Mating Season

by Jon Loomis

  Coffin looked up. Mrs. Rivera was looking at him out of her upstairs window.

  Coffin waved. “Hi, Mrs. Rivera,” he said.

  Mrs. Rivera frowned, closed her window, and pulled the shade.

  Coffin could hear a phone ringing, faintly, inside someone’s house. Then he realized it was his and ran inside.

  “Detective Coffin? Are you all right? You sound a little out of breath.”

  “I’m fine, Mr.”—Coffin said, checking his caller ID—“Attorney General. Just ran in from outside. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m partly just checking in,” Poblano said. “Wondering how things are going out there. But I’m also a little concerned.” He had a deep, smooth voice: If it had a color, Coffin thought, it would be chocolate brown.

  “Concerned, sir?” Coffin said.

  “We seem to have lost touch with Trooper Duckworth. Haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, and his cell phone appears to be out of service. I was wondering if you’d been in touch with him at all.”

  Coffin paused for a moment. Strange, Poblano calling him at home. “Not since the day before yesterday, no, sir.”

  There was a brief pause. “Well, I hope he’s all right,” Poblano said. “If you hear from him, could you have him give me a call?”

  “Yes, sir,” Coffin said. “Will do.”

  There was another pause. “All right, then,” Poblano said. “Goodbye, Detective.”

  “Good-b—” Coffin said, but Poblano had already hung up.

  “Is there coffee?” Jamie said from the top of the stairs.

  “Yes,” Coffin said. “I think so.”

  “I heard yelling,” Jamie said. “Then the phone rang.” She’d thrown on one of Coffin’s flannel shirts, a red and white plaid.

  “The yelling was me.” He went out to the kitchen, poured mugs of coffee for himself and Jamie, and added sugar and half-and-half. “The phone was our fine attorney general.”

  “Thanks,” Jamie said, taking the mug of coffee with both hands and settling onto the sofa. “Why were you yelling?”

  Coffin held up the copy of Overcoming Male Infertility: Understanding Its Causes and Treatments. “Rudy gave me the wrong box,” he said.

  “Wrong book, too,” Jamie said. “You’re doing great in the sperm department. That makes you one for two.”

  “Hey!” Coffin said.

  Jamie smiled and batted her eyelashes. “Care to give it another shot?”

  Coffin looked at his watch. “I can’t,” he said.

  Jamie set her coffee down and leaned back on the couch. The flannel shirt fell open—she’d only buttoned one button, just below her sternum. “You’d better,” she said.

  Later, Coffin climbed into the Fiesta and stuck the key in the ignition. The Fiesta started, for once, on the first try. Coffin put the transmission in drive, turned the radio on, and pulled away from the curb. There was no clear signal on the dial except for WOMR, Provincetown’s locally owned, volunteer-run FM station. Bob’s Bluegrass Hour was just getting revved up: Men with hillbilly accents were singing a song about trains. A banjo jangled furiously. Coffin turned it off; banjo music made his jaw tighten and his head hurt. Something stirred in the backseat. A haggard face appeared in the rearview mirror.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Coffin said, swerving, almost clipping an oncoming car. The driver honked furiously and gave Coffin the finger.

  “How anybody can listen to that banjo shit is beyond me,” his mother said.

  Coffin took a deep breath, then another, his heart galloping in his chest.

  His mother cackled. “What’s the matter? Scare you?”

  Coffin turned around. “How long have you been back there, Ma?”

  His mother frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Jesus, I’m losing my frickin’ mind.”

  “Where’s Mr. Taveres?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Taveres, Ma. Your boyfriend.”

  “Oh, him. No idea. I think he went back to the home.”

  Coffin turned right on Standish Street. It was early; a cluster of mourning doves whistled out of his way. “Which is where I’m taking you,” he said.

  “I’ll jump out,” his mother said. She opened the door.

  “Ma,” Coffin said. “Shut the door, please.” He pulled over.

  His mother’s eyes glistened in the rearview mirror. “Don’t make me go back there, Eddie,” she said. “All they do is sit around and wait to die.”

