Bad Blood

by Hugh Dutton

  Older dude, forties anyway, round-shouldered and balding. Looked more like a dentist or something, which made sense, this being a medical office. Plus that hilarious Sanasabelt and penny-loafer outfit, so relax. And shit, see there, the guy parked here because it was the closest row to that private entrance Nick hadn’t noticed.

  You’re some kind of jittery, like way wound up, he told himself as he turned the music down, eased the Porsche into gear, and drifted over to a far corner of the lot. But hey, that’s why you’re here, to get a little bump to smooth out your nerves. And it’s not just your jonesing that’s got you all paranoid and shit. If only the old man would give him a damn break. Okay, so the Porsche insurance jumped eight hundred bucks from one lousy speeding ticket. Why chew his ass, a thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit on a four-lane was a revenue scam anyway. The insurance geeks using it as a way to score a rip-off was no more his fault than any of the other bullshit Pops always blamed on him. Getting suspended from high school for spying into the girls’ locker room when other dudes did it too, or burning his baby sister with that sparkler when he was seven because she was the one who ran into it, or even the crazy bimbo in Pensacola claiming she hadn’t already offered him some of that cooch, just on and on. It seemed like he was always talking to Pops through Plexiglas, the man couldn’t hear a good word no matter what Nick tried.

  He rolled both windows all the way down, hoping for a cross-breeze. Had to be a hundred and ten degrees on the pavement. A parking lot was a stupid-ass place to buy blow at six in the evening, but this new dealer insisted on it when Nick called. His regular connection, Cameron, made it easy, lived right there in the Point. But he was gone off on vacation, believe it or not, and swore this dude Jericho was the right hook-up. Nick had never pictured dealers going on vacation like other people. And what kind of name is Jericho, anyway?

  He leaned down to check out his twitching left eyelid in the side mirror and his cell phone rang. He flinched again, banging his head on the doorframe. Ow, damn it. He fumbled the thing twice trying to pick it up with shaking fingers, finally got it, and peered at the screen. Not a familiar number, so maybe the man with the goods.

  “Hey.” Nick recognized the voice of Jericho. “I’m right behind you. I’m gonna walk up to your window.”

  “All right.” Nick punched off and squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable at the prospect of being trapped at the knee level of a man he’d never met, let alone bought shit from.

  The guy who eased up to his window and stooped to face him would have been a totally normal-looking dude except for all the hair. A huge mane of curls swung down around his head as he bent, mingling with a full beard that Nick figured would reach chest level even when the man stood. It was like having a damn Wookie stick his head in the car, only without the fangs, just two little brown eyes stuck in the middle of all the fur. Maybe that was why the name Jericho. Definitely some biblical-looking hair, for sure.

  “I’m Jericho,” the guy confirmed. He handed Nick a road map and squatted beside the car, at eye level. “You use this to point out directions and get busy explaining all about how to get where I’m going.”

  “Huh?” For a moment Nick felt as if he had stepped into someone else’s movie. “Oh, I get it. In case we’re watched.”

  Jericho just stared at Nick with a “how stupid can you get” expression, and pointed at the map. Pissed Nick off, but he unfolded the map and gestured at it with his finger. That felt stupid, too. “How come the broad daylight if you’re so into the James Bond scene?”

  “Two dudes hanging out in a parking lot in the middle of the night? Po-lice man can smell that in his sleep, get outta bed, and show up down here in his pajamas,” Jericho said, as he held up a fist clutching a wad of plastic wrap that had, Nick hoped, coke in it. “You want five, right?”

  “Yeah.” Nick felt a surge of excitement just at the thought of it. “Gotta get through a whole ’nother week before Cameron’s back.” Then he felt like a chump for explaining his needs to this guy and added, “You’re lucky I answered the phone. That’s a different number than before.”

  “And it always will be.” Jericho paused, suspicion growing in his eyes. He shook his head, and it ebbed, replaced by the, “oh, you’re stupid” look again. Pissed Nick off again, too. But the guy had the blow, so chill.

