Closure (Jack Randall) (7 page)

“We have any milk?” Sam asked as he looked in the fridge. He unconsciously rubbed his stomach as he looked.

Paul watched his brother-in-law as he walked across the room to get a glass. He still looked like a million bucks; except for the fresh scar. He had the long lean look of a runner, a man who took care of his body. Well, I guess today was another form of that.

Sam sat down and poured a tall glass of vitamin-D. No food this morning, just the milk and plenty of it. It would make the day easier later.

“Well, don’t you want to hear it?” He grinned at Paul.

Paul laughed. “Hell yes, I almost woke you up early,” he lied.

Sam drained one glass and poured another. “Went off perfect; he was right on time and pulled up to the number one spot, no wind, just a kid in an SUV behind him. He even turned his head a little for me. I stuck it right in his ear and he just coasted through the intersection. The windshield shattered for some reason I couldn’t figure out, the bullet should have stayed in the car. Exit plan worked like a charm. If the fire did its job, there should be nothing left for the feds. Hated to destroy the Remington, but I couldn’t really carry it out. I ditched the shoes in the hotel dumpster and then dived in the pool for a few minutes before I went up to the room so there should be nothing from the scene in the room. The car is the only loose end. May have some fibers and soil in it, but it’s probably been cleaned in and out and is on its way to Epcot with a family of four right this minute. I saw some press as I was waiting in the airport, car-jacking?”

“Yeah, I recorded some of it for you. You can watch it when we get back,” Paul replied. “We need to get a move on or you’ll be late.”

“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t want to miss this.” Sam got up to retrieve a shirt.

“I’ll warm up the car.”

•      •      •

Paul backed the car out, and with Sam riding shotgun with his glass of milk, headed east toward downtown Kalamazoo. A mid-sized town, Kalamazoo was positioned exactly halfway between Detroit and Chicago. The city was once a major manufacturing center with producers of paper, plastics, car body panels and drugs. Despite the closure of the General Motors Fisher Body plant and the purchase of the Upjohn Pharmaceutical Corporation by its bigger rival Pfizer, the city had made an effort to save its dying downtown area. Once proud to boast the nation’s first outdoor pedestrian mall, the downtown area had received a major facelift. The mall was once again a paved one-way street. One of many that crisscrossed the area, confusing the hell out of both locals and visitors combined. The renovation included exposing an underground stream, and the restoration of many of the older buildings in the area around the central square. An outdoor festival area had been added. The major downtown hotel had just finished a multi-million-dollar restoration. Several new bars and restaurants had opened. All it really needed now was a traffic engineer; the one currently in office couldn’t even time the traffic lights.

The other big industry in Kalamazoo was healthcare. The town was home to two major hospitals. Despite the fact that they were only three miles apart, they both boasted Level 1 trauma facilities. Between the two was a burn center, a pediatric care center, the birth clinic, a major heart center, a psychiatric care floor, intensive care units, a teaching program for new doctors, surgical units of all types, and a critical care helicopter service. Both were listed in the top one hundred hospitals in the nation. Both had surgical talent that was recognized around the world. Both often diverted patients elsewhere due to a lack of available beds.

Among the newly renovated buildings on the west side of the downtown area was the West Michigan Cancer Center.

Sam was a popular patient as he always tried to put on a good show of “positive attitude” for the staff. The truth was, he hated the place. When he first had visited, he was shocked at the amount of traffic; patient after patient rotating through the doors. CT scans, ultrasound, MRI, blood-work, radiation treatments and of course, chemotherapy. It was a constant parade of the sick and dying and Sam hated every minute.

The staff was always kind and professional. The four doctors that ran the center were picky about whom they hired and it showed. They all knew how Sam had come to be here, and went out of their way to make his visits as quick and painless as possible. Nevertheless, Sam occasionally heard a whispered comment. “Poor guy, what a way to find out.” Or “Such a tragedy, how does he stay so positive?”

Sam automatically moved to the chair on the end. It was the first one he had used, and he preferred it over the others. He didn’t like the idle chit-chat that his fellow patients engaged in. He smiled for Kristen’s benefit as she approached with the IV kit. First the pills: 4 milligrams of Zofran. That would hold back the vomiting for about four hours. 20 milligrams of Decadron. This was a corticosteroid that was supposed to help with any side effects. When he first read the pamphlet on this drug he was surprised by the list of possible side effects to it: Upset stomach, ulcers, water retention, heart failure, potassium loss, slow healing, bruising, sweating, rash, itching, convulsions, dizziness, headache, adrenal gland suppression, diabetes, blood clots, insomnia, weight gain, nausea, vomiting, euphoria, mood swings, personality changes, depression and his favorite, feeling unwell. “Why am I taking this again?” he had asked. He answered Kristen’s small talk as she deftly inserted a 20-gauge catheter in his arm. She hung the bags of fluids and checked the catheter site for infiltration. With no signs showing, she taped everything in place and adjusted the drip rate.

