Chapter 132: Wrapping Up
"Exactly, these are crystal-grade goods, two to three inches long, top-tier purity. This is art, and Mr. White is an artist—he's the Michael Jordan or Einstein of the drug world," Pinkman exclaimed excitedly upon seeing Frank recognize the quality.
When Walter was cooking, Pinkman watched with excitement. But Walter remained composed, and Pinkman couldn't share his excitement with anyone until Frank acknowledged the quality of the crystals.
"With such high-quality goods, no wonder Crazy Eight wanted to know who made them. You have no idea what this means," Frank said.
"What does it mean?" Pinkman asked, curious, as Walter also turned his attention to Frank.
"Anyone with connections who sees a sample like this will be astonished and incredulous.
Their next move would be to find the creator at all costs. If the creator has no backing, they'd force him to cook more. If he does have backing, they'd try to establish a partnership to get a batch to sell.
If the creator won't cooperate without backing," Frank paused, looking at both of them.
"They'd kill him to ensure no one else benefits," Frank continued.
Walter and Pinkman swallowed nervously, Walter's hand shaking enough to drop the cloth he was holding.
Frank gave Walter a long, hard look. Though Walter was just a regular chemistry teacher, he was once part of a Nobel Prize-winning team, a true chemistry genius.
To Frank and others, the crystals seemed miraculous, but to Walter, they were likely basic chemistry any child could grasp.
Frank remembered Walter's brilliance in his youth. Had things gone differently, Walter might have become a renowned professor or founded a company with his groundbreaking research.
Yet, somehow, this genius ended up as a high school chemistry teacher for decades.
Though Frank and Walter had exchanged emails for some time, Walter never mentioned his past.
But talent shines through, and the crystals in Frank's hand proved Walter still had it.
If Walter's true worth were known, many drug lords would pay millions for his expertise.
As the three finished cleaning the yellow sports car, the sky turned a dusky hue.
"It's getting late. I need to head home. Frank, can you stay here at Pinkman's place?" Walter asked, checking the time.
Having learned Frank had killed before, Walter's attitude towards him had shifted.
"Go ahead, I'll be fine here. The place is spacious," Frank replied casually.
In New Mexico, land is abundant and cheap, so houses are large. Pinkman lived alone, yet his house was bigger than Frank's in Chicago, with room for three or four cars in the yard.
Hosting Frank was no issue; even if Fiona and six others joined, it wouldn't feel cramped.
"Hey!" Pinkman protested. This was his house, after all.
"Kid, I'm staying to watch over you. Aren't you afraid Crazy Eight might escape at night and shoot you in your sleep?" Frank said.
Pinkman fell silent, clearly intimidated.
"Besides, we've got business to take care of later," Frank added.
"What business?" Pinkman asked, puzzled.
"You'll see. Let me use your phone," Frank said.
After Walter drove home, Frank made a few calls and then left with Pinkman. Pinkman drove his car while Frank took the unregistered yellow sports car.
Frank gave Pinkman an address, leading them to an outlying warehouse.
Frank had Pinkman wait outside as he drove the yellow car into the warehouse, where two men awaited.
"Check it out," Frank said, stepping out.
Seeing Frank's gloved hands, the two men said nothing, inspecting the car and lifting the hood to check the engine.
Frank had contacted people in Chicago who dealt with stolen cars, who referred him to associates in New Mexico.
"Don't worry, it hasn't been involved in any murders, so it's easy for you to sell," Frank assured.
"I remember this car. It's Crazy Eight's. I helped modify it for him," a bandana-wearing man said.
"So?" Frank asked.
"Nothing. We weren't close, just got discounts when buying from him. Did you guys take him out?" the man asked.
The man knew Crazy Eight, aware of his dealings. In the fast-paced drug trade, dealers like Crazy Eight could be killed at any time.
Handling Crazy Eight's car posed no moral dilemma for him; he wasn't concerned about Crazy Eight's fate.
To him, Frank was likely a new dealer who had taken over Crazy Eight's territory.
But since they dealt in cars, not drugs, he didn't press further.
"Who knows? I'm just the errand boy," Frank replied.
The man gestured, and his companion produced a thick envelope; transactions like this were always in cash.
"This is a little something extra for you—a tip," Frank said, accepting the envelope and handing over a small bag of Walter's crystal samples.
"Thanks," the man said, taking the bag.
Inside were about two grams of crystals, worth hundreds.
"Hey," the man's companion said, nudging him to inspect the crystals closely.
"How pure is this stuff?" the man asked, taken aback by the clarity.
"It's top-tier, not something you find easily," Frank said.
"We'll test it. If you get more, let me know," the man said, scrutinizing Frank.