Chapter 357: Private Detective
On the surface, those drug dealers treated Frank with respect—calling him "brother," acting friendly, even deferential. But that was only because they were making money through him.
If anything happened to Blue Angel—if supply dried up—and Frank casually said, "I'm out, Heisenberg has nothing to do with me anymore," they would never accept that.
Not without an explanation.
And if he couldn't give them one, they'd turn on him in an instant.
Cutting off someone's income was worse than killing their parents.
When that time came, Frank would see their true faces.
Worse still, Frank lived in the South Side of Chicago. Born and raised there.
He couldn't just disappear.
You can run from the monk, but you can't run from the temple.
And he had a house full of kids.
In this world, there was no such thing as "leave the family out of it." If someone wanted revenge, they wouldn't hesitate to wipe out an entire household.
Especially in this line of work.
Unlike gun smuggling or car theft, most people involved here were users themselves—addicts, unstable, unpredictable. You never knew what they might do.
Hank's experience was proof enough.
The cartel across the Texas–Mexico border had already shown how far things could go—decapitated heads stuffed with explosives, delivered like gifts.
And those were considered minor tactics.
American dealers might not use methods that crude—they liked to think of themselves as more "civilized." But if they decided to act, their methods would be just as ruthless… if not worse.
Once you step into this world, there's no easy way out.
Like the saying goes—step into the underworld, and your life is no longer your own.
That was why Frank was so desperate to get the Blue Angel formula from Walter.
If he could sell the formula and let it spread, other organizations would start producing it. With their scale and resources, they could easily flood the market.
Compared to them, Heisenberg's limited production would quickly lose its edge.
And once that happened, those same bosses who were chasing Heisenberg now would abandon it just as quickly.
People forget fast—like trends on the internet. Before long, no one would care about Heisenberg anymore.
And no one would come looking for Frank.
But Walter refused to hand over the formula.
And Frank couldn't betray Pinkman.
Not just because he saw him as half a son—but because Pinkman was part of the core operation. If he was handed over, there was a real chance the truth about Heisenberg would come out.
For his own safety… and for the safety of his children… Frank had no room for mistakes.
Frank had no choice but to return to his original plan—find a way to keep Heisenberg running. Even if he died, the operation couldn't collapse.
He sat in the café for a long time, lost in thought. By the time he finally left, his coffee had gone cold and the sky had already darkened.
Back home, he pulled out his phone and made a call.
"Mr. Frank… you finally contacted me," came the voice on the other end.
"What about the investigation I asked for?" Frank said.
"I've gathered everything on Lawyer Goodman. It's all complete."
Before his diagnosis, Frank had hired a private investigator to dig into Goodman's background.
The next day, the investigator showed up at his house with a thick file—packed with detailed information.
Frank had planned to bring Goodman into the operation, so he spared no expense, hiring one of the best private investigators in the area.
And it showed.
The file was incredibly thorough—even records of which kindergarten Goodman attended were included. It traced his entire life, step by step, showing how he became the man he was today.
Goodman had started as a small-time hustler on the streets. But he had a well-known older brother—a founding partner of a major law firm.
Eventually, Goodman turned his life around, passed the bar, and became a lawyer.
But his career wasn't smooth. He faced constant setbacks—pressure from his brother, the death of a close friend, betrayal from someone he loved.
Even so, one thing was clear: Goodman was talented. He had a natural gift for law.
He'd handled major cases, worked at prestigious firms, earned a six-figure income, and lived the high life—luxury cars, big houses.
And yet, in the end, he walked away from it all.
He left the big firm behind, struck out on his own, and started taking on small, messy cases—earning a few hundred or a few thousand at a time.
After going through the entire file, Frank gained a clear understanding of Goodman—from the outside in.
He was hardworking, capable, and sharp.
More importantly, buried in the details, Frank noticed something else—Goodman had a sense of responsibility. He had principles. Lines he wouldn't cross.
Frank spent the entire night reading the file, going over it again and again.
---
At dawn the next morning, just as the first light crept in, Frank heard a brief noise outside.
"Who's this?" he asked, taking a sip of coffee as Castle walked in, dragging a man with him.
Frank looked him over. The man was in his fifties or sixties, with graying beard, a bald head, and a slightly heavy build. He looked tough—the kind of person you wouldn't want to mess with.
"He was staking out the place. Tried to install listening devices," Castle said, tossing a few small electronic components onto the table—miniature bugs.
"Who are you?" Frank asked.
"My name's Mike. Mike Ehrmantraut," the man said calmly. He glanced at Castle, clearly aware there was no escaping, and chose cooperation.
"We don't know each other," Frank said. "Care to explain why you're doing this?"
"I work for Goodman. I handle certain… problems for him. You can call and confirm."
Frank raised an eyebrow, surprised.
He had just received Goodman's file—and now Goodman's man was already at his doorstep?
Was Goodman really that capable?
From the file, it didn't seem like he should have that kind of reach.
Still skeptical, Frank had Castle keep an eye on Mike and dialed Goodman's number.
Even though it was early morning—when most people were still asleep—the call was picked up after just a few rings.
"It's me," Frank said. "I want to ask—do you know someone named—"
"Mike?" Goodman cut in immediately. "Yeah, Mike's my guy. So it was you who hired a private investigator on me, huh?"
He laughed lightly.
"Guess this is just a misunderstanding. Sorry about that. I thought it was a competitor trying to mess with me."
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