Part 12

Quinton relaxed his lanky frame against a hydrant and looked in the drains for cigarettes, ones that were not overly wet or pissed on. He saw a nice, only partly flattened, half smoked one and put it to his lips. The teeth cradling the soothing smoke were rotting, black in parts, brown where the core nubs showed through. His clothes were sticking to smudges on his body, flakes of skin fell away at the slightest scratch. He didn't remember when he last had a bath. The hands which occasionally spasmed when taking his puffs were old men's hands, thin, wrinkled, age spotted, shaky, and ready for the calming comforts of the grave. Quinton was 26. He had been on the streets since his sophomore year in high school. He thought that was the term they used. He floated his days in and out of school, on a cloud of whatever he could get, escaping what passing counselors referenced to as a "home life." Quinton was not overly, sexually abused, not according to the other stories he had heard over his worn-out years. He was once an attractive child, sandy brown hair, sharp, blue eyes, pouty, full lips, slender hips. He was an adequate substitute for when his mother was out late-nights, waitressing. The economics of the family could not afford his dad many whores. At least in that his father contributed to their household wealth, or he was just plain cheap. His beer certainly was.

Quinton's rheumy eyes roved up and down the streets, hoping for a familiar face and a score. Instead, an unfamiliar car pulled up in the gathering, New Mexico evening. It was black, shiny, full of promise, though it was rather early for such interest to begin. Still, it was never a bad thing to have more pocket change. He would have to be careful with what he already had, but the gray haired, paunchy, saggy-faced driver didn't look like he was after his money.

"Hey, kid, you need some help?" It was such a seemingly well meaning, familiar line to Quinton. The well known chill started in his stomach, but he casually walked over to the expensive, gleaming car nonetheless.

"Hey, pops," he said nonchalantly to the unknown face, beginning one fantasy, "how's things?"

"How're things with you?" The old man looked him up and down, noted the sunken eyes, the dark patches of skin, the dirty hair. "You look awful skinny, would you like something to eat - first?"

"Well, it's about the right time, I guess. You asking me out to dinner, Sir?"

"You do need a good meal, and a bit of a shower. How about a few treats for a change, huh?" These conversations always sounded like code to Quinton. Sometimes he felt as if a whole menu of favors could be conveyed in just a few, seemingly charitable sentences. His world weary mind didn't function that way, he wished they would just say what they wanted from him.

A small smile began to play around the richer man's mouth. It didn't quite reach his eyes, yet.

"Well, it's your dollar," said the younger man, "but you always like to take care of your… treats first?"

The driver's smile widened, his gestures expansive. "It looks like you need it. Besides, I have some bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Would you be extra thankful to me later?"

"I'll be whatever you like later for the right cash, although it would be nice to be taken care of once in a long while."

"Okay, get on in then. Please sit in the plastic I spread across the seats for now. That's just until you get a little more cleaned up. I even brought some clothes I'll let you have if you'd be grateful for them."

"Sure, clothes, whatever," Quinton mumbled.

The older man frowned at him.

"I mean, yes, Sir, thank you very much. I'm sorry for the disrespect earlier."

"You have very nice eyes, son. I'm sorry you're so skinny. Maybe a decent meal will help." The driver reached over and pulled up the lock, pulled the inside handle. The door smoothly yawned open like a well used, well oiled trap. The boy got in, minding the spread, black plastic as instructed.

"Wow, you sure are unkempt," the driver pursed his lips at him.

"So, clean me up, pops," Quinton smiled back. He threw the filter of his well smoked cigarette out the door before closing it. "There's a late night place right down a few blocks. They're cool. They let me eat for free sometimes, but they know what's real. They don't cause trouble for me."

"Hmm, yes, this could be the start of a nice little friendship. We'll have to see." The older man reached over and gave Quinton's shoulder a quick massage, then seemed to regret it. "Yes, a bath soon. I think I even brought a few things for that."

…

In the dark, cold motel near the eatery, Quinton began choking up blood. The old man didn't know what to do, but hurriedly took off the manacles and began wiping them down. He stood back as the young man continued vomiting up food and blood onto the bedsheets.

"Shit, kid, hey!" was all the useless man could think of saying.

Quinton started convulsing, his beautiful eyes rolling back in his head, his breathing in gasps, a short trail of blue liquid leaking from his nostrils.