  “Then how do I get you if I need you?” Nick asked, picturing Cameron in some plane crash or shit, and getting all panicky about being on a permanent jones.

  “Call the same number you did before and I’ll call back again. You got something for me?”

  Nick passed him the money, folded twice in a paperclip the way Cameron always wanted it. Still curious, he asked, “Well, if you keep using that number, won’t they know my number and tap it for your callback?”

  “Nope. My landline keeps up with my call history and I never answer a number that’s ever called before.”

  A prowl car siren whooped nearby, scattering birds from the scraggly trees bordering the blacktop, right as another car careened into the lot. Panic cramps convulsed through Nick’s body, his mind galloping away with the impulse to blast out of there and leave Jericho holding the coke. The car, a green Ford Taurus, completed its circle and exited in the opposite direction from where it came. A turnaround. He glanced down to see if he had whizzed his pants, then back up to see Jericho grinning at him.

  “Easy, dude,” he said around the grin. “Gotta be at least a block away.”

  “Yeah, but don’t we need to, like, get the hell outta here?” Nick squeezed from his strangled lungs, wondering why Jericho’s serene cool made him want to choke the living shit out of the guy.

  Jericho reached in with his free hand and grabbed the steering wheel. “Law want us, he wouldn’t be making all that racket, we’d be kissing concrete already. But you go screeching off, you’ll change his mind. Chill for a minute.”

  Nick wrinkled his nose at the grime-ridged fingernails clutching the wheel of his ninety-grand ride, but nodded his agreement. Dude sounded so sure, it felt like getting the word straight from the police chief or something.

  “Okay, cool.” Jericho nodded and withdrew his hand. “So anyway, if you want me, best use a different phone so I’ll call back. Makes it pretty tough for Johnny Law to get wired fast enough. Maybe they’ll triangle me one day, but I like my odds.” He shrugged fatalistically and dropped the plastic package over the side of the door while pointing at the map. He twirled his cell phone by its antenna in his other hand. “You’ll never know the callback number, either. Never use one of those puppies more than a day or two. You need a taste before I split?”

  Nick wanted to in the worst way, not sure he trusted Jericho. But the weight felt right and he just had to come out on top of at least one exchange with this guy. So he fell back on the superior indifference of the rich. “Nah, I’m sure it’s okay if you offered. Ain’t like it’s enough money to worry about.”

  “Suit yourself.” Jericho stood back up and began folding his map. “ ’Til next time then.” He disappeared the way he came.

  Nick checked the rearview to be sure Jericho was out of sight and then ripped into the plastic wrap with greedy fingers. Inside was a baggie full of the white dust that always set him free. To hell with the cops, he could outrun them if he had to. He dug out from his pocket the little spoon, a gift from Cameron, who had said, “Dude like you, born to the silver spoon, a silver spoon is what you need to use.” Nick scooped and inhaled, waiting for that all-powerful feeling of invincibility to take over.

  As he cruised back toward home, mindful of the speed limit and the felony-sized coke bag in his car, the familiar rush of happiness blew through his veins and started him thinking that tonight would be a great night to look in on some of his bathing beauties. Last night’s prowl got cut short by that nosy bitch neighbor spotting him, leaving him still hungry.

  He had no idea why watching an unaware woman washing herself was so hot to him, but he preferred it to the hassle of trying
to get laid. Seemed like spending time and cash on some cow in hopes of getting some leg was a low-percentage game, and didn’t even feel as intimate as watching a woman who thought she was alone, especially one in the shower. Now and then he would lose it, have to bust on in and get off, but mostly just the watching. And he didn’t worry about hearing yes or no. He knew that most of them, if not all, imagined someone like him watching and it made them feel all sexy rubbing their soapy hands up and down their bodies. He knew it, he just knew it. So it was already like sex, both of you imagining what you’d do to the other.

