Chapter 244: Accounting Issues
Debbie was already eleven years old — no longer a little child. Growing up in a poor household, she had matured early. In some ways, she was far more thoughtful than other kids her age.
So when it came to the serious topic of death, Frank didn't sugarcoat things or use fairy tales to shield her.
"I don't want you to die," Debbie said, clutching Frank's shirt tightly.
"Daddy's not going anywhere anytime soon. My little Debbie is still so adorable. You haven't grown up yet, haven't fallen in love, haven't gotten married. How could I die before all that happens?" Frank said with a smile.
"I wonder which punk will end up marrying my cute little Debbie," he joked.
"I'm not getting married! I want to stay with Daddy forever," Debbie said, wrapping her arms around him.
"When girls grow up, they'll meet someone they love. You won't always be able to stay with Daddy," Frank chuckled.
"You've always been afraid of death, afraid of being left alone one day. So let's make a deal — I'll stay around long enough to see you grow up, to see you get married, to see you have children of your own."
"That way, even if the day comes that you're afraid of, you won't be alone. You'll have your husband and your children with you."
"But you have to promise Daddy something — when the time comes, find a guy who loves you even more than I do. That's the only kind of guy who deserves you," Frank said seriously.
"Okay…" Debbie nodded hesitantly.
"Pinky promise," she said, holding out her small pinky finger.
"Pinky promise," Frank said, hooking his finger with hers.
"We've got a deal. Whoever breaks it is a little puppy!" Debbie declared.
"Yep. Whoever breaks it is a puppy," Frank agreed.
After their pinky promise, Debbie's mood clearly brightened.
"Daddy, can I have a puppy?" she suddenly asked, her thoughts jumping like any child's.
"Uh… sure, but we have to ask Fiona first," Frank replied.
"It's dinnertime, kids!" Sammi's voice rang out as the sky darkened. Holding a spatula, she called everyone over.
With the sound of stomping footsteps, the kids gathered at the table.
Sammi and Fiona discussed renovations, Lip and Ian talked about tutoring, Debbie and Carl were bickering, and Chuckie was eating quietly. It was chaotic, loud, and lively.
But Frank sat there smiling, thoroughly enjoying the moment. This was what he had always longed for — a real home, filled with warmth and noise.
He wished time could just stop here.
"Daddy, try the spaghetti. It's really good!" Debbie said, offering him a bite.
"Alright, alright," Frank chuckled.
A few days later, Pinkman came to Frank and asked, "When are we going back?"
They had been in Chicago for quite a while. Their main goal was to unload the product and convert it to cash — which they had already done.
Chicago was Frank's home, not Pinkman's. His home was in New Mexico. To him, Chicago was unfamiliar territory.
Though he had gotten close to the kids and Kevin's crew during this time and had met plenty of new people, it still wasn't home. Pinkman was ready to go back.
Besides, they had business to take care of. Staying in Chicago any longer would just delay everything. The sooner they got back, the sooner they could stock up on raw materials and resume production.
"Let's wait a bit. No rush. Didn't Walt say he needed time to develop a new formula?" Frank replied.
He'd been drifting for six months. Now that he was finally home, he wasn't about to leave so soon. Sure, making money was important — but so was spending time with the kids.
"…Alright," Pinkman said, reluctantly agreeing.
Riiing riiing riiing—
A few peaceful days later, Frank was suddenly awakened by his phone ringing.
"Anfisa?" he muttered, seeing the caller ID.
"Hello? What's going on?" he asked, a bit nervous.
The money-laundering scheme had just started — if something went wrong now, all their earlier efforts would've been for nothing.
"There's a problem with the bar's books. Veronica wants to talk to you," Anfisa said.
Half an hour later, Frank arrived at the bar. It was closed, not open for business.
Inside, Veronica and Kevin sat across from Anfisa, the mood tense — a standoff of sorts.
"What's going on?" Frank asked.
"Frank, we own half of this bar. Why won't you let us see the books? How much money did we even make this month?" Veronica demanded.
She worked as a nurse at a care facility and spent her days off doing odd jobs with Fiona to earn extra cash. Most of the time, Kevin handled the bar.
Frank had put Anfisa in charge of the finances and bookkeeping. Veronica had known and didn't object — at first.
But now that the month had ended, she wanted to go over the accounts and get her share.
In her eyes, the bar was co-owned — half belonged to Kevin, half to Frank. Whatever net profit the bar made each month should be split 50/50.
Kevin was clueless when it came to money — he couldn't even count the cash in the register. So Veronica had always handled the books herself in the past: tallying alcohol sales, cost of goods, damages, and so on. It took hours to calculate net income after expenses.
Even though Kevin had told her that Anfisa could handle it, Veronica still wanted to check things personally.
But when she asked for the records, Anfisa refused outright — no matter what she said, Anfisa wouldn't hand them over. Frustrated, Veronica called Frank in.
"I see what's going on," Frank said after hearing both sides. "But the books can't be shown to you."
"Why not?" Veronica shot back.
"It's in the contract we signed," Frank explained.
Kevin and Veronica pulled out the paperwork and read through it carefully. Sure enough, there was a clause that restricted access to the financial records.
But when they signed it, they were both distracted by the $50,000 investment and didn't read the fine print.
"It's really in there… But how are we supposed to split profits without seeing the books?" Veronica asked.
"Come on. You both know this run-down bar barely scrapes by. Monthly revenue tops out at around $1,000 — maybe $2,000 at best. Sometimes, it's only a few hundred. Do you really think I'd cheat you out of that?" Frank said bluntly.
He had put in fifty grand. If this old bar was only making that little each month, he'd make more flipping burgers. It would take forever to recoup the investment.
"We've already tried everything to make a profit…" Kevin and Veronica muttered, embarrassed.
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