DALTON'S LAST GIG

DALTON'S LAST GIG

It was a seven block walk from Dalton's motel room to the hospital. Seven blocks standing between himself and the man he was going to kill. Seven blocks from $100,000 cash. A nice chunk of change, especially for a man fresh out of prison with nothing but the clothes on his back and an old debt to settle.

He emerged from his motel room slowly and cautiously, casting sly glances in all directions. Outside, the sun was just closing up shop for the night, allowing dusk to choke out the streets before darkness could be unleashed upon them.

Seven blocks. As he started off North down Ohio Street, he realized he had that long to change his mind. But whenever he began to second guess, he quickly remembered the debt he owed to a man by the name of Jimmy Kowalski, one of the kingpins of the local Aryan Brotherhood chapter. He had been confronted by a few of he AB boys about this debt in the joint. Once at chow hall, when five guys resembling the offensive line of the New England Patriots had slapped him around a little bit as a reminder. He received an additional reminder a couple months later when he was shanked at morning yard. The blade caught him just below the ribs on his left side, and he had spent the night in the infirmary. But he had made it out of the gates alive and intact. Things could have been a lot worse. Especially behind the walls at Hutch which, along with Lansing, constituted the roughest prisons in the state.

He walked, hands stuffed into the side pockets of his motorcycle jacket, black prison boots clocking the pavement. It was mid-October now, and the weather was pleasant. Cool, but not cold. He unzipped his jacket, unveiling a white t-shirt stretched tautly across his massive chest. He could feel the muscles of his arms and legs, muscles built up from five year's dedication to weight training in the joint, bulging within the sleeves of his jacket and the legs of his prison-issue pants as he strutted his way North up the sidewalk. Two college age girls honked and smiled at him as they sped by in a red sedan. Dalton ignored them. He was all focus. Nothing existed for him now but the mission at hand. He was reputed for this laser-like focus. He was known as “Ice” in some circles, “Ace” in others, especially out East. In prison he went by Dalton, or sometimes just “D.”

He stopped briefly at the intersection of Pine and Ohio to light a cigarette. Felt along the lining of his right coat pocket. The prescription pill bottle was still there, safe and snug. The pills had been crushed down into a fine white powder, so they didn't rattle when he walked.

He lit up and took a deep, slow drag. Looked back at the dive he was holed up in. The “Roadway Inn.” The quintessential crack motel. Featuring round the clock fighting and fucking, perfectly audible through paper thin walls for your listening pleasure. Other amenities included non-stop action and drama, especially after dark, with the hookers and the hoodlums running in and out all night to do their dirt. He had spent up his gate money to afford a week's rent here. Miranda had given him a small down payment. Enough to run off and hide somewhere else for a while if he decided to back out of this. But then what? The AB boys knew he had been released from prison. Surely they were out looking for him. The clock was ticking. It was only a matter of time before they found him.

One hundred racks. Enough to pay off his debt and still have plenty left over to play with. So he pressed on. Kept his eyes open for adversaries. A .22 pistol was strapped around his ankle. It was Miranda's gun. Suddenly his pace slowed, as he began to reflect back. Miranda....

* * *

He had stopped by Miranda's house the day after his release from prison. The two of them had had an on-again-off-again relationship over the years, as lovers and as partners in crime. They had done dozens of jobs (Miranda called them gigs) together and exchanged dozens of roses. They had made money and lost money. Had fallen in love and fallen out of it. Five years wasn't long enough to forget about what they had once had.

Miranda had been in bad shape. Dalton had certainly seen the negative effects of addiction. Minds ate up from cheap street dope, bug dope, hot shots, or chasing one too many dragons. From twitching, stuttering crackheads and meth-heads to zombified duecies stuck perpetually in K2-land. He had seen many of his friends and partners, most of whom had had it made, lose everything as they slowly mentally and physically deteriorated. He had certainly had his own struggles at times, but had never allowed things to spin totally out of control.

