Chapter 270: Running Away
"Is this really New York? It's my first time here," Pinkman said, gazing out at the scenery.
With so much chaos back home and Gretchen showing up at his door, it was all too overwhelming.
Frank felt a complex mix of emotions regarding Gretchen. She was a married woman, after all.
However, it was Frank—under the influence of "Frank"—who had initiated the flirtation with her. Now that she was all over him, he couldn't just ignore it.
In theory, Gretchen was a billionaire; her interest in Frank could be considered his good fortune.
Countless young men in their twenties and thirties would love to have a wealthy woman like her on their arm.
Frank could easily ride Gretchen's coattails and enjoy a life of luxury funded by her.
If Frank had actively pursued this, Gretchen might very well have given him an apartment and provided for him, creating a "golden cage" situation.
If it were "Frank," he would certainly be all for it.
But Frank couldn't bring himself to do that. He wasn't "Frank." His upbringing instilled in him a sense of responsibility and a touch of traditional masculinity.
This made his feelings towards Gretchen quite complicated.
Moreover, he was genuinely afraid of the potential fallout if Gretchen and Sheila crossed paths—things could spiral out of control quickly.
So, Frank decided it was best to disappear for a while. If he couldn't handle it, he could at least avoid it.
Taking Pinkman with him, Frank headed to New York to lay low and explore new market opportunities.
During this time, the new product had begun to make waves in the market, attracting attention in the industry. After all, its quality spoke for itself, and its icy blue color set it apart, highlighting its uniqueness.
Frank stashed the goods away and left Pinkman to guard them while he ventured into Harlem.
Instead of going straight to Harlem's Paradise, Frank first sought out an acquaintance.
"This place hasn't changed at all," Frank remarked as he stood in front of a well-established barbershop.
"Long time no see! Remember me?" Frank stepped inside and spotted a hefty Black man in a jazz hat lounging on the couch watching a game.
"Frank! This time it looks like you haven't been robbed," the barber chuckled, recalling their first meeting when Frank had been mugged and thrown out of a van, landing in a puddle—quite a humiliating moment.
"You're still the same," Frank greeted him.
The first time Frank met the barber, he had been brought to New York by Joseph as a sacrifice to the devil, but he managed to escape with the help of the barber, forming a quick friendship.
Now that Frank was back in New York, he wanted to reconnect with his old friend.
While they chatted and drank for a couple of hours, a Black man entered the shop, looking around.
"Are you Heisenberg?" the man asked, his gaze landing on Frank.
"Are you sent by Old Milkovich?" Frank set down his drink.
"Yeah, Cottonmouth is expecting you. You can head over anytime," the man replied.
"Alright, I have to go now. I'll come back for a drink in a few days," Frank said as he stood up.
"You're going to see Cottonmouth?" the barber frowned.
The barber was no ordinary man; he had once been a big shot in Harlem before retiring to run the barbershop. Many of the local gang leaders were still his underlings.
Cottonmouth had once followed the barber around in his youth.
Of course, with a new generation in power, the barber's influence had waned, but he still commanded respect due to his status.
His barbershop served as a neutral zone in Harlem, much like Switzerland—no trouble was tolerated there.
"It's nothing serious. I'm just going to discuss business with Cottonmouth," Frank assured him before leaving the barbershop.
"Heisenberg, your name is quite the buzz these days," the barber remarked.
"How so?" Frank asked.
"Your product has made its way over here, and everyone is calling it Blue Angel," the barber informed him.
Frank was somewhat surprised; Chicago and New York were quite distant, so he hadn't expected it to spread this far.
"My name is Henry "Pop" Hunter. If you ever need anything—whether finding someone, buying goods, or acquiring hard-to-get items—you can come to me. I have some connections, though I usually hang around Hell's Kitchen," the barber said, handing Frank a business card to expand his clientele.
Frank accepted the card and easily recognized that Pop was a local power player. He might not be able to help with major issues, but he could assist with smaller matters, like arranging a meeting with Cottonmouth.
Frank and Pop headed to the Harlem Paradise nightclub. After communicating with the guards at the entrance, Frank made his way to the second floor.
In an office on the second floor, a Black man in a black suit, looking very much like an English gentleman, sat in an executive chair. He was Frank's target, Cottonmouth.
"I didn't expect you to be the legendary Heisenberg," Cottonmouth said, sizing up Frank.
"Go get the money for Mr.Hunter," Cottonmouth instructed one of his subordinates.
The subordinate handed Pop a bag, and Pop made a phone gesture at Frank before leaving.
"Do you remember me?" Frank asked as Pop exited.
"Of course," Cottonmouth replied with a smile.
Frank had encountered Cottonmouth before and was struck by his gentlemanly demeanor.
Cottonmouth also remembered Frank well; after all, Harlem was predominantly a Black community, and it was rare to see a white person around.
Harlem Paradise was the only upscale nightclub in the area, frequented by the elite of the Black community, with very few white patrons.
Thus, Frank's presence at Harlem Paradise had caused quite a stir, especially since he had attracted some trouble, notably involving Joseph, a billionaire.
While Cottonmouth was a gang leader, he was nothing compared to Joseph, and he had worried about the potential fallout from Joseph's wrath. Thankfully, that never materialized, especially after Joseph's downfall.
That's why Cottonmouth had a deeper impression of Frank than Frank had of him.
"So, why have you come to see me?" Cottonmouth asked.
"I want to discuss business," Frank replied, taking a seat.
"Business? As far as I know, Heisenberg doesn't deal in arms," Cottonmouth inquired.
Cottonmouth was in the smuggling arms trade.
"That's right; I want to engage in that business," Frank said, pulling out a sample.
"Blue Angel." Cottonmouth's eyes flickered as he looked at the sample on the table.
"We don't deal in that," Cottonmouth said, averting his gaze.
"It's not too late to start now. This is a unique product, and there's no competition for you," Frank urged.
"Can I ask a question?" Cottonmouth paused before speaking.
(End of Chapter)