Chapter 54: Uncle Fried Chicken
After breakfast, Max headed off to her other part-time job, while Ron had no intention of joining Caroline for her usual morning workout. Instead, after a quick wash-up, he got in his car and drove straight to the city center.
Just east of the famous Hollywood Boulevard lay Gower Street—a bustling area whose foot traffic could rival that of the Boulevard itself. Unlike Hollywood Boulevard, which was lined mainly with boutique stores, Gower was all about food—ranging from upscale restaurants to fast food joints. The cuisine here, across the board, wasn't bad at all.
Ron's destination was one of these eateries: a spot called "Los Pollos Hermanos", or "Brothers' Fried Chicken."
The name was in Spanish, and like most Americans, Ron could understand a little. He strolled up to the counter, where red-uniformed staff buzzed about. Standing beside them, however, was a Black man in a bright yellow shirt, wearing glasses and looking every bit the image of calm professionalism.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" the man asked warmly, his smile both courteous and disarming—so much so that it immediately put people at ease.
If only the restaurant where Max and Caroline worked had staff this friendly, that short-tempered Korean guy running it would've been a millionaire by now.
Ron leaned casually on the counter. "I'd like to speak with your manager—Gustavo Fring. I heard I could find him here."
"That would be me," the man replied, smile unwavering. "Is there a problem with our service? Would you like to file a complaint?"
He spoke so gently, so naturally, it felt more like chatting with an old neighbor in Texas than any sort of confrontation.
Ron's eyes sharpened. This guy... was anything but ordinary.
His drug lab had been blown to pieces just yesterday, and yet here he was today, playing the role of the gentle restaurant owner without missing a beat. No anger, no visible stress. If nothing else, the man had nerves of steel and the patience of a saint.
Without a word, Ron took out his ID and flashed it in front of Fring. "IRS. I'm here on a tax matter. I'm assuming someone already gave you a heads-up?"
"Tax matter?" Fring raised an eyebrow slightly. "If I recall correctly, I already submitted the quarterly filings. My fried chicken business handles all its taxes through my cousin's accounting firm. And corporate tax season hasn't even arrived yet."
He pushed his glasses up his nose with the same calm composure, as if none of this rattled him in the slightest. But Ron, during that brief moment when Fring lowered his head, felt it—an unmistakable, bone-deep killing intent.
Yes, killing intent. Ron had trained himself to sense it with razor precision—it was how he'd survived countless deadly missions as an undercover agent.
Now things were getting interesting.
Ron had already revealed his identity. Fring clearly knew who he was and what he'd done. Yet he continued this little performance like nothing had happened. Was he obsessive? A control freak? Maybe a textbook case of narcissistic personality disorder?
Ron grinned and tapped his ID gently on the counter. "I'm not talking about this fried chicken joint. I'm referring to your... other business."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice so only Fring could hear:
"That little operation you've got going at the laundromat. That's a whole lot of money moving around—taxable money. I could arrest you right now for tax evasion, couldn't I?
But that's not what you want, is it?
You want your employees here to keep believing you're just a regular guy, living a quiet life. And honestly? I think that kind of life suits you.
Problem is, a lot of people have lost their shot at a normal life because of you... right, Uncle Fried Chicken?"
"Uncle Fried Chicken" was a nickname Ron and Hank had come up with during their investigation—a code for Gustavo Fring, the drug lord hiding behind a fried chicken empire. Ron had looked into his background: despite his youthful appearance (no doubt thanks to his ethnicity), Fring was actually about the same age as Old George. The nickname "Uncle" was more than fitting.
Also, while Hank looked visibly older, he was, surprisingly, only eight years older than Ron.
"Combo A, right? Cash payment," said Uncle Fried Chicken with a composed smile, smoothly placing the order before anyone nearby could notice what was happening. He even pulled some coins from his own pocket to pay for it.
In the U.S., the IRS has a terrible reputation. They're like mythical beasts that only take, never give. No one ever gets money out of them—only the other way around. Fring didn't see himself as an exception to that rule.
"All right. I'll be waiting over there," Ron said, pointing to a window-side booth before walking over. The restaurant was still quiet in the morning, and that particular spot was completely isolated—perfect for a private conversation.
Less than ten minutes later, Uncle Fried Chicken arrived with a tray in hand.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked politely.
"Be my guest." Ron took the tray and dove right in, not even sparing a glance at the man across from him. He tore into the fried chicken with enthusiasm, chewing with gusto. Between bites, he commented:
"Honestly, this is the best fried chicken I've had since I got to LA. I don't get it—you could've lived like a king just sticking to this legit business. So why risk everything in the drug trade? What were you thinking?"
Fring didn't answer. Instead, he responded with a question of his own:
"You're not worried I might poison your food? Or have you shot? This is my turf, after all. Coming here alone? That was a foolish move. You know how badly I want you dead."
As he spoke, Fring gave a small hand signal—and suddenly, a red dot appeared on Ron's temple. A sniper.
Ron chuckled, unfazed. "Of course I'm scared. But if I die, you're going down with me."
Still chewing, he casually lifted the edge of his shirt to reveal a strange device strapped to his side—part digital watch, part chaotic tangle of wires.
Two more bites, and he spat out a chicken bone, grinning mischievously. "Electronic bomb. Synced to my heartbeat. Wanna find out how loud it gets?"
Fring's smile faltered. He gave another subtle gesture, and the red dot on Ron's head vanished.
Round one: Ron wins.
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"Everyone has the right to pursue a better life, don't they?" Fring finally said, dropping the façade. His tone had shifted—calmer, but more honest. "Human desire has no limits. Compared to what I really make, the profits from fried chicken are… insignificant. Even people like you are after it, aren't you?"
The fried chicken, though delicious, was a bit salty. Ron's mouth was dry. He grabbed the cola and took a long swig before replying:
"You're not wrong. But from what I've gathered, you barely even spend the money. According to your neighbors, your lifestyle matches what someone running a fried chicken joint would make—nothing more. So what's the point of hoarding all that cash if you're not gonna use it? Don't tell me it helps you sleep better at night."