But when Miranda had come to the door, he had barely recognized her. She looked thin and wasted, as if she had somehow aged twenty years in the five he was away. Her face was sunk in, her hair and complexion dull. Nevertheless, her eyes lit up when she saw it was Dalton at the door. She leaped into his arms, clinging tightly there as he hauled her inside before setting her down on the couch. They spent a few minutes catching up on all that had transpired over the last five years. And that was when Miranda told Dalton she wanted him to kill her brother.

“Are you nuts, Miranda?” Dalton said. “I ain't gonna help you kill your own brother. You got me fucked up.”

“Why not?” Miranda said, looking surprised. “He's a doctor, Dalton. That means he's rich.”

Dalton sighed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Miranda wanted her own brother killed so she could cash in on his will. Was she really that ate up?

“My brother is gay,” she continued. “He ain't married and he ain't got no kids. Our parents are dead, and I'm his only sibling. That means little sis is gonna inherit his bank account.”

“Hell, Miranda. I understand you're struggling, but why not just ask big brother for a loan? I mean, hell, he bought you this place didn't he?”

Miranda gave Dalton a sour look. “What happened to you, Dalton? You find Jesus in jail or what? I thought prison was supposed to harden you up, not make you soft. Especially doing time at Hutch. I hear it's like gladiator school over there.”

Dalton sighed. “It ain't about being hard, Miranda.”

That's when she reached her hand up his shirt and ran it across his chest. “No, you're definitely not soft, big boy. You're practically a superhero to me, Dalton. I'm surprised your ego fit through that door. I'm surprised you don't have your name embroidered on the back of that jacket you're wearing. DALTON, in big bold letters.” She smiled seductively then, kissed him softly on the lips. “Let's get rich, Dalton. Just you and me. Just do this one last gig for me....”

Five years behind bars. Five long years without a woman. Five years of pent up sexual aggression, unleashed all at once. He took care of her right there on the couch. When it was over he felt like a lion that had finally feasted after a long and frustrating fast. Shortly afterwards he conked out in Miranda's bed.

He awoke to the aroma of bacon and eggs frying. Miranda was hard at work in the kitchen. Shit, Dalton thought, I've slept all night. It wouldn't have surprised him, considering he hadn't slept a lick his last couple nights in the joint. But as it turned out, Miranda was simply cooking breakfast for dinner. She knew breakfast was Dalton's favorite, and that he was always up for it no matter when or where. So they sat down to pancakes, biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs. But it was a one man show. Dalton knocked off three plates while Miranda watched, an adoring sort of smile on her face.

After dinner they moved to the living room. Miranda had a bottle of vodka and Dalton made him up a couple screwdrivers. He thought about bringing up her lack of appetite and obvious weight loss, but decided to put that on the back burner. He knew it was drugs, he just hadn't put his finger on what flavors, how much, or how often. But he had his guesses. Instead, he turned his focus back to the business at hand.

“Tell me more about big brother,” he said, sitting down beside her with a fresh drink in his hand.

Miranda sighed. “What's there to tell? He's an ER physician, a surgeon. He's 35 years old and he's gay. You've met him before, Dalton. Don't you remember?”

Dalton paused for a moment, as if reflecting. “Refresh my memory.”

Miranda ran into her bedroom and returned with a photo album. Flipped through the pages. Showed Dalton some recent photos. Doctor Brady looked like a likable enough guy. Big brown eyes that looked full of charm and charisma. Neat hair, thick mustache. Big smile in every picture.

“He looks like a nice guy, Miranda.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Dalton.”

Dalton raised his eyebrows, said nothing.

“My brother's got some issues. Caught him a fucked up case recently. Indecent liberties. The boy was only thirteen.”

Dalton shook his head. “So that explains them big goofy glasses he wears. What are those, the latest edition Chomo 5000's?”

Miranda nodded. “Oh yeah. And this isn’t his first rodeo, either. Believe me when I tell ya, there are plenty of folks out there who would like to see him dead.”

His little sis included, Dalton noted.

