For Whom the Minivan Rolls by JEFFREY COHEN

tuxedo, I’d have
sworn the next words from MacKenzie’s lips would have been, “so,
Mr. Bond. . .”
    Instead, Mahoney said, “I don’t suppose you’d sell
me some of these hybrids? I could use them in a flower bed in front
of my house.”
    MacKenzie smiled. “I do sell some on occasion, Mr.
Mahoney. But since I couldn’t help you gentlemen with information
tonight, and seeing how you drove all this way, you can have the
rose bush for nothing.”
    He walked us to the front door, and as the white
gravel crunched under our feet, we waved at MacKenzie like we would
to a favorite old uncle. I slumped into the passenger seat of “The
Trouble-Mobile” and consciously didn’t put on my seat belt.
Mahoney, using some coarse twine, bound together the skinny rose
bush and its enormous thorns, placed them in the back of the van,
and secured them between a couple of 10-gallon drums of oil.
    “What’s your problem?” Mahoney asked as he barely
coaxed the van into ignition. I hoped the company’s rental cars ran
better than this vehicle, but then again, if they did, the company
might not need a chief troubleshooter.
    “What do you think is my problem? The only
halfway decent lead I had turns out to be another dead end.” If
you’re going to whine like a high schooler, it’s best to do it in
the company of someone who knew you when it was age-appropriate for
you to do so. Mahoney grinned.
    “I’ve got just the thing for you,” he said, and
pulled out an eight-track tape from a box under his seat. He
slammed it home.
    Billy Joel. “Turnstiles.”

Chapter 16
    At midnight, after thirteen choruses of “All You
Want to Do Is Dance,” we arrived back at my house, and a yawning
Mahoney said his quick farewells without getting out of the van. A
couple of middle-aged guys who used to be able to greet the dawn
with bright eyes after a night out and about. It was sad, really. I
dragged my weary ass up the front steps.
    The lights were on in the living room, which was
unusual. I’d told Abby I’d be late, and that she shouldn’t wait up.
But even before I had the chance to open my newly installed screen
door, the steel door inside opened, and my wife, in a T-shirt and
sweatpants, stared me in the face, her eyes looking anything but
pleased.
    “So? What are we going to do?”
    Ah. Clearly, she was speaking in anagrams tonight,
and I’d have to decipher her meaning. I was up to “doot noigg”
(I’ve never been any good at anagrams) when she spoke again,
impatiently: “Well?”
    “Well, what? What are you talking about?”
    “You didn’t see it?” Abigail walked out
through the screen door and pointed at the sidewalk. My weary eyes
could barely focus.
    “See what?”
    “Honestly, you must have walked right over it.” She
walked to a spot on the sidewalk and pointed straight down.
Calculating how much the average mental institution cost per month,
I followed her.
    Something in very faint orange was scrawled on the
sidewalk. In the dark, with just the porch light on and after
having spent the night not finding anything I was looking for, I
had a hard time working myself into a lather over it. There were
two choices: I could pretend to get all bent out of shape so she’d
have company, or I could be honest and risk my wife’s wrath.
    I’m a good husband, but I was tired and
irritated.
    “So?”
    Abigail’s teeth clamped shut so tightly I was afraid
she’d drive the top ones up into her skull. Somehow, she still
managed to speak.
    “Well, if this doesn’t bother
you. . .”
    “Honey, I don’t even see what you’re talking
about.”
    “Take a better look.” Abby produced a small
flashlight from the back pocket of her sweats and pointed it at the
sidewalk.
    The orange blotches became a little clearer as I
knelt to follow her flashlight beam. And then I saw why Abby was so
upset.
    There on the sidewalk, in clear (however faded)
block letters were the words “FUCK ETHAN.”
    “Oh, shit.” I suppose you