Chapter 54: The Chicken Man
Max finished breakfast and headed off to her other part-time gig. Ron, having no intention of sticking around for morning activities with Caroline, simply cleaned up and drove straight into downtown LA.
Gower Street, just east of the famous Hollywood Boulevard, enjoys comparable foot traffic thanks to Hollywood's insane popularity. Unlike Hollywood Boulevard with its endless souvenir shops and tourist traps, this stretch is packed with restaurants of every variety.
There's everything from high-end bistros to fast-food joints, and the food quality is generally solid. Ron's destination was a place called "Los Pollos Hermanos."
The name was in Spanish—something most Angelenos pick up living in SoCal—and Ron was no exception to having some basic conversational Spanish.
He walked up to the counter. Besides the busy staff in their red uniforms, there was a friendly, well-dressed Black man in a yellow polo shirt and wire-rim glasses standing nearby.
"Good morning, how can I help you today, sir?" the man in the yellow shirt asked with a warm smile, the picture of professional courtesy. Just seeing that smile made you want to smile back.
If the diner where Max and Caroline worked had this kind of service, that cranky Korean owner would've been rich years ago.
Ron casually leaned against the counter. "I'd like to speak with your manager, Gustavo Fring. I was told I could find him here."
"Sir, that would be me. Is there some issue with our service I can address?" the Black man continued with that same friendly demeanor, as casual as chatting with a neighbor at a backyard BBQ.
Ron's eyes couldn't help but narrow. This guy was truly something else. Ron had literally blown up his drug operation yesterday, yet here he was playing the perfect restaurant manager today.
From his appearance, he showed absolutely no signs of being rattled by yesterday's events. That level of composure alone marked him as extremely dangerous.
Ron flashed his badge in front of Fring. "IRS, here about taxes. I believe you've been expecting me?"
"Taxes? If I recall correctly, I've already filed my quarterly returns. Los Pollos Hermanos' taxes are handled through my accountant's firm, and we're not due for corporate filings until next quarter."
Fring adjusted his glasses, maintaining that perfectly pleasant expression while explaining matter-of-factly. However, Ron clearly detected an intense wave of hostility the moment Fring looked down at the badge.
Yes, hostility! Ron couldn't mistake it. That same razor-sharp instinct for danger had kept him alive through countless operations during his federal agent days.
This was getting interesting. Ron had already revealed who he was, and Fring obviously knew what he'd done, so why keep up the act? Ron figured this guy either had serious OCD or was a complete sociopath.
"Of course I'm not talking about your chicken restaurant, but your other enterprise." Ron smirked, tapping his badge on the counter. He leaned forward and whispered so only Fring could hear:
"I'm talking about what you were cooking in that laundromat. That's serious money. I could arrest you for tax evasion right now, couldn't I? But you don't want your employees here finding out about that, do you? You want the normal life, right? I think the ordinary businessman routine suits you perfectly, but it seems like a lot of people have lost that kind of life because of you, wouldn't you say, Chicken Man?"
"Chicken Man" was the nickname Ron and Hank had given Fring during their case discussions—a reference to using the fried chicken business as a front for drug distribution. Ron had done his homework on Fring and discovered that despite his youthful appearance, the guy was actually only a few years younger than his own father, making the "old man" reference entirely appropriate.
Interestingly enough, Hank, despite looking older, was surprisingly only eight years Ron's senior.
"Chicken combo number one, coming right up. Cash is preferred. Please have a seat and I'll bring it out personally." Fring smoothly took Ron's "order" before anyone else could notice and paid for it with change from his own pocket.
The IRS had a notorious reputation across America for being absolutely ruthless. Nobody ever got money from them—it was always the other way around—and Fring didn't imagine he'd be any exception to that rule.
"Perfect, I'll be waiting over there." Ron pointed to a window booth and walked over. The restaurant wasn't busy during the morning shift, and the empty booth was ideal for their conversation.
Within ten minutes, the Chicken Man approached with Ron's meal: "Mind if I join you?"
"Please." Ron accepted the plate and ignored Fring settling across from him. He grabbed a piece of chicken and started eating with gusto. Between bites, he couldn't help commenting:
"Honestly, this is the best fried chicken I've had since moving to LA. I really don't get it. You could obviously make a decent living running this place legitimately. There's no need to risk everything on the drug trade. So what's your angle here?"
The Chicken Man didn't answer but countered with: "Aren't you concerned I might poison you? Or have one of my people take you out? You realize this is my territory, right? Coming here alone was pretty reckless. You have any idea how badly I want you dead right now?"
As he spoke, Fring made a subtle gesture, and a small red laser dot immediately appeared on Ron's forehead. There was a sniper positioned somewhere!
"Scared? Sure I am, but you wouldn't be any better off if I died." Ron continued eating, casually lifting the edge of his shirt. Underneath, some kind of digital device bundled with various wires was clearly visible.
Ron crunched through another bite, spit out a bone, and grinned wickedly: "Dead man's switch, synced to my pulse. Want to find out how big the explosion is?"
The Chicken Man shook his head with obvious frustration. This round went to Ron.
"Everyone has the right to pursue a better life, don't they?" Fring finally relaxed, changing his gesture so the red dot vanished from Ron's temple. "But human ambition is limitless. The profits from a chicken restaurant pale in comparison to other opportunities. Surely you understand that temptation?"
The chicken was delicious, but the seasoning was intense. Ron's mouth was getting dry. He grabbed the Coke and took a long swig. "You're absolutely right, but from what I've learned, you don't seem to spend much of that money. According to your neighbors, your lifestyle matches exactly what you'd expect from a restaurant owner's salary. So what I can't figure out is—you want all this cash but don't spend it. What's it actually for? It's not like sleeping on a pile of money is more comfortable, right?"
(End of Chapter)
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