“So you see,” she continued. “His death wouldn't come as a total shocker, believe me. And there would be plenty of directions you could point the finger.”

Dalton nodded. “Sounds good Miranda, but - “

“Look, Dalton,” Miranda snapped. “Are you gonna help me out or what? Or are you just gonna rot away at that sleazy motel downtown?”

Dalton motioned towards the bathroom. “Let me think about it in the shower. A nice hot shower always helps me think.”

Miranda nodded. “There's towels in the cabinet.”

It was in the bathroom that he got the idea. After closing the door behind him and getting the water running in the shower, he grabbed a fresh towel from the cabinet. Out of curiosity, he began nosing his way through the next cabinet. There he found, hidden behind an economy-size bottle of Tylenol and a box of band-aids, three bottles filled with sedatives. Two milligram Klonopins, which were small, white, and practically tasteless – yet quite potent. So Miranda had a benzo habit, among other things. And the prescription bottles were in her name, so she had been prescribed them at one time. The bottles were quite a bit past their expiration date, so presumably she kept fresh pills she bought off the streets in these bottles to cover her ass.

After taking a shower, Dalton emerged from the bathroom much more agreeable. After gathering some more information about her brother and the hospital where he worked, Dalton said he would help. Miranda agreed to pay him $5,000 up front. The other $95,000 would come when she collected on the will.

After leaving Miranda's he put most of the money in a safety deposit box at a nearby bank. As soon as the job was finished he would use some of the money to move to a nicer motel in a nicer part of town. Miranda had offered him a place to stay, but he had declined. He told her he didn't want to put her life in danger, what with the AB's prowling the streets for him. But the real reason was that he wanted to cut off any possible ties to Miranda Roberts.

The next step was acquiring the pills, the same ones Miranda had in her bathroom cabinet. It didn't take him long to locate some from one of his plugs. An autopsy would reveal a lethal dose of benzodiazepines in the doctor's bloodstream. The same benzodiazepines found in his sister's bathroom cabinet.

* * *

Three blocks to go. The hospital loomed in the distance. Suddenly he realized he had slowed his pace a notch. Cold feet? He thought back to his high school football days, when he had made starting full back for the junior varsity squad. The first game of the season he had been a bit timid, struggling to gain yardage early in the game. Randy Taylor, an old-school coach who wasn't going to sugarcoat anything, had told Dalton to stop “pussy footin' around and run the football.” Dalton had heeded the advice and soon after became a local gridiron star.

One block to go. No pussy footin' around now. He was locked in. It was all systems go for option A, which was to take care of the good doctor right there at the hospital in a neat and direct fashion. No violence, no bloodshed. Nice and clean. If that didn't work he would have to take more extreme measures. Break into his home and blow his brains out, for instance. Riskier, and a whole lot messier.

Back in the day, when he and Miranda were a little younger and a whole lot bolder, they had done some rather hard, violent crimes. For a while they had a gig going that put them in some precarious situations. They would hop in the car and travel to another city, some place where no one knew them, do their dirt there and come back. Usually they would get dressed up and go to a nightclub. Miranda would pick out some guy, the wealthier the better, and leave with him. Then Dalton would get in the car and follow them to the guy's house, parking a block or two down the street. Miranda would send him a text message when the man was naked and vulnerable. At that moment Dalton would kick in the door and rob him. Most of the time the victim would cooperate by coughing up the combination to the safe and whatever else they wanted. They would then leave the victim tied up while they made a clean getaway.

Then one time it got messy. Dalton had received the go-ahead text from Miranda, like usual. Had kicked in the door, engaged the victim. Only this time the victim didn't freeze. Instead he started running back into his bedroom, where Miranda was. Dalton had been wielding a Colt .44, a real showstopper. So he aimed low. The shot hit the man just above the knee, nearly severing his right leg. Miranda, who had been splattered with blood, began to freak out. It took a minute for her to calm down enough to help Dalton out. But eventually they dragged the victim into the bathroom and tied him up. There they got the guy to cough up the combination to the safe. In it Dalton found $3,000 and an ounce of cocaine. They also found the guy's guns, including a loaded AK-47 in the bedroom (which is what he had been running for when Dalton cut him down with the .44) . They also got the guy to give them the key to his Mercedes.

