Malpractice - 5. Chapter 5

John Spanton left home that day. He already had a fake I.D. that he used to support his cigarette habit. He went to his contact and obtained falsified school records showing that the person his I.D. purported him to be had graduated with honors as the valedictorian of his class, with a 3.85 GPA.

John had been running “packages” for his contact since he was thirteen years old. Carl Ross had been the closest thing John had to a father ever since he’d started using John’s street-smarts and knowledge of the streets of Las Vegas. Carl first found John when the kid tried to pick his pocket while Carl was on his way to make a delivery at a high-roller suite on the strip. Carl grabbed John’s wrist and spun him around.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, kid?”

John stared up at him without a trace of emotion, except the angry scowl upon his face, “What are you talkin’ about, Old Man? I didn’t do shit!”

“Don’t lie to me, you little fuck! I’ve been picking pockets since before you were born! D’you think I can’t tell a thief when I see one?”

Recognizing his defeat, John gave back the man’s wallet, but he refused to let Carl see that defeat on his face or in his eyes. Carl recognized John’s fearlessness and decided to take him under his wing.

“Hey, kid, how’s about you take things to people instead of from them, and I pay ya for it?”

Contempt flashed in John’s eyes, “What’re you talkin’ about, Old Man?”

Carl shrugged and handed John a business card for the strip club he ran, and said, “You really wanna find out, meet me there at five o’clock tomorrow. I’ll pay ya fifty bucks just for showin’ up.”

John took the card, and started walking in the opposite direction. He got on the Deuce bus and headed north to Fremont. He had to walk a couple blocks up Fremont to get home, but it gave him the opportunity to work his magic in the second most popular tourist attraction in Vegas, The Fremont Street Experience. Four blocks and twenty pockets later, John was waiting for the 207. It was only a couple more blocks, but he’d decided he’d walked enough for one day. On his way home, John had been weighing his options. He couldn’t just pass up a shot at a guaranteed fifty bucks, and he’d seen in Carl a hint of what he could be. Besides, even if this guy wasn’t legit, John would have his pocket knife with him and figured he’d get the money either way. Besides, it’s not like Las Vegas Metropolitan Police officers were going to arrest a teenage kid for murder.

The next day, John went to the address on the card. Sure enough, Carl was there, fifty bucks in hand. John reached for the bill, but Carl pulled it back.

“There’s one condition,” he said in explanation, “you go by my rules, and you never reveal my identity to anybody. Not even if you get picked up by Metro.”

John’s face was flushed with anger. “Fine.” He snatched the fifty from Carl.

“Come into my office,” Carl said, and led John to the manager’s office of the club. “Rule number one, you go to school every day, every class. No exceptions. I won’t have some half-wit, little dumb fuck handling my product.” Before John could retort, he continued, “Rule two, except to confirm their identities, you don’t speak to the clients unless spoken to. Rule three, anything you get beyond the price of the merchandise gets split 70/30 with me. After you’ve been working with me for a while, you might get more. I will tell you the price of each package before you take it. Rule four; always remember this is my business not yours, so shit goes down how I say it does. Rule five; refer to rules one through four. Got it, Kid?”

“Got it, Old Man.”

“Name’s Carl Ross. Call me ‘Old Man’ again and I’ll smack that smart-ass mouth right offa your face.”

“Fine, Carl. Got a job for me?”

And the rest was history. After three months of working for Carl, John got his fake I.D. as a birthday present. When he came to Carl looking to get the documentation he needed, the man gave it to him. That night, John left Vegas on a Greyhound bus destined for Minneapolis.