Mel Odom - Blood Lines

“Hey, preacher,” an older woman with frosted hair said as she walked up to him. “If you’re here on business, we don’t want any. You got your shop, and I got mine. And looks like you done chased off some of my customers.”

“Well, Katie,” Don said with a smile, “chasing your customers off wasn’t my intention.”

The woman’s severe face relaxed a little. She tossed her bar towel over one shoulder and put her hands on her hips. She even offered a smile.

“It ain’t your fault, Pastor McHenry,” Katie said. “I get too many Protestants in here and not enough Catholics. At least Catholics ain’t afraid to drink in front of the priest. Why, I’ve even seen nights Father Bill bought a round for the house when he became an uncle or he’d shot a good game of golf.” She winked at him. “Of course, Father Bill always waited till there weren’t very many people in here at the time.”

“You know I don’t preach that consuming alcohol is a sin when it’s used in moderation.”

“You just scared out the backsliders, is all. And maybe a few of them who was here with people they oughtn’t have been here with. But I guess you know that.”

“I wasn’t taking names.”

“You never do.” Katie looked at him a little more tenderly. “I suppose you’re here to see your daddy.”

Don nodded. “I am if he’s here.”

“He is. He’s in the back. In the TV room.” Katie looked a little sympathetic as she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You know the way.”

“I do. Thanks.” Don headed for the back of the tavern. His steps rang against the hardwood floor. It sometimes amazed him how solid and big that tavern sounded and how much his footsteps sounded like they did when he was alone in church before service started. The sound seemed right, though, since the tavern and the church were both places people took their troubles when they got too big for them.

“Can I bring you anything?” Katie asked.

“A vanilla Diet Coke, please.” The tavern kept a range of flavorings to add to soft drinks. Don had drunk his first vanilla Coke in the tavern as a boy and still liked one on the rare occasions he was there.

“I’ll bring it on back,” Katie promised.

›› 1632 Hours (Central Time Zone)

When Don was growing up, everyone in the neighborhood who owned a TV called their living room the TV room.

Television reception hadn’t been very good in rural Texas for a long time-still wasn’t in some areas. There wasn’t much air-conditioning back then either; installing units was too expensive, and the wiring was problematic. Relaxation had come on shaded porches at the end of the day when the work was done. Most people enjoyed the radio, and Don remembered neighbors sitting around on porches on cool evenings listening to baseball games together. Church had often been held under tents too.

Those were the things Don remembered most about his childhood, and they were the things he kept with him when he’d grown up. He liked to keep things simple. Unfortunately, in the hurry-up world that was forced onto young minds-and maybe not-so-young minds as well-through television and the Internet, simplicity was all but lost these days.

When personal satellite dishes had come along, families had started investing in televisions. The TV became a status symbol of sorts, and so they started calling living rooms the TV room the way that empty nesters started calling their children’s rooms the hobby room.

The Four-Mile Tavern had been one of the first to put TVs in for public viewing in the 1960s. Boxing, NASCAR racing, baseball, and horse races had all been big. And the patrons of the Four-Mile often placed wagers on those events. Gambling was illegal in Texas, but back then the laws had been hazy, and the sheriff and his men had turned a blind eye to anything that didn’t involve cards, dice, and roulette. As long as nobody reached for a weapon.

Coupled with beer, air-conditioning, and TV, the tavern had become a booming local enterprise. Some of that success was mired in blood, though. Fights broke out over bets, over women, and over perceived slights. In rural Texas, fights were settled with fists, tire irons, and-occasionally-guns. It had helped that the local sheriff’s deputies usually did their drinking there too.

When Don led church retreats in large metropolitan areas, other pastors he met had trouble understanding everything he faced while shepherding his flock. But to be fair, he didn’t quite understand the problems those city preachers dealt with either. Of course, there was more about gang violence in the news than there was about rural feuds and murders.

Don chose to believe that God gave each of his teachers their own burdens to carry. He also believed that God gave them each the strength and tools to deal with those burdens.

All things considered, Don loved living in Fort Davis, keeping church there, and raising his sons and daughter on the baseball and softball fields. He’d been to the big cities and hadn’t seen anything there that he couldn’t live without.

Shel, on the other hand, seemed bound and determined to see the whole world.

Not see the world, Don amended. Just get off the ranch and stay away.

During his service as a youth minister, as choir leader, and finally as preacher of The Blessed Word Church in Fort Davis, Don had handled everything God had ever put before him to do. By all counts, he’d been successful doing God’s work, and he gave thanks every day that he could make a difference.

But there was one man whose heart Don felt he’d never touched the way God would want it touched. Don had failed time and again, but through God’s grace he had never given up.

And maybe, Don sometimes thought, hoping that he wasn’t being irreverent, I haven’t given up because of that stubbornness I got from Daddy. Maybe his own bloodline will be the end of his reluctance about accepting God.

Tyrel McHenry, his daddy, was the most stubborn man Don had ever met. And Don was there tonight to make another stab at getting through to the man.

›› Tawny Kitty’s Bar and Grill

›› South End

›› Charlotte, North Carolina

›› 1737 Hours

“Don’t know why you feel you gotta come on all hard and everything, Victor. We’re all friends here.”

Gazing across the table at Thumper, Victor knew that the man had been in tight places before. He knew how to handle himself. Not just with guns and fists, but with words and emotions as well. He didn’t panic at the first sign of trouble.

That was good and it was bad. The fact that he’d weathered the initial blast meant he had backbone. Now it remained to be seen if he had any brains.

“You don’t like it, maybe you should leave.” Victor kept his voice flat and neutral.

Wraparound shades kept Thumper’s eyes hidden, but Victor knew the man was assessing and reassessing the situation in seconds. The first thing Thumper had to be worried about was how much danger he was in.

Guys that went deep undercover knew from the moment that choice was made that they didn’t have a friend left to them in the world. If they were found out by the gang or organization they were infiltrating, they were dead. If they turned dirty while they were under, unless they had really good evidence to the contrary, they were incarcerated with the same people they had started out trying to lock down. If they forgot for a moment where their loyalty-and ultimately their safety-lay, their lives were worth less than nothing.

Thinking about the situation an undercover agent would find himself in, Victor reflected that it wasn’t far removed from looking for Charlie in the bush. It took nerves of steel to play the game.

Or drugs to mute the fear.