A big score, but it had been too much for Miranda, who told Dalton if he wanted to pull something like that again he'd have to “find some other dumb bitch.” Dalton had never found out what happened to the unfortunate victim, who they had left tied up in the bathroom, naked and bleeding. He figured it was about 50-50 whether the guy pulled through or not.

So now he would try and go the clean route. But either way, one thing was for sure, Dr. Brady was a dead man. And as Dalton stepped onto the hospital parking lot he felt the powerful feeling, albeit sinister, one gets when he holds another man's fate in his hands.

He walked to the far North side of the hospital, where the parking garage entrance was, as Miranda had suggested. Entering from the parking garage would allow him to head straight up to the floor he needed while being much less noticeable. Then he took the elevator up the eighth floor, where Doctor Brady's office and living quarters were, before entering the hospital proper. Walked South down the hallway till he spotted the vending machines. Just past the vending machines was a small lounge area with a TV, just as Miranda had said. This was the place to hang out and wait.

So he took a seat and made himself comfortable. There was a football game on the tube. The Denver Broncos were battling it out with the Kansas City Chiefs at Arrowhead. Nothing to do but sit and wait now. He acted sleepy, leaning on his left elbow, head in hand, yet keeping his eyes open for the surgeon.

An hour passed. Two. He watched the game go from the second quarter to the fourth quarter. Kansas City had just kicked a field goal and was up 17-10 heading into the two minute warning. His patience was growing extremely thin by the time the doctor finally came along. Miranda had told him about the protein shakes her brother purchased from the vending machines, downing them one after another throughout the day. And sure enough, Doctor Brady walked swiftly passed Dalton, headed straight for the vending machines. He looked just like he did in the pictures.

The vending machines stood back away from the hallway in a little cubby. The doctor disappeared back there. His sense of awareness amped up now, Dalton could hear everything. He heard the hum of dollar bills being inserted into the machine, the thud of the product being dispensed, and the clank-clank-clank of change being returned.

Now it was simply a matter of which flavor Brady had chosen. Dalton had examined the vending machines and had noted that the shakes came in three varieties – chocolate, vanilla, and banana. So as Brady emerged from the vending area and headed back the way he had came, Dalton carefully examined the doctor's cargo. Drum roll, folks.... And the winner is...banana.

After the doctor had made it passed the lounge, Dalton hurried over to the vending machines and purchased a banana shake. He popped the lid and downed about a quarter of it. Pulled out the crushed up sedatives, dumped the contents into the shake, replaced the lid, and shook it up. Put the shake in his left jacket pocket and the empty pull bottle back in his right. Hurried back out to the hallway, hoping Dr. Brady had remained in his sights.

As it turned out, the doc hadn't made it far at all. A colleague had stood him up just beyond the lounge, where the two were busy conversing. Dalton ducked quickly back into the safety of the lounge and sat back down. Pulled out his cell phone and busied himself with it, all the while keeping an eye on the doctor.

The conversation went on. Brady opened his shake and took a sip. He appeared to be growing impatient with the conversation, tapping his right foot incessantly. Tapping his foot like someone who needs to use the restroom, Dalton thought.

The conversation came to an end. Dr. Brady continued Southbound down the hallway. Dalton got up and followed, remaining a safe distance back. Up ahead the hallway opened up into a busy area that was crawling with medical staff. This made him nervous. But before the doctor made it that far he hung a sudden right into the the men's restroom. Dalton's suspicions had been right on the money. Seconds later, Dalton was heading into the restroom after him.

The restroom had two stalls on the right, which Dalton noted were empty. To his left, opposite the stalls, was a long counter with three sinks. In the far back right, just beyond the stalls, stood three urinals, one of which Dr. Brady was currently using. And Dalton noted one other critical thing. The doc had left his shake sitting on the counter beside the first sink.