  “I’m Frankie, Ma,” Coffin said. “Ed’s in Vietnam, remember?”

  “You’re Frankie?” his mother said. She turned her head and spat out the open door. “You’re not fit to kiss your big brother’s ass. Eddie’s a frickin’ war hero, you know. If he was around, he’d have busted me out of that dump years ago.”

  “You’re probably right, Ma,” Coffin said. He unbuckled his seat belt, got out of the car, closed his mother’s door, and got back in. “But you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid, and you and I both agreed that Valley View’s the best place for you right now, remember?” He put the Fiesta in drive and pulled out, then took the little left-right jog onto Alden Street, which passed between the town cemetery and the Catholic cemetery. Valley View was just ahead, perched on its hill, overlooking the green valley of the dead.

  “I can’t remember shit anymore,” his mother said. “This fucking Alzheimer’s eats your brain, is what it does.”

  Coffin said nothing. A coven of crows stood in a loose circle beside a tilting gravestone.

  His mother stirred. “Frankie,” she said.

  “Yeah, Ma.”

  “Kill me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a cop. You carry a gun. Shoot me.”

  “I don’t carry a gun, and I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “Buceta,” his mother said. “What kind of faggot doesn’t carry a gun?” She sat back in her seat. “What kind of faggot won’t even kill his own mother?”

  Chapter 19

  Coffin’s cousin Tony lived in a big 1970s refurb in Eastham, about twenty-four miles from Provincetown center. He’d sold his modest Provincetown house for well over a million dollars during the height of the housing frenzy in 2006. The new house had granite countertops, a water view, and a Jacuzzi in the master suite. It was a palace compared to Tony’s old place, which had been cramped, run-down, and dark. The developers who bought it immediately tore it down and built a duplex on the narrow lot, selling it for almost three times what they’d paid.

  “Lemme get you a drink, Frankie,” Tony said, standing with Coffin on the broad back deck, which overlooked First Encounter Beach. It was Tony’s day off.

  “A drink?” Coffin said, checking his watch. “It’s 10:00 A.M. on a Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday’s the new Saturday,” Tony said, patting his big belly. He wore a silk camp shirt that made him look like one of the Mafiosi on The Sopranos. “You want a Bloody Mary or not?”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Coffin said, following Tony into the kitchen. It was a big kitchen, full of sunlight, stainless steel, and polished white granite. You could see the living room fireplace and the deep blue water of Cape Cod Bay from the sink. “What can it hurt?”

  “That’s my cousin,” Tony said, filling two tall glasses with ice from the big built-in fridge, then pouring triple shots of vodka into each of them. He added V8, Worcestershire, Tabasco, black pepper, olives, and celery, stirred them, then handed one to Coffin.

  Coffin sipped. It was very good.

  “So where’s Lola?” Tony said, shuffling back outside in his flipflops and settling onto a wooden deck chair. “You two been joined at the hip all week. I’m surprised to see you without her.”

  “She’s taking a half day off,” Coffin said. “Her apartment got trashed—she’s trying to clean up a little, put her life back together.”

  Tony sipped his drink and shook his head. “Bummer.”

  Coffin nodded. The view was very nice. A couple of dispirited fishi
ng boats puttered along, a mile or so offshore. A gull floated by, riding a thermal.

  Tony turned and looked at Coffin. “All I’m sayin’ is, as much time as you spend together, wouldn’t surprise me if you were boinkin’ her.”

  “I can’t keep up with the one I’ve got,” Coffin said. “Besides, I’m not Lola’s type.”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said. “I see you lookin, ha? Ha? If you’re lookin’, you’re thinkin’, that’s what I always say.”

  “The only looking I’m doing right now is for Rudy,” Coffin said. “He was driving your truck last night. Any idea where I can find him?”

  “You’re lookin’ for Pops, huh?” Tony said. He shook his big head. “I ain’t seen him since last night. He borrowed my truck and hasn’t brought it back.”

  “Is that a problem? Not having your truck, I mean?”

  “Nah,” Tony said. “I’ll just drive Darlene’s car if I need to go anywhere. He’ll bring it back, probably.”

