Read Online Fire Season by Jon Loomis - Free Book Online

up in bed, scowling at her copy of What to Eat When You’re Expecting. “These people are Nazis. Brown rice and broccoli, my ass. Do you know what I want right now?”
    Coffin shook his head, retying his tie for the third time. “No idea. Banana split? Fried calamari?”
    â€œFried calamari at”—Jamie glanced at the clock on the bedside table—“seven twenty-three in the morning? Don’t be a goofball. I was thinking pork chops with onion rings. That banana split sounds pretty good, though.” She Frisbeed the fat book across the room; it flapped into the corner like a dying grouse.
    â€œExcellent choice,” Coffin said, frowning into the mirror as he untied the tie again. “Crap.”
    â€œTrouble?”
    â€œCan’t get the knot right. Too loose, too tight, too crooked.” Coffin slid a finger into his shirt collar and tugged. “Plus, this fucking collar is strangling me. Must’ve shrunk in the wash.”
    Jamie was sitting cross-legged in bed, chin resting on her elbows. “You know, Frank,” she said.
    â€œYou know, Frank,” Coffin said, after a long beat.
    â€œNever mind.”
    Coffin turned for a moment. She seemed stunningly beautiful—hazel eyes set wide, bed-tousled hair. Her face a bit rounder now, the cheekbones less pronounced. “No fair with the never minds,” he said. “Say what you think.”
    â€œWell…” Jamie paused.
    â€œOh, for Christ’s sake.”
    â€œI’m a little worried about your health. You’re going to be a dad, you know.”
    Coffin grimaced into the mirror. “You’re saying I’m getting fat.”
    â€œNot fat. Stout, maybe. Husky. It’s cute.”
    â€œHusky,” Coffin said, finally getting the knot right. He looked down: The inside end of the tie was three inches longer than the outside end. “Great.”
    Jamie stood, put her arms around him from behind. “See, now your feelings are hurt.”
    â€œNo,” Coffin said. “You’re right. I’m a little out of shape. I need more exercise.”
    â€œAnd a checkup,” Jamie said. “Cholesterol, the works. I’ll even make the appointment for you.”
    â€œHave you and Lola been conspiring?”
    Jamie kissed his ear, and Coffin felt goose bumps rise on the back of his neck.
    â€œI want you around for the long haul,” Jamie said. “You have to live to be eighty, at least.”
    Coffin caught one of her wrists, tasted the fine, pale skin where her pulse beat. “Good luck with that,” he said. “No Coffin man has ever lived past seventy, as far as I know. We have a genetic disposition to drowning.”
    â€œBe the first.” Jamie slid a hand down to Coffin’s groin, gave his stiffening penis a squeeze through his uniform pants, then another. Then she stopped. “Uh-oh,” she said.
    Coffin caught her reflection in the mirror. She was wide-eyed, pale. “Uh-oh,” he said. “You okay?”
    Jamie bolted for the bathroom, slammed the door. Coffin could hear her retching, spitting. The toilet flushed. Water ran. She emerged a minute later, wiping her mouth on a hand towel. “It’s not you,” she said, meeting Coffin’s eyes. “You know that, right?”
    *   *   *
    The property tax assessor’s office was on the first floor of Town Hall; it had two narrow windows looking out toward Bradford Street and the Pilgrim Monument. The assessor was a tall, heavy black man named Marvin Jones. He wore a maroon sweater vest, pale blue Oxford shirt, khaki pants, and bifocals with tortoiseshell rims. He looked much too big for the small task chair parked in front of his desk.
    â€œIt’s 376 Bradford Street?” he said.
    â€œThat’s what it says on the mailbox,” Coffin said.
    â€œWhich unit?”
    â€œHow many are