“Does that feel okay Sam?” she always asked.

“Fine,” he always lied. He could already feel the slight burning sensation as the poison entered his arm.

“I’ll see you in an hour.” Kristin smiled, and handed him a glass of ice cubes to chew on.

“I’ll be right here,” he answered; his standard joke. She smiled and went to meet the next patient. Little Miss Efficiency. Sam glanced up at the bag. 1080 milligrams of F5U with 1080 of Levcovorin on a piggyback; his usual. They had to give it to him slowly or the poison would eat his arm at the IV site. Good to know. Sam took his first ice cube in his mouth, settled back and closed his eyes.

“You’re not very tan, staying out of the sun like I told ya?” Sam opened his eyes to see Dr. Maher looking down with a smile.

“I tried my best, it was very tempting.” Sam stuck out a hand. Dr. Maher had been there from the start. He had even encouraged Sam’s desire to travel as long as he made his visits on time.

“I can only imagine, the wife and I have never made it to Mexico. Did you bring back any pictures?” The doc flopped down in the chair next to him.

“Some. Didn’t bring them with me though.” Sam looked at the chart the doc had brought with him. “Any news?”

Dr. Maher grabbed the chart like it was burning him and flipped it open. “Well your last bloodwork was inconclusive. We checked your carcinoembryonic levels before your surgery and they were high. But I would expect that. After the surgery, they normally drop as yours have done. What we look for is a change in the levels once they drop. Yours haven’t yet. If it stays that way it usually means we got it all. Unfortunately, Sam, you have it in not one area, but three. So we need to re-evaluate before we can go in after the rest of it. I’d like to stick with the chemo till you heal a little more, and then add some radiation treatments. Your white count is okay for now. Your red count is down, so I’m gonna add some Procrit to your regimen today, just a subcutaneous shot in the arm. Tough soldier like you handle that okay?” Dr. Maher was ex-army, same as Sam. One of the reasons they got along so well.

“From a Leg like you, I’ll try not to scream,” Sam said. The doc had not been a paratrooper as Sam had, something Sam was fond of reminding him.

“Good, I’m gonna schedule you for another CT scan in a couple weeks so we can see what’s going on. Sorry, Sam, no real good news, but no bad news either. Sometimes that’s all I can offer. Where are you off to next?”

“Not sure, maybe Alaska,” Sam replied.

“Not Hawaii?”

“Seen the beach, thought I might try some mountains next.”

“Sounds good, I gotta go, you call if you need something, Sam, don’t worry about time zones or anything, okay?”

“Okay, doc.”

Dr. Maher scribbled Procrit-40k units SQ on the chart, gave Sam a punch in the leg, and moved off in the direction of his office.

Sam settled back in the recliner. Forty minutes left.

The state of Delaware holds 6,784 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 4,545 are repeat offenders.

—EIGHT—

L
as Vegas, Nevada. With a population of 1,800,000 and growing by a double-digit percentage every year, it was one of the fastest growing cities in the United States. It was America’s other playground; Disneyworld for consenting adults. It had hundreds of hotels, and even more casinos. All as busy at 3 a.m. as they are at 3 p.m. Everyone from senior citizens spending their kids’ inheritance to professional gamblers hoping to beat the house at their own game. Millions of tourists a year coming and going, day and night, with entertainment offered to all tastes. Strip bars, Elvis impersonators, medieval jousting, animal acts, magic, and some of the most popular singers in the world.

It was also a home to championship boxing.

