Dexter finished off his burger and hot dog on the move. Swigging his Coke, he hit a snag.
What now?
Broad daylight wasn't exactly the best time for "collecting Karma." And since he didn't have a nine-to-five to worry about, he wasn't about to head back to the hotel just to veg out in front of the TV.
I gotta move on that stash of weed tonight, Dexter thought to himself. The sooner I open a shop, the better. Otherwise, I'm gonna bore myself to death in this hellhole.
After mulling it over, he decided to head back toward North Wallace Street. He needed to find a secluded spot to get some target practice in and get a feel for his new piece.
Thinking about the gun brought up another thought: This Glock was a system drop. There's no way it's serialized or traceable.
Which means... if I stake out a spot under the L-train tracks in the middle of the night, wait for a train to rumble past to mask the sound, and pick a "lucky winner" at random...
Holy crap, he thought, his pulse quickening. That's a goldmine for Karma.
He picked up his pace. The area around North Wallace was littered with vacant lots and abandoned "Chicago-style" brick buildings. He ducked into a hollowed-out shell of a house, set up a few empty beer bottles, and prepped his stance.
He didn't just spray and pray. He took his time, lined up the sights, and squeezed the trigger. His Glock 17 held seventeen rounds in the mag and one in the chamber—eighteen total. Since his last gacha pull hadn't dropped any spare ammo, he had to make every shot count.
Bang!
A miss. Total waste.
The accuracy of a handgun could be pretty humbling, especially once you put a little distance between you and the target. Still, the kick and the adrenaline? Pure electricity.
He stepped closer, adjusted his grip, and aimed again.
Crack!
The bottle shattered.
Time flew. After burning through nine rounds, his scorecard was three hits and six misses.
Dexter gave a wry smile. He wanted to keep going, but with his ammo running low, he had to call it a day. Since tonight was "Operation Green Thumb," he needed to grab some supplies and rent a cargo van. That stash of weed was huge; there was no way he was hauling it off without a set of wheels.
---
The lunch rush was over. Taking advantage of her break, Fiona hauled ass to the hospital. Funny enough, Debbie showed up almost at the exact same time, despite them not having planned it.
Inside the ward, Frank was lying in bed with his broken leg in a fresh cast. He was already mid-spiel, sweet-talking the woman in the next bed, trying to convince her to hand over whatever meds the nurse brought her later.
Fiona and Debbie walked up to his bedside.
"Dad," Debbie said.
Frank spared them a single glance before turning back to his mark, continuing his con without missing a beat.
Fiona listened for all of two seconds before she clocked what he was doing. She sighed, "You're in a cast, Frank. Can you get discharged already?"
Frank, annoyed at being interrupted, glared at Fiona. "As soon as the meds come, I'm out of here."
Fiona was speechless.
Frank ignored her and leaned toward Debbie, whispering, "Debs, go find me some crutches."
Actually paying for them? Not a chance. The plan was to secure the crutches and bolt the second the coast was clear.
Debbie caught the vibe instantly and nodded. "On it."
Fiona had a flicker of a conscience—this wasn't exactly right—but then she thought about their empty pockets and the astronomical hospital bills they'd never pay. She swallowed her guilt and looked at Frank. "Since you're fine, I'm heading back."
Frank didn't answer.
Fiona was used to it. She turned to Debbie. "Be careful on the way back to school. I gotta get back to work."
"Yeah, go ahead," Debbie said. "Try to snag some burgers and dogs for dinner tonight."
"Snag," of course, meant "steal from the burger joint where she worked." Fiona nodded and headed out.
It didn't take long. Frank got his pills, downed them in one go, and let out a long, satisfied exhale. About thirty minutes later, he saw his opening.
Clutching his stolen crutches, Frank snuck out of the hospital like a ghost.
Ten minutes later, a young nurse who had only started a few days ago noticed the empty bed. She called over the attending physician.
The doctor didn't even blink. He'd seen this movie a thousand times. "He's a runner. Report it to the billing office; just another bad debt for the pile."
With that, he shook his head and went back to work. The young nurse stood there, stunned by his casual reaction. Is it really that easy to just walk away from a bill? she wondered.
---
By late afternoon, Dexter had his kit ready: a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters, a stack of oversized black trash bags, and some garden shears. He had the cargo van parked and ready. With nothing left to do but wait for nightfall, he headed to Alibi Room.
At this hour, the Alibi was a graveyard. Just a couple of regulars hunched over their drinks, staring blankly at the TV.
With no customers to serve, Kevin was practically nodding off behind the bar—until he saw Dexter walk in. Kev perked up immediately. "Hey, man! You actually came back."
Dexter smiled. In the world of Shameless, Kevin was actually a decent guy. He didn't really fit the "shameless" title. Plus, Kev—big guy, six-pack, totally illiterate—had that "lovable dummy" vibe that was hard to hate.
"Said I'd be here, didn't I?" Dexter joked. "You're not gonna kick me out, are you?"
"Are you kidding? A high-roller like you? I'd welcome you with open arms and legs," Kevin grinned.
Dexter took a stool. "I feel like you just called me a 'sucker with deep pockets.'"
Kevin froze, his face contorting into a hilarious look of "did I say that out loud?"
Dexter laughed. "I'm messing with you. Give me a beer. I've got some time to kill."
"Man, you scared me for a second," Kevin exhaled, laughing as he expertly poured a draft. He even slid over a couple of pickled eggs on the house. "So, don't you have a job to get to?"
"Just sold my shop. Came out here to take a breather and see if there's any business worth getting into." Dexter lied through his teeth. In this world, a good cover story was everything.
Kevin bought it hook, line, and sinker. "Damn, man. No wonder you're throwing Benjamins around. Must've sold it for a pretty penny."
Dexter smiled. "Not bad. Enough to let me chill for a few years."
Kevin looked genuinely envious. "Congrats. But 'looking for business' around here? Man, you might be in the wrong neighborhood."
Dexter shook his head. "I don't know. Depends on the business."
He was just killing time and figured he might as well make a friend out of Kevin. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the bar. "You're easy to talk to. Let me buy you a round. We can chat while we drink."
Kevin didn't hesitate to push the bill back. He smiled, "Nah, man. I'm the bartender. I can't let a customer buy me a drink. This one's on me."
See? Totally out of place in this neighborhood.
Dexter didn't take the money back; he just left it there. Look, according to the show, that stash of weed was supposed to be burned by Kevin anyway. A total waste. Stealing it wasn't that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things.
But still, he felt like he should compensate the guy a little. Kevin was a straight shooter.
The two of them sat there, drinking and shooting the breeze.
Suddenly, the door swung open. Frank Gallagher hobbled in on his crutches.
"Kev! Pour me a drink!" Frank bellowed the moment he crossed the threshold.
Dexter and Kevin both turned to look.
Dexter's grin widened. Looking at Frank was like looking at a "Karma Tree" ripe for the picking.
Alright, Frank, Dexter thought, his smile turning predatory. What should I break next?