BLOODLINES: The Juice Chronicles

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Dak woke at 7:10. Unbroken sleep. Dreamless. Sheets still cool. He lay there an extra minute. Probably late for something.

He shuffled toward the bathroom and caught himself in the mirror. Hair like a crow had nested in it. Eyes the color of old bruises.

In the kitchen, he went for the coffee maker and didn’t see the puddle until his sock hit it. His foot shot out from under him, arms wide, and he caught the counter with one hand while the other caught the Arby’s bag and sent it sailing across the room. He landed on his back with an audible thump.

The soda cup came down a second later. Warm liquid poured over his chest and spread.

He lay there. Soda dripped off his elbow. His T-shirt clung. Soda soaked through.

Sonuvabitch!

A knock at the front door.

Oh for God’s sake!

Jerry Roberts peered through the glass with the expression of a man who had already decided to be entertained.

Dak opened the door. “Floppy. What brings you by at this hour?”

“I need an invite?”

“Never, man. You work graveyard at the plant?”

“Yeah. Just heading home. Saw your car.” Jerry stepped inside and looked him over. “You look like hell, by the way. Pee your pants?”

“No. But I think I broke my ass bone.”

Jerry’s mouth quirked. His eyes moved through the kitchen and settled on the mantel. The Arby’s bag sat nested among the family photos. “That a new design thing?”

“Very avant-garde.”

“Very something.” Jerry chuckled. “I’ve known your mom since we were kids. If she knew you had a tomato slice draped over her face, she’d whoop your ass.”

“Hardy-har-har.”

They settled into it. Jerry’s expression shifted when the small talk ran out. “You hear about the animals?”

“Some of it. Ran into Vickey at Walmart.”

“It’s not weird-weird. It’s weird as shit.” Jerry kept his voice even, but he meant it. “Something’s going after livestock. Not killing them. Hurting them. Leaving them stunned. They just stand there.”

Dak turned that over. “I’ll keep an ear out. I don’t have cattle, so I don’t have skin in it. But something doesn’t add up.”

“Anything to eat?”

Dak tossed him a banana. “How’s your wife?”

“Okay, I guess.” Jerry took a bite and kept talking with his cheek full. “She’s got two horses in the corral above the house. Not cows, but she’s worried about them.”

“I’ll ask around,” Dak said. “Maybe see if Joe Hood has an idea what’s going on.”

“Let me know what he says. I gotta go. Shelly’s expecting me for breakfast.” Jerry moved toward the door. He glanced at the mantel again. Photos splattered with cheese and lettuce. “Try not to hurt yourself before lunch.”

“Funny.”

“See ya, Dak.”

“Hey, hang on, Floppy,” Dak said. “I meant to talk to you about something else. Call me later?”

“Sure thing.” Jerry closed the door behind him.

Dak stood in his damp socks in the wreckage of his morning and made a mental note to clean the mantel before anyone else saw it.

* * *

Gordon Kent was on the porch with a paintbrush when Dak pulled up. The old Victorian looked immaculate. It always did. Gordon had been painting it since Dak was twelve.

“Hey, Dad.”

Gordon glanced over. “Son.” Then back to the shutter.

“Just checking in.” Dak stepped onto the porch. “Place looks great.”

“It needs to,” Gordon said. “If we’re going to get the right price.”

Dak let that sit. “I’ve been thinking about consolidating my businesses. Maybe dumping one or two. Streamline a bit. Bringing Jerry on to help manage things.”

Gordon set the brush down and looked at him. That look. “Jerry. The guy you call Floppy.”

“He’s reliable. He knows the work.”

“So do you.” Gordon picked the brush back up. “Work smarter, not harder.”

The pressure settled behind Dak’s sternum. “I am building something.”

Gordon’s features softened. Enough to make the next part land easier. “I know you’re trying, son. Be more strategic about it.”

“I thought I was. If I streamline, I can make better use of my time. Less travel.”

“Big plans. Got a buyer?”

“Well, no. Not yet. I’m just getting started.”

Gordon looked at him. “You’ve been getting started for as long as I’ve known you.”

“And you’ve been saying cheesy things like work smarter, not harder for as long as I can remember.”

“I’m not wrong.” He started painting again.

“Sorry.” Dak shifted his weight. “Things are tight. I’m stretched thin and I’m trying to fix it.”

“Figured we’d get around to the money eventually. How much do you need, son?”