The current favorite for boxing among the hotels was the MGM Grand, the largest hotel in the world. With thousands of rooms, multiple casinos, pools, spas, shopping, convention facilities, and its spacious auditorium, it was the current king on the Las Vegas strip. Most title fights in the last four years had taken place under its roof, and in two days it would host a rematch for the heavyweight championship of the world. A rematch that had the amateur gamblers in a frenzy. The professionals knew better. For years the world of boxing had been as corrupt as possible. The main promoter had been investigated several times for racketeering and fraud, but nothing had been able to stick. Those involved with him were becoming rich and were reluctant to talk. Even the fighters were involved. With a purse in the 50 million mark per fight, who wouldn’t want to do it twice? This weekend’s match was a repeat of one held ten months prior, one fighter, a reigning champ who was at the end of his career, and the other, a young challenger from England who had clearly won the previous match. Clear to everyone but the judges, who had miraculously kept the title with the champ, and guaranteed a rematch down the road, translating into more money for everyone. The fighters would break even on their earnings with a win and loss apiece. The champion would retire a very wealthy man. The casinos, which had totally opposing odds from the first match, would clean up once again. The promoter would collect a hefty check from the pay-per-view audience, as well as the people who came to see it in person. The city of Vegas would have a slightly larger population for the weekend that translated into more revenue for its many businesses. Even the airlines would see some profit from all the out-of-town fight fans flocking to the desert city. And yet there were people who thought boxing was a bad thing.

•      •      •

One of these flights was Southwest Airlines flight 2809 from Chicago’s Midway airport. A “red-eye” as it was known, leaving at 9 p.m. and arriving in Vegas four hours later. The flight and arrival time had been carefully picked weeks ago. The plane was dark, as most passengers were asleep, their empty bags of peanuts next to their half-finished drinks. The flight attendants were quietly talking in the small galley at the front of the plane. With a plane of sleeping passengers, they had little to do. Most passengers were asleep before the takeoff and safety briefing.

Settled in seat 26D was Sam. His hair was darker now, and the glasses he had perched on his nose did nothing for his 20/20 vision. They did however change his face. Sam had thought the need for a disguise was unnecessary, but Paul had talked him into it. As much as Vegas was sin city, it was also very safe. At least as long as you were in a casino. Casinos meant large sums of money. Large sums of money required security. Security meant cameras, everywhere. Since Sam could expect to be on camera for most of his time in Vegas, he’d relented to Paul’s wisdom and altered his appearance. With his dark hair, glasses, and a little scruff on his face, he certainly did not look as he normally did. Some Super Glue to his fingers would keep the prints to a minimum. If he did everything right, he shouldn’t have any problems. Plus, as Paul had pointed out, “It’s Vegas; you’ll probably run into somebody you know!” Sam had kept an eye out for just such a person, but so far all were strangers. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. They had an hour to go and he should just try to blend in with his fellow passengers.

•      •      •

His mother had named him Russell, but from the time he was nine they had started calling him Profit. He began as a lookout for the local gang in his south-central Los Angeles neighborhood. By the time he was ten he had his own corner, and was moving more crack per day than the kids twice his age. Despite his chosen profession, Profit had an innocent face, one that he exploited to make people trust him. He looked harmless to the people who cruised through the neighborhood looking for a safe source of rock. The real danger was the seventeen-year-old with the Tec-9 machine pistol in his coat who Profit paid to watch his back. Two eight-year-old lookouts in both directions, and Russell had all he needed to be a successful businessman. One thing Profit did, that few others in his area were known to do, was read. Regardless of his lack of schooling—he went only when he wished—he had above average intelligence, and had educated himself by reading everything he could get his hands on. By twelve he had realized that the constant battles among the gangs were just plain bad for business. The gangs all had what were called junior members, mostly the little brothers of the current members. Profit began making alliances with other junior members using his money, brains and hired muscle. He was patient, and by the time the senior members had killed each other off or gone to prison he was ready to unite several rivals into one highly organized gang. With competition no longer a worry, the money grew exponentially, and in just a few years Profit was living up to his name. He now controlled the largest portion of the crack trade in Los Angeles. When he needed more territory, he simply moved in and took over. He adopted the Columbia Cartel’s methods of expansion. Rivals were offered
pluña
or
plañta
: lead or silver. Take the money, or get a bullet in the head. Resistance was cut down swiftly, and after a few examples, most learned it was far easier to just take the money. As his kingdom grew, he acquired cops, judges, lawyers, money launderers, and border hoppers. One young D.A. had attempted to take him down, but the response was the car-jacking of his wife and daughter. After a three-hour ordeal, the man had his family back, and had decided on a new target for his political ambitions. Profit was left alone and continued to prosper. He was now twenty-eight years old and head of the largest gang in LA history. He had branched out into investments and real estate. He owned restaurants and liquor stores, gas stations and dry cleaners. All washing his money from the crack trade. He presented himself as an honest businessman. He partied with the young and famous. Prosecutors were afraid to charge him. Most cops were in his pocket. His enemies were all now partners. Profit was the very example that crime indeed does pay.