  Darlene was Tony’s wife. She worked in Orleans three days a week as a dental hygienist. She drove a slate gray Audi convertible.

  “Any idea where he might be hanging out?”

  Tony nodded. He took a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his cargo shorts and offered one to Coffin.

  “Thanks,” Coffin said as Tony lit the cigarette for him. It tasted good with the Bloody Mary.

  “He’s got a girlfriend,” Tony said, “the freakin’ old goat. Back in P’town. Girl named Gemma something-or-other. I ain’t met her.”

  “Any idea where she works? Or where she’s staying?”

  “She’s some kind of artist. She rents one of the studios over the post office, Rudy said. I have no idea where she lives.”

  “Gemma, over the post office,” Coffin said.

  “Correctamundo.”

  “How’s your kids?”

  “Fun. Gettin’ big. I don’t know what I’m going to do when they get old enough to be embarrassed by me. I kind of like being their hero, you know?”

  “Of course you do,” Coffin said, watching the fishing boats head back to Provincetown, high in the water. “Who wouldn’t?”

  Cecil Duckworth climbed out of his rented car and stretched. His back was a little sore. He had spent most of the morning hunched over in his motel room, trying to get Bobby Cavalo’s blood off his best shoes. Next time, he thought, he’d have to remember to bring a pair of galoshes along, just in case.

  He had found the cop’s address by looking in the phone book. That was detective work, most of the time—90 percent of what you needed was just lying around in plain view. The trick was putting it all together in a way that made sense. The cop’s house made sense: It was small, unimpressive—what a cop could afford. The paint on the windowsills was peeling; the cop was too busy to fix it himself, too cheap to pay someone else. The cop—Coffin, his name was, believe it or not—was probably divorced, probably drank too much, maybe had psychological problems: depression or rage. Although maybe in a small town like this, you’d mostly be fine.

  Duckworth climbed the two wooden stairs and knocked on the screen door. There was music coming from inside, something Indian sounding, with sitars. No one came to the door. It seemed unlikely that anyone inside the house would have heard him, what with the music playing. He opened the screen door, walked four steps across the porch, and rapped on what he would have considered the front door, which had a good-sized glass pane in it. After about ten seconds a woman came down the stairs, saw him standing on the porch, and said, “Yes? Can I help you?” through the glass. Cautious. Keeping her distance—still a good six feet from the door. Giving herself a head start in case I kick the door in, Duckworth thought—but why so nervous? He took his badge from his pocket and flipped it open. “State Police, ma’am,” he said. He smiled. “I’m looking for your husband. Official business.”

  One of the odd things about living in a resort town, Coffin thought, was that one was always aware of the state of the tourists in pretty much the same way that people who lived in the Midwest, say, were aware of the weather, or the way in which the men of his father’s, grandfather’s, and great-grandfather’s generations had been aware of the tides. After the Fourth of July the tourists were always up—way up. In the fall they started to recede. In midwinter they were all but invisible, and as Memorial Day weekend approached—it was now just two days away—the tourists were slowly beginning to trickle in. It was palpable, Coffin thought, as he walked down Commercial Street from Town Hall parking lot to the post office: the slight but observable diminishing of one’s personal space in public; the small knots of tourists gathered outside restaurants, perusing the posted menus. A group of young men walked by, shirtless, wearing shorts and sandals, their chests smooth and glistening, already tanned. It was starting: The tourists were coming in.

  In the post office lobby, Coffin jumped the line, said hello to the clerk—a woman named Carole who’d been a postal clerk in Provincetown for almost twenty years—and asked to speak to Lloyd Oates, the postmaster. Carole disappeared into the back room and came back a minute later with Lloyd in tow.

  “How can I help you today, Frank?” Lloyd said, breathing a little heavily. He was a short man and very fat. He had a perpetual sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Like many very fat men, his feet seemed too small for his body.

  “Have you got a renter upstairs named Gemma something?” Coffin said, keeping his voice down. All five of the patrons waiting in line were trying to look like they weren’t eavesdropping. The post office was a notorious vector for gossip.