"Dammit, I didn't hurt him that much." The man watched as the boy shuddered a few more times, did not help him, did not even try to say a few comforting words. Even before the young man was still, he began gathering all the things he had brought, carefully checked the bathroom for more items, packed everything, and quickly headed out the room, making sure to lock up and put the whole, bad deal behind him.

…

Jesse didn't respond when the police officer tried to move him and get him to his feet. He shook him a few times, noticed a blue tinge to his lips, and then wisely shouted for the nurse.

"Rose! He's stopped breathing!" The diligent nurse swiftly grabbed a manual oxygen pump from a drawer and a stethoscope from the wall of the room. She knelt over Pinkman, looked into his mouth, saw that it was clear, and began pumping the oxygen mask quickly to see if this would restart his inhalations again. She put the stethoscope to his chest as she directed the policeman to continue pumping the mask.

"His heart's skipping, but I can hear it. She pulled open his eyelids. They were dilated even with the bright fluorescents above. She looked at his face carefully, put her hand over his chest. "There's some really shallow breathes, irregular."

The policeman looked around, saw the arriving night shift nurse and gestured to her to take over the pump. He stood up. "What should we do, Rosey, admit him?"

She chuffed. "Here? I don't think he has much… resources, do you?"

The cop frowned. "You have to take him, Rosey. You know that's the law."

"'Have to' is a funny idea, Malcolm. I have no problem with it, but you know all that will happen is that he'll lie in a gurney somewhere outside emergency admittance, forever, and once in a while someone will feel his pulse to see if he's still among us."

"What do you mean? He's barely breathing and his heart beat is jumping all over the place."

"Yeah, and he's just an addict and he's just 'passed out.' You see people practically walking over this all the time in the streets. By the way, get those God Damn handcuffs off of him. See, that's your thinking, too. He ain't gonna be much danger, and you can move him some, gentle."

The officer bent over and pushed Jesse slowly to his side. "Geez, his hands are bloody, Rose. I think he fell on the cuffs. They look bad, and they're in deep. I don't know if I can get them off without hurting him more."

Rose got up hastily to look. There was a blood pool forming under Jesse's black and blue mottled hands. She couldn't tell if an artery was punctured. The nurse made some quick calculations in her head. "Well, we're going to have to take them off, no matter what. I'll wrap some tight bandages on them, but if it starts spurting, it's beyond me and we're all in trouble."

"Don't we have to get a doctor to see him, Rose?" the officer asked.

"What, a doctor, here? Now? And for him?" The nurse sighed. "Would you bother, Malcolm? You work the fast side of human ordeal, policeman, I don't always. Where's that key?"

The policeman fumbled at his keys, nervous over all that had happened tonight. He was angry at himself for his edginess, but this boy really hadn't done anything and didn't deserve all this, and he was responsible. He didn't judge the kid right. He was also sure that most of the little bones in Jesse's hands and wrists were broken, broken in that crushing fall, and the sharp bone ends were severing nerves. They always told him back at the academy that handcuffs were dangerous things - torturous, steel devices that had no give if something went wrong.

"Okay, Rosey, you ready with your stuff?" Rosey nodded her head. She had a suture kit open along with advanced butterfly bandages that could hold torn soft tissue together even when the edges were under severe pressure.

The policeman unlocked the handcuffs and pried them from the red, wet flesh. They made a horrible, sodden, meat sound as he took them out. Blood poured from the deep, indented wounds.

"Shit!" The policeman swiftly stepped back so Rosey could try to stop the torrent of blood. She put as much pressure as she could on the front of Jesse's wrists, the cotton gauze quickly filled red and began to drip.

"I need more!" The night shift nurse handed her more gauze that she layered over the soaked mess. She taped up the padding tightly. Blood escaped between the edging.

"We have to take him down to emergency, Rosey. He's going to bleed to death."

The nurse was breathless. "Okay, here, help me lift him."

"I'll help, Rosey." David, the security guard, took over for her and helped the officer gently, but swiftly, lift Jesse onto a hallway gurney. He seemed to be breathing more steadily now, but she nodded to the night shift nurse and took over the oxygen. They rushed the gurney to the elevator and headed for the emergency department where a newly staffed doctor in training might be available. The security guard and the night shift nurse watched as the elevator doors closed. They looked at each other, concerned for all of them.

The night shift nurse, frayed by the events at the beginning of her shift, went slowly into Walter White's room. He was no longer in his bed.