Chapter 133: Understanding
The dealer recognized the value of the crystals, understanding how rare and exceptional they were. The quality indicated advanced manufacturing skills and suggested that someone powerful or influential was behind them.
After exchanging a few words with the dealer and noting his phone number, Frank left the warehouse.
"How did it go?" Pinkman eagerly asked as Frank got back into the car.
"It's all sorted. No need to worry about the car anymore. Now, take me to Crazy Eight's house," Frank replied.
"Why are we going there?" Pinkman asked, puzzled.
"To check if there are any surveillance cameras that might have caught you going to his house," Frank explained.
They parked two blocks away from Crazy Eight's house, and Frank walked the rest of the way to scout the area.
After a thorough check, Frank felt reassured.
He was reminded of how sparsely populated New Mexico was, with vast distances between homes, each separated by lawns and trees. Houses were at least 400 to 500 meters apart.
Frank hadn't seen any surveillance cameras, and even if there were, the distance and foliage would obscure any footage.
Being a drug dealer, Crazy Eight likely wouldn't have cameras at his own house.
Satisfied the police wouldn't trace Crazy Eight's disappearance back to Pinkman, Frank returned to the car, and they headed home.
Back at the house, they heard cries for help from the basement—Crazy Eight had woken up.
"What do we do?" Pinkman asked nervously.
"Got a cloth?" Frank grabbed a rag from the kitchen, motioning for Pinkman to bring duct tape, and they went to the basement.
"Pinkman, you bastard!" Crazy Eight shouted, struggling against the U-lock around his neck as he saw Pinkman.
Pinkman flinched, instinctively wanting to run upstairs.
"He's tied up. What's there to fear?" Frank said, holding Pinkman back.
Crazy Eight's neck was secured to the pipe, and his arms and legs were bound, leaving him immobile.
"What did you do with my cousin? What do you want?" Crazy Eight demanded, squirming away as Frank approached.
"Come on, stop standing there!" Frank stuffed the rag into Crazy Eight's mouth and motioned for Pinkman to help.
"Huh? Oh, right!" Pinkman snapped out of it, reluctantly handing Frank the tape from a distance.
"Mmmph!" Seeing Pinkman's fearful demeanor, Frank sighed, taking the tape and securing it around Crazy Eight's mouth to prevent him from spitting out the rag. He also wrapped the tape around Crazy Eight's hands to keep him from tearing it off.
"Let's go," Frank said, avoiding looking at Crazy Eight's pitiful state as he left the basement.
Back upstairs, Frank and Pinkman sat in silence on the couch, with only the flickering light and noise from the TV filling the room.
The click of a lighter broke the silence as Pinkman lit a joint.
"Cough, cough!" Pinkman took a deep drag, coughing before passing it to Frank.
Frank accepted it, taking a puff to calm his nerves after what they'd done. Despite his experiences, trapping someone to starve was a heavy burden.
"Are you Mr. White's classmate? Are you a teacher too?" Pinkman asked, sensing the oppressive atmosphere and seeking to break the silence.
"I'm not a teacher, and I haven't seen Walter in years," Frank replied.
"What do you do then?" Pinkman asked, taking another drag.
"I don't do much. I'm a drifter like you," Frank said, accepting the joint.
"But Mr. White said you were classmates in high school?" Pinkman inquired, puzzled.
"We were college roommates," Frank clarified with a puff.
"College? But..." Pinkman was even more confused.
To Pinkman, college graduates were intellectuals, not drifters.
"College doesn't guarantee success. I've seen PhDs living as homeless scavengers. Education doesn't always equate to success."
"Walter was the smartest person I knew, even involved in a Nobel Prize project. Now he's a teacher here," Frank explained.
"A Nobel Prize?!" Pinkman was shocked. Even with limited knowledge, he knew the significance of such an award.
"Surprising, right? I didn't expect him to end up like this after all these years," Frank said, taking another drag.
As they talked, Frank briefly shared his story, mentioning his life in Chicago with six children.
"My eldest, Lip, is almost eighteen, about your age. Seeing you reminds me of him. But Lip's a genius, already able to pass college entrance exams, accepted by Harvard, Stanford, and MIT. A professor at the University of Chicago wants him to skip grades," Frank said.
"And then?" Pinkman asked.
"Nothing, because we can't afford it. Do you know how much tuition is at a place like the University of Chicago?" Frank sighed.
"So you came to Mr. White for help with tuition, but it was a wasted trip," Pinkman surmised.
"Not entirely. Tell me about yourself," Frank said, shifting the conversation.
"Me? There's not much to say. I'm a local, never left New Mexico. I don't have any special skills or likes," Pinkman said nonchalantly.
"What about your parents?" Frank asked.
"My parents couldn't care less about me. They've given up. I have a little brother—a genius. They're banking on him to succeed," Pinkman paused.