  Besides, he couldn’t face the idea of going home to the old man’s droopy-ass face, the sad-sack look that said he wondered what the hell Nick had done wrong now. At least to Mama he was still darling Nicky and always would be. But that wasn’t enough to overcome being around Pops. They would probably all be better off if the man croaked, but Nick wasn’t sure he was ready to contemplate the idea of life without the old fart around. At least not until he found a way to get respect from the man, some acknowledgment or recognition, maybe even just a lousy pat on the back.

  Aah, forget it, feeling too good now to think about that crap. Freak he might be, but Jericho’s junk sure packed a kick. Sundown soon, almost time to go creep Ginny Oslund’s house. See if she was done with yoga and ready for a shower. Oh sweet bitch, when that girl arched over to dry her legs, what a shot. And always right across from the window. That ain’t no accident. He cranked up the music and kicked the Porsche a little, figuring he could get away with ten over the speed limit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brady Spain hit the office early Monday, anxious to get his move arranged without blowing off work. Never mind that he couldn’t think of anything except the fantasy life about to become his; a three-week employee pushing for promotion best not go off playing hooky. Though after two near-sleepless nights and driving out to Heron Point three times on Sunday to look at his new home, he’d be ready for a straitjacket if it didn’t happen today.

  He’d packed his few possessions the day before, but utilities had yet to be arranged and something done for furniture. By late morning he did get the electricity hooked up over the phone after authorizing a credit check, though the water company insisted he come in person. That burned his lunch hour, and even worse, he had to pony up a hundred and fifty bucks for a deposit. He recalculated his checkbook balance twice to be sure he could cover it. The old piggy bank had dwindled down to loose change after the monster he’d written Lexy.

  The cold-fish little accountant gnome who lived in one corner of his brain kept reminding him that an apartment might’ve been a smarter choice, but damn it, he could do that in Sanford. And forget any idea of Mom being happy giving up both her little house and her gardening. Not going to happen. Besides, he had the salary to afford his new place if he could just get through all the transition expenses.

  He took a pause from the miserable, ancient computer he was grappling with to glance at his watch. Of all days, one of the Stone Age front-desk PCs had chosen today to collapse under the weight of the network Brady was building. The new hardware he had on order hadn’t arrived yet. So he had taken his office machine out to the resort for the meantime, and was now mired in coaxing the files they needed to retain from the dying hard drive on this one.

  A shadow slid across the PC screen, and he looked up to see Ed Schlatt, his boss, leaning into the doorway. Ed was a poster child for the business dork look, from his Clark Kent specs down to his lace-up wingtips, but a pretty nice guy to work for. “Yes sir, what’s up?”

  “Why don’t you get out of here a little early?” Ed said, jerking his head in the general direction of the front entrance. He tapped out a little drum roll with the fingers he had wrapped around the doorjamb. “Get started on your move before the traffic hits.”

  “Thanks, boss.” A surge of contentment enveloped him, a sense of being in the right place, wanted and accepted. Even if Ed was just eager to lose a nonrevenue houseguest it still felt good. “Believe I’ll take you up on that, if I can finish recapturing these files.” He rapped a knuckle on the time-grimed keyboard. “ ’Fraid once I shut her down, they’ll be gone for good.”

  Ed twitched his nose with the dismissive air of the guy who knows more than everyone else. “Don’t worry, we’ve got backup discs. Company policy, every week.”

  Well, that was smug enough to make this little nugget fun to share. Brady rotated his chair and leaned back in it to make eye contact without twisting his neck. “Yes sir, I understand that. But this is exactly why we’re moving to cloud storage as soon as we can, plus a redundant external drive; because so far no one can find the discs, and this thing doesn’t have long to live. Thought we’d better save everything we can, just in case.”

  Ed stared at him for a beat, then closed his eyes and let go of one of those suffering sighs only management types can perfect. He popped his eyes back open and did another fingertip rat-a-tat on the jamb. “Sounds like I need to do some records accounting at the other properties before this happens again.” He pushed away from the doorframe. “Glad you’re on the job, Brady.”

  He started down the hall and then stopped and turned back. “You don’t like giving up on anything, do you?”

  “Well, no.” Brady grinned at him, still basking in the praise of a moment before. “Let me know if I get carried away and it’s a problem.”