  “Gemma Skolnick,” Lloyd said. “Nice lady. She in trouble?”

  Coffin shook his head. “Nope. Just need to talk to her. Which studio?”

  “Two-oh-four.”

  “Any idea if she’s up there now?”

  Lloyd waved Carole over. “Seen Gemma yet today?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Carole said. She wore bifocals and kept her hair in a thick gray ponytail. “She came in about twenty minutes ago. She had a big latte, it looked like—you’re not supposed to bring drinks in, but I let it go—and she said hi and checked her box. Then it looked like she was headed upstairs. Had her keys in her hand when she left.”

  “Great,” Coffin said. “Thanks.”

  “She in trouble?” Carole said. She seemed hopeful.

  “No,” Coffin said. “No trouble. Thanks again for your help.”

  “I’m sorry,” the cop’s wife said, still not opening the door. “I don’t know where he is. You might try his office.”

  She was pretty, Duckworth thought—if you liked skinny white girls—and she wasn’t wearing a lot of clothes. A midlength bathrobe made of mango-colored silk, a little gold ankle bracelet. Was that it? Clearly no bra—too much nipple for that—and no telltale panty lines. Her hair was wet: She’d probably just gotten out of the shower. Duckworth liked skinny white girls well enough, but they did not really engage his interest—or activate his libido—in the way that Latina ladies did; no doubt it had something to do with his mother, who had been from Argentina.

  “I’ll do that, yes, ma’am,” he said. He put his hand on the doorknob, thought better of it, took his hand away. There was something about the way she was standing—weight shifted a bit, right hand concealed behind her hip—that gave him pause. “What about his partner, Officer . . .”

  “Sergeant Winters,” the woman said, watching him very closely. “You might try her, yes.”

  He smiled again. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll give her a try.” He touched his fist to his chest twice, then pointed a thick finger at Jamie. “You have a lovely day, now,” he said. “Y’hear?”

  Coffin trudged up two flights of green-linoleum-covered stairs to the second floor of the post office, where a half-dozen local artists rented studios. To Coffin’s way of thinking, the best of the studio spaces were at the far end of the hallway, directly overlooking the harbor—though he understood that for most artists the southwesterly light would
not be ideal.

  Room 204 was halfway down the hall; the door had a frosted glass pane and stood an inch or two ajar. Music drifted out: Jimi Hendrix, playing the spooky intro to “Red House.” Coffin couldn’t resist: He peeked in. A woman a few years younger than Jamie was lying on her back on a large sheet of brown kraft paper, which she’d spread out on the floor. She was naked and appeared to be trying to trace around herself with a stick of charcoal. Big-breasted and very tan, she had long blond dreadlocks and a dark pubic ruff. Her clothes hung on a paint-splattered chair. She had at least two brightly colored tattoos that Coffin could see: a blue fish on her deltoid muscle and a green sea horse on her lower belly. Coffin wondered if there were others, and what colors they might be. The bottoms of her feet were very dirty. She was, Coffin thought, an extraordinarily attractive woman.

  Coffin stopped peeking and knocked. “Hello?” he said. “Sorry—don’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Just a minute!” the woman said. “Who is it?”

  Coffin heard the rattling of kraft paper, imagined it sticking a little to the soles of her feet as she stepped into her jeans. “Frank Coffin,” he said. “Rudy’s nephew.”

  “Well, well,” she said, pulling the door open, offering Coffin a charcoal-smeared hand. “Gemma Skolnick. To what do I owe this honor?” She’d pulled on jeans and a black Mötley Crüe T-shirt.

  “I’ve lost an uncle,” Coffin said, shaking her hand. Her grip was strong, her fingers almost as sandpapery as a cat’s tongue. “I need to find him ASAP. Any idea where he might be?”

  Gemma shrugged. She wore hardly any makeup. “He might still be at my place,” she said. “He was when I left—snoring away. You boys were out late last night, I guess.”

  “He told you we were together?”

  “Mm-hm. Said you were at the Old Colony, whooping it up. I didn’t believe him.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “You’ve been in the OC, right?”

  Coffin nodded.

  “So you know how it smells.”