As Dalton walked slowly back towards the urinals he said, “Billy, you in here?” Brady briefly turned his head Dalton's way before continuing on with his business. Looping around, Dalton headed back towards the entrance. Made sure the doctor wasn't looking. Switched the shakes, walked out.

He exited the hospital the same way he had come in. Moved swiftly through the parking lot, headed back South down Ohio Street towards the motel. The dastardly deed was done. As he walked quickly down the street he felt a grim sort of satisfaction. Still flooded with adrenaline, the night seemed to come alive. He could hear the wind whipping through the trees and rustling the leaves. The steady clocking of his boots against the pavement. The drone of a distant freight train. Things seemed to be shifting and moving back in the shadows. The houses had eyes and watched as he walked by.

As he approached the motel he found himself carefully surveying the property up and down. The coast looked clear. He hurried up to his room, let himself in, closed the door behind him. It had taken him only ten minutes to walk back. Less than half the time it took on the way there. He grabbed a can of Earthquake out of the mini fridge, popped the top, sat down to enjoy a victory beer. Then there was a knock on the door.

He sat up with a jolt, spilled beer on his crotch. Grabbed Miranda's .22, crept slowly up to the window. Pulled the shade back an inch, exhaled. There was a woman at the door. A cute little red head. He unlocked the door and opened it, said, “Yes?”

“Hi,” she replied. “I'm looking for a guy by the name of Dalton.”

“Well you found him,” Dalton said. And that's when three guys rushed him. They had come from his blind spot, the right side. The red head, who obviously had simply been the bate, had backed up quickly so they could move in.

Dalton probably would have escaped serious injury had he not fought back so hard. The three had been sent by Kowalski to see about Dalton's debt. Apparently someone had snitched him out. Someone had told them where he was staying.

Though it was three against one, Dalton quickly pieced two of Kowalski's guy's up. One of them received a broken nose and ribs. The second left with both eyes nearly swollen shut. It was the third man, the one with the blade, that poked Dalton up pretty good. After that they all ran off, leaving Dalton on the ground bleeding.

Someone had heard the commotion and called the cops. An ambulance arrived within minutes and rushed him to the hospital. Dalton grunted and cursed as the paramedics hauled him into the emergency room on a gurney. Somebody was going to pay for this. He was going to find out who snitched on him and then....

They laid him down on a bed. Medical staff swarmed into the room. He lifted his head, looked down towards his belly. Laid back down, tried to pretend that it wasn't really his guts he'd seen oozing out all over the place.

His next thought was, Miranda. Maybe it was Miranda snitched him out. He had texted her when he left the hospital to tell her the job was done. And now that she had gotten what she needed out of him, she was trying to knock him out of the equation so she could avoid paying him. But why would she do that, he thought, when she didn't yet know whether or not her brother was....

“Status?” he heard someone say.

“Severe puncture wounds, upper and lower gastric regions, Doctor Brady.”

Doctor who? Dalton lifted his head in time to see Doctor Brady entering the room, protein shake in hand. Watched in horror as the doctor polished off the rest of the deadly concoction before tossing it into a nearby trash container.

“Wait...” Dalton mumbled. It hurt to speak.

A nearby nurse looked at him. Put a finger over her mouth for him to be quiet.

“I need a different doctor,” Dalton managed. He was beginning to hyperventilate.

The nurse shook her head. “You need to calm down, sir. Doctor Brady is one of our finest surgeons. There is no one else immediately available who is trained to do this procedure. It would take at least half an hour to -”

“But -”

“Don't worry,” Dr. Rawling, who was assisting, said. “This anesthetic should calm him down just fine.”

Dalton continued to raise hell and struggle, till the anesthetic began to slow him down. And the last thing he saw, before it all went black, was Doctor Brady, smiling drunkenly as he hunkered over his mid-section, surgical knife clenched tightly in one unsteady hand.