  “Oh no, it’s a good trait in business.” He smiled back and flapped a hand. “Anything I can do for you, then?”

  Brady wanted to say, since you mention it, let’s talk about my future in this business, but now was too soon and he had more immediate concerns anyway. As in furniture, and Ed should be knowledgeable on that. “Do you know the best place to go for household stuff around here, especially like a bed?”

  “That’s right, you said you were starting from the ground up, didn’t you?” Ed strode into Brady’s office, leaned across the desk, and snatched up the telephone. He paused with the handset halfway to his ear and said, “I think I can do you one better than that. Do you want just new or does slightly used work for you?”

  Brady scooted his chair back as far as was possible in his closet-sized cubicle to make room, not sure what all he had just set in motion here. “Anything in good shape suits me, and saving money sure won’t hurt my feelings,” he said cautiously. He watched Ed punch in a four-digit code unfamiliar to him and listened to Ed’s side of the call.

  “Dorinda? Ed Schlatt here. Have you finished rotating out the mattresses? . . .

  “Are they still there in the storage room? . . .

  “Thanks, keep them there until tomorrow, okay? . . .

  “All right, have a good evening.” He cradled the receiver and turned to Brady. “Right there where you’re staying, Duneside. Glad you asked, or I’d’ve never thought of it. Look them over, find one you like, and take it. They’re all going to charity anyway.”

  Brady felt his eyes widen and wondered if he was goggling. How lucky could a guy with a two-digit bank account get? Then his exhilaration got cut short by the sudden insight that scoring freebies off the company might not fit the image he wanted. He still carried some scar tissue from his bartending gig in college, which had ended rudely when he got canned for drinking a free beer at shift end. Ironic too, because it was the night manager’s little tradition, giving the whole crew a round on the house. How was Brady to know it was verboten? But when the liquor count started showing up short, the classic red flag of a skimming bartender, the owner learned of that tradition and bounced the manager on the theory of a thief is a thief. And fired the entire shift with him.

  He shook his head at the memory of how stunned he’d felt when the bar owner dropped the axe. Brady wasn’t going to lose his shot at management from the same mistake.

  “Quite all right if you aren’t interested,” Ed said, apparently misinterpreting Brady’s headshake. He rapped his knuckles on the desktop and put on one of those rubber smiles that were more of a
face stretch than an expression. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “No, no, it’s not that.” Brady got to his feet, beginning to feel that he looked like the stereotypical slacker techie, all kicked back in his chair in front of the general manager. “If it’s like the one in my room, I’m in love with the way it sleeps. I just don’t want the company to lose anything on me. I’d rather pay something for it, at least the tax write-off you’d lose if nothing else.” Great going, mister bigmouth, with what money? Unless . . . “Maybe deduct whatever that is from my payroll account?”

  “There’s no need, but if that’s how you want to do it, fine,” Ed said, his eyes inscrutable through the shrinking effect of his glasses. “Hundred bucks sound fair?”

  “More than. I really appreciate this, sir.” Best deal he’d ever gotten on a mattress and possibly the smartest hundred bucks he’d ever spent. He leaned across the desk and thrust out his hand.

  Ed took the hand, a hint of glitter showing now in the micro-sized eyes, though still unreadable to Brady. “Good, then. You can take their pickup truck to move it if you like.” His head turned to the wall clock and back. “Maintenance won’t be using it at this hour. Now finish up so you can get out of here.”

  Brady flopped back into his chair after Ed vanished down the hallway, hoping he had played it right. The guy was more perceptive than he looked, because he couldn’t have picked up on Brady’s stubborn streak just from today’s computer fiasco. Had to be a trend he’d noticed, despite the practiced easygoing demeanor that usually kept Brady’s iron-headed side well hidden. He had no answer to why his obstinacy toward conceding defeat at anything should feel so personal that he had this compulsive need to camouflage it. He just knew he felt exposed and vulnerable if anyone noticed how much it mattered to him to never quit, never give in. Maybe because of the humiliating way it became a mantra for him, fifteen years ago.