, whatever. He picks up on the second ring and says, “Bob is me?” not intending for it to sound like a question, but it does.
“What are you doing?” says some guy.
“Who is this?”
“This is a handsome member of the clean team.”
“Ace? How’d you get this number?”
“You people have to remember that the clean team has access to everything. We don’t only dump the trash. We have keys, alarm codes. We can get into every cranny. We know where you bozos hide your passwords and who has the best snacks tucked in desk drawers.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m gonna go back to the office to hang out before the big gig,” Ace says, “if you want to meet me there.”
“Okay,” Coffen says, excited to spend some time away from Schumann.
“If you’re still feeling the effects of the rum, drive slow,” he says. “Drunk drivers usually get popped for speeding.”
“I’m not drunk driving.”
“Exactly. No way would you. Remember to go slow. Before Acey settled down and joined the clean team, he might have wriggled on the wrong side of the law occasionally.”
“Your glory days.”
“Boy, were they.”
“Right now my life feels like the opposite of glory days.”
“We’ll see what some rock and roll has to say about that later tonight,” says Ace.
Bob has Schumann swing them by Taco Shed for an afternoon Mexican lasagna. They pull into the drive-through and Coffen almost tells him about Tilda’s shady business venture, but he decides to keep her secret safe. She seems like a good person, and Bob wants her to make all the extra money she needs.
He does not, however, expect Tilda to be working the day shift, but he recognizes her voice right off. Apparently, one of the other workers is on maternity leave and the extra shifts have been disseminated amongst the remaining Shedheads.
“Hi, Tilda, it’s Bob Coffen,” he says from the passenger seat.
“Bob who?”
“Last night. With Otis.”
“It’s not ringing a bell.”
“The cop.”
“Still no.”
“The capitán of Mexican lasagnas.”
“Ah, yes,” she says. “How many would you like?”
“Three.” Coffen feels the urge to talk to her alone. He wants a couple minutes without Schumann here to chat. Bob truly enjoyed their time together last night, chomping Mexican lasagnas in the parking lot. He whispers to Schumann, “Give me a minute.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to her.”
“Hark the herald angel likes to watch TV in his birthday suit,” Schumann says, smiling, parroting the magic words to get into Tilda’s erotic speakeasy.
“Who’s that?” Tilda asks.
“It’s Schumann.”
“Howdy, big fella,” she says.
“You guys know each other?” Bob