“No, Dad.” Dak shifted his weight. “I don’t need money. Well, I mean… I do. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m serious. I’m gonna make some changes.”

“Yeah,” Gordon said. “That’s what you said the last two times I loaned you money.”

“Dad.”

“What are we up to? Almost ninety grand?”

“I’m making payments.”

“Mmhmm.”

Dak looked around the yard. The neighborhood. Anything but his father.

He walked toward his car. Behind him, Gordon said, “Remember tonight. Dinner. Wear a clean shirt and comb your hair.”

* * *

The headache had been building since the cafe. By the time he reached Parker Drugs, it was pressing behind his left eye. He bought a small bottle of acetaminophen, shook two into his palm and swallowed them dry.

Damn headaches.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, Dak was back at the office, worn down and short on anything to show for it. The sky over Murphy had gone flat and gray.

Patty was at her desk with a sandwich in one hand and a book in the other. Dak clocked the cover art on his way past. A paperback with a shadowed figure on the front.

“Light reading?”

She didn’t look up. “Don’t knock it.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” He dropped into his chair. “Anything urgent while I was out?”

“You’ve got a bank call at three. And your mom called.”

“About?”

“Dinner. She said plans changed. You’re meeting the Westlands for pie and coffee.” She marked her page and looked at him. “You okay? You look tired.”

“I look tired every Wednesday.”

“You look more tired than that.”

He let it go.

The afternoon ground through minor tasks. He took the three o’clock call and wrapped it fast. The request for a line of credit had been declined. Disappointing, not surprising.

Before heading out, he swung by The Hut. A Bud Light and a Meat-Lover’s pizza, eaten alone. Pie and coffee wasn’t supper. Pizza fixed that.

The drive to Hanging Dog took fifteen minutes. Pulling into the Kent driveway, Dak suddenly regretted not ordering a second beer.

Gordon was standing next to their Ford Explorer. Ann Kent was climbing into the passenger side, already waving before she pulled the door shut.

“Follow us,” Gordon called. “Two minutes down the road.”

The Explorer had a strict no-smoking policy. Dak took his Impala.

* * *

The Westlands’ estate came into view after a long approach road, and Dak slowed without meaning to.

The automatic gates opened on a gravel drive that wound through lawns that looked less maintained than deliberately composed. Old trees. Long shadows. Grass that looked like nobody was supposed to walk on it. The house at the end of it was stone and dark timber, tall windows going dark with the fading light. Climbing ivy up the upper facade. Old and deliberate.

His parents disappeared inside.

Dak sat in the Impala and took it in.

His phone buzzed. Jerry.

“I’m heading to work at the plant, Dak. But you told me to call you.”

“Hey, buddy.” Dak kept his voice easy. “Glad you called. I want to streamline some things. Cut through some of the clutter. Was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“Not sure how much help I could be. But it sounds interesting.”

“Come by the office in the morning. I’ll lay out the specifics.”

He’d just ended the call when the phone buzzed again. Kevin Chang.

“Dude. You gotta hear this.” Chang’s voice was a pitch higher than usual. “This is like… okay, this is major league. I stumbled onto something. Big. Like, real big. But it’s not phone stuff, you feel me?”

Dak pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the mansion’s front doors. “Kevin. Slow down.”

“I’m talking plutonium-level discovery. Accidental-genius stuff. You don’t wanna sit on this, Dakster. I’m serious.”

“I’m at a social thing with my parents. Can it wait until morning?”

“Bro, this is… okay, yeah. Morning. But prepare yourself. I just shit a golden egg. Like, a big round shiny bitch.”

“Wait. What?” Dak lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

“Golden egg, Boss Dude. You know, like… I hit the jackpot. All the bells are dingin’ and lights are flashing. Holy shit, Batman!”

“For Christ’s sake, Kevin. In English.”

“Rich, dude. I just made you rich.”

Dak’s throat closed.

Rich.

“I’ve got an early meeting,” he said. “After that, a two-hour drive to Atlanta, I’ll try to get there by lunchtime.”

“Sweet. Boss dude coming down. You owe me, Dak. You owe me big time.”

Chang hung up. Dak stared at his phone.

Rich.

He walked to the front door and lifted the knocker.

An elderly man opened the door opened. Slight, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt with a black bow tie, eyes fixed on the floor, and posture bent. He held the door open and said nothing.

Dak stood in the threshold.

“Mister Westland?”