Chapter 129: Two Cowards
Walter demonstrated the power of knowledge, proving it's unwise to mess with intellectuals.
Frank noticed bullet holes in the car door, imagining the hopelessness the two thugs must have felt trapped in the vehicle with toxic gas.
"This guy was unlucky and got poisoned, but the one in the basement is still alive. What are you going to do with him?" Frank asked, standing up.
Walter and Pinkman exchanged glances, both at a loss for words, unsure of what to do.
"Will that guy die?" Frank inquired of Walter.
The boss in the basement, by the way he walked, seemed in bad shape, likely still suffering from poisoning.
"Normally, if someone breathes in that toxic gas, even if they survive initially, they wouldn't last long. But since it's been a day, he might have passed the critical period," Walter explained.
"So, he's not going to die, is he?" Frank asked.
"Tell me about his situation. How well do you know him?" Frank asked as they covered the body with the cloth and went back inside.
"His name is Crazy Eight. I haven't worked with him much; he's the highest-level contact I have. Most street dealers get their supply from him," Pinkman explained.
"So, he's a distributor, a businessman dealing in drugs. He shouldn't harm us if we explain the situation," Walter said, clutching to hope.
"What are you talking about? They almost killed us with guns yesterday. You think you can just let him go, promising not to come back and kill us all?" Pinkman retorted.
Walter and Pinkman began arguing.
Walter was just an ordinary, rule-abiding chemistry teacher, while Pinkman was an inexperienced street punk.
Their fledgling partnership had already landed them in a life-threatening situation, with guns pointed at them and a dead body to deal with. They'd never faced anything like this before.
Both were on edge, ready to explode at any moment.
"Shut up!" Frank shouted, his head pounding from their bickering.
Silence fell immediately.
"Releasing him is not an option unless you have a death wish," Frank said.
A clattering sound interrupted, coming from the basement.
"It must be Crazy Eight. We should have tied him up. Damn, why didn't we tie him up earlier?" Pinkman fretted.
"Because he was unconscious," Walter replied.
"He might have been faking it, waiting for a chance to grab a weapon and take us out!" Pinkman paced anxiously.
"I told you to calm down. Didn't you say they had guns? Where are they?" Frank asked.
"Here!" Pinkman retrieved two handguns from a drawer.
"Why are you scared with guns in your hands?" Frank sighed, exasperated.
Armed, they headed to the basement, with Frank leading the way, Walter and Pinkman each wielding a bat and a pipe.
Frank had taken one gun and intended to give the other to one of them, but seeing their trembling hands, worse than Stephen's, he decided against it. He feared they might accidentally shoot him.
In the basement, Crazy Eight lay on his back, unresponsive, though his breathing indicated he was still alive.
"If it were me, I'd lie still, wait for the enemy to get careless, then strike and take their weapon," Pinkman speculated.
"That's overthinking it; he's barely breathing," Frank said.
"Still, we can't be careless," Pinkman insisted, swallowing hard.
Seeing their fear, Frank prodded Crazy Eight with the bat, getting no reaction. He then kicked Crazy Eight in the head.
Walter and Pinkman flinched.
"Now, even if he was faking, he's definitely out cold," Frank said.
"Get some rope and tie him up," Frank ordered, patting down Crazy Eight and removing anything of value, including rings and necklaces.
"I have an idea!" Pinkman exclaimed, running upstairs.
He returned with a U-lock for bicycles, using it to secure Crazy Eight's neck to a pipe, effectively chaining him like a dog.
"Smart thinking," Frank praised with a thumbs-up.
"So, what do we do now?" Pinkman asked, collapsing onto the couch.
"What to do, what to do—you keep asking us what to do," Walter snapped, irritated.
"Get it straight: it's your problem, not ours. I'm not involved," Frank distanced himself.
Frank felt unlucky, having come to rely on Walter only to get caught in this mess. He regretted not returning to Chicago earlier.
"You've seen the body and helped with the guy in the basement. You're in it with us now. Help an old classmate out," Walter pleaded.
"Damn it, I suggest you clean up this mess and quit. You're not cut out for this; you can't even steady a gun," Frank advised.
"We planned to part ways after sorting this out," Walter admitted.
"Regardless, we need to deal with Crazy Eight in the basement and the body in the car," Frank paused, an idea forming.
"Where did the confrontation with Crazy Eight happen? Did anyone see you?" Frank asked.
"In the desert, away from the main road, surrounded by cliffs. It's secluded. No one saw us," Walter said.
"There are some cattle barns two miles away," Pinkman added.
"Did you leave anything behind that could link back to you or those two?" Frank asked.
"Our stuff should be fine, but they left a car. It's probably still there," Walter hesitated.