Chapter 2: A Man Named Saul
The air inside the office was thick with the scent of cheap air freshener, the kind that smelled like a chemical approximation of a pine forest, and stale coffee that had been left on the warmer for far too long. The office itself was a sensory assault: a tacky mix of fake Greco-Roman columns made of painted styrofoam, an American flag-themed sofa that looked like it had seen better days, and a framed diploma from a law school Tim had never heard of, hung crookedly on the wall. The entire room screamed "shyster" with a megaphone. The place felt like a cheap magic trick, designed to impress the desperate and fool the gullible.
Saul Goodman, a man in a flamboyant pinstripe suit, was in the middle of a phone-rant, his voice a manic, high-pitched squeal. "No, no, no, listen to me, you moron! The plea deal is non-negotiable! The judge is a hard-ass, and you're lucky I'm even getting you community service instead of a prison cell!" He punctuated his tirade by gesturing wildly with his free hand, his tie askew, his face a contorted mask of theatrical outrage. He looked like a used car salesman who'd just been told his inventory was faulty.
He finally hung up the phone, slamming the receiver down with a theatrical flourish, and turned his attention to Tim. He eyed him suspiciously, a flicker of professional caution behind his perpetually flustered exterior. He was a man who lived on the edge, constantly assessing friend or foe. "You lost, buddy? This is a law office, not a homeless shelter."
Tim didn't flinch. He just held Saul's gaze, the System's prompt echoing in his mind.
He took a deep breath, the stale air scratching at his throat. "The fixer is here."
Saul's bluster vanished, replaced by a sudden, unnerving stillness. His eyes narrowed, and he ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, a nervous gesture. The manic energy was replaced by a cold, calculating gaze. "Right," he said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "Took you long enough. Didn't think you were gonna show. Thought maybe you were a cop or something, playing games." He glanced nervously out his window, chewing on a fingernail.
"I was," Tim's inner voice screamed. "I was a cop. And you're a walking, talking ethical nightmare. I can't believe I'm doing this." But the System's debt tracker, a constant, glowing presence at the edge of his vision, loomed larger, a silent, ticking clock counting down his humanity.
"Ethical parameters?" Tim almost laughed out loud. "The System has ethical parameters? This whole operation is a moral black hole." The irony was a bitter pill to swallow. He had spent his life enforcing the law, and now a cosmic entity was telling him to find the "ethical" route through the criminal underworld.
Saul, with his characteristic bluster, laid out the job. "A small misunderstanding, see? Just a little drug deal gone… sideways. My client, a real upstanding guy, mind you, just had a minor disagreement. A couple of scuffs, some broken glass. Nothing major. But, you know, my client's a bit of a clean freak. Doesn't want any messes. So, I figured, you're the guy. The guy who cleans up messes. Right?"
"How much?" Tim asked, his voice flat, cutting through Saul's manic energy. He folded his arms, adopting a stance he'd used a hundred times in police interrogations, a quiet wall of resistance designed to make the other person do all the talking.
Saul's eyes lit up with avarice. "How much? A man of directness! I like that. We'll say... two hundred. For your troubles. Clean it up, make it look like nothing ever happened."
"Five hundred," Tim countered, surprising even himself. It was a bluff, but he could almost feel the System humming with a silent approval, a vibration that felt like a quiet pat on the back. Saul's eyes bulged, and he started to protest, but Tim held his ground, his police training kicking in, the old, familiar feeling of negotiation in a tense situation.
"Five hundred? Are you out of your mind? It's a garage, not the Taj Mahal! I'm already losing money on this guy, he's a cheapskate, and I'm practically doing this as a favor!"
"Five hundred," Tim repeated, his voice firm. "Or I walk. I'm not a maid, Mr. Goodman. I'm a fixer."
Saul sighed, a long, drawn-out groan of defeat. "Fine! Five hundred! You're a shark, you know that? A real shark." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, peeling off five one-hundred-dollar bills and shoving them into Tim's hand. The money felt dirty, tainted by the entire encounter. He had just made his first transaction as a fixer, and it felt like a part of his soul had just been sold for a stack of greasy paper. He took the money, his fingers brushing against Saul's, and the contact felt like a jolt of electricity, a silent confirmation that he had crossed a line he could never uncross.
Tim walked away from the garish office with a heavy feeling in his gut. The cold, empty feeling that Saul's world was far more dangerous and ethically bankrupt than he anticipated settled over him. The money felt dirty in his hands, a physical representation of the bargain he had just struck with the devil. He was no longer Tim Bradford, decorated cop. He was a phantom, a ghost in a new world, tasked with making messes disappear. And this was just the first one.