Winter Tides by James P. Blaylock

too many questions about another man’s business, it becomes your business, and pretty soon you’re wading through mud and you don’t have any galoshes. And besides, there were lots of ungrateful sons out there, and lots of fathers who boozed it up.
    There was a knock on the door now, and whoever was standing outside leaned hard enough against it that the dead bolt clanked against the frame. Ray got up and looked out past the curtain. When he saw it was Dalton, he unlocked the door and let him in. “Take a seat,” he said, motioning at one of the two office chairs opposite the desk.
    Dalton looked far too fresh and pressed for this early in the morning, and the sight of him made Ray feel even more tired than he already felt. He also felt powerless, dressed in yesterday’s limp shirt and a pair of slacks that should have gone to the cleaners last week. Dalton wore a suit and tie, and his shirt had a monogram on the pocket, a stylized D. He wore his clothes easily, too, as if he was born to model shirts. He was slightly taller than Ray, who was five-ten, and he had a medium build. There was a lot about him that was medium—a lot of restraint, a magazine image. He looked a little like Frank Sinatra in his prime, but with wavier hair and a tan that must have come out of a tanning salon, given the time of the year. Women probably found him handsome.
    Ray rubbed the top of his head and sat down heavily in his own chair. “Cup of coffee?”
    “No, thanks. I don’t drink coffee.”
    “My coffee’s no good anyway,” Ray said. “I usually chase it with Rolaids.”
    “Why do you drink it, then?” Dalton was apparently serious. He had no sense of humor at all, despite his smile.
    “Force of habit,” Ray said. “What have you got?”
    “Same as last time. Nothing complicated. This won’t be the last one, either.”
    “Where’s your father, out in the car?”
    Dalton shook his head. “He’s not too well, I’m afraid. I believe I mentioned that they were going to do bypass surgery on him?”
    “Yeah, I remember.”
    “Unfortunately they couldn’t, not in the shape he was in. So they put him on a diet and exercise regimen, which was completely worthless. He’s weaker than ever. You saw what he looked like last month.”
    Ray nodded. Last month the old man had looked like a street drunk wearing somebody else’s clothes.
    “I’m pretty sure that there’s something more wrong with him. His stomach problems get worse every day. He can’t eat. My guess is it’s cancer, but I’ll be damned if I want them to run the tests on him. What’s the use? If they find out it’s cancer, what are they going to do—chemo therapy? Not in the shape he’s in. I’m just trying to keep him comfortable now. He might hang on six months, or he might go tomorrow.”
    “He’s insured?”
    “With Kaiser Permanente.”
    Ray clicked his tongue.
    “They’ve taken good care of him. The HMO is the wave of the future. But when a man’s dying of heart disease, cancer doesn’t interest him all that much. He’s got a big enough fight as it is.”
    “And that’s why he wants to get rid of these properties?”
    “That’s exactly it,” Dalton said. “He’s clearing the decks, I guess. It’s sad, but it’s practical.”
    “Well, it’s not all
that
practical. We’ve got a small problem.”
    “What’s that? I’ve got his signature here on the deed.”
    “Even so,” Ray said, “we need him, too.”
    “Well, we’re not going to get him. I’m not exaggerating about his condition. It would kill him to have to deal with this now. You’ve already met him. What’s the sudden interest in his personal appearance?”
    Ray held his hands out helplessly. His instincts had been right. There was a problem here. And now his instincts told him that it was a problem that was bigger than a hundred bucks.
    “It’s the law, Mr. Dalton.” The only thing to do for the moment was to stonewall him—shift the blame to the government.