Dated 11/21

[has_nothing]

He's been pretending to deal for Diego Novoa and his crew for something like a month now. Going out on corners, but leaving all the product at home, fronting his own cash for the glass that he doesn't know is fucked up or not. Someone died because these guys didn't give a shit, because they still don't give a shit, and that's enough for him.

Maybe it means the five million he got last year is going fast these days, but it's worth it, he thinks. Especially if they're going to get to the bottom of all this, figure out why the cook's bad, and maybe stop it. He doesn't know how Mister White plans on maybe doing just that, but this is just like, phase one of the plan or whatever.

Phase two's not so easy, and truth is, he's been avoiding it. He's one of Novoa's top earners these days, even if he hasn't actually moved so much as a teenth, but the dude still scares the shit out of him. He gets some serious Tuco vibes off of the guy, and nothing about that was good like, at all. But today, Jesse figures it's about as good as it's ever going to get, so after he's already dead dropped his coin for the week, he gets one of the Lobos guys to set up a meet. Him, Novoa, and his douchebag neck tattoo bodyguards, probably.

It's the same as last time. The sandwich shop, the back room, the neck tattoo guys, the desk. They frisk him. The guy's in good spirits again, but Jesse's still unnerved, remembering the gun on the desk last time. But if he's going to get in with the cook, figure out what's up, he's going to have to do this.

"Pinkman! Compadre, we met again," Diego says, and Jesse's too busy looking over his shoulders at the bodyguards to even fake a cheerful greeting, "Didn't think I'd see you in here again. We all thought you'd found some way to sling 24/7."

"Yeah, uh, I guess not," Jesse says, and tries to laugh. He's got enough crystal hidden under the sink in his kitchen to get him put away for a dime at least, probably, but it'll be a while, he thinks, before anyone realizes the streets aren't exactly flush with scante.

"Don't just stand there, have a seat. Tell me why the hell you've got me here like I don't have other shit I need to be doing."

Jesse nods, and sits like he's told to. He'd feel a hell of a lot better standing, but it's probably in his best interests not to argue, at least not now.

"Okay, so, you know... thanks, for coming in," Jesse says, stalling while he tries to figure out how to start this, how to not sound like he's trying to tell this guy how to run his crew, how to distribute his glass, "but I've been wondering how you're set for cooks."

"You're the one pushing the product," Diego replies, and Jesse doesn't know if he imagines it, or if the guy's smile starts to fade, just a little, "We've got plenty."

"Yeah, but I mean, like," Jesse says, and pauses, and by now, he figures he might be better off just jumping in, just going for it. "so the crystal you've got. It's gotta be, what? Like seventy percent pure? Sixty? I can do ninety-six, proven, yo." The cartel put his cook through a machine back in Mexico, and it'd almost been as pure as Heisenberg's cook.

"Ninety percent," Diego replies, and for a second, Jesse thinks he looks almost like he's considering, so he presses on.

"No lie, yo," Jesse says, "And higher purity, better product, more sales. I can help."

"You can help." he repeats.

There's a long pause where Diego seems to consider Jesse's offer. But then, without another word, he gets up from his desk and walks across the room. Jesse stands up too, feeling like he's just missed his chance, and that he's put so much money in to looking like he's been dealing for nothing. Only, when he starts to follow, one of the neck tattoo guys stops him. The other shuts the door behind Diego.

The next thing Jesse knows, one of them's grabbed the chair and hit him with it from behind. He falls to the floor with a groan and tries to get up, only there's a boot in his face, against his ribs— which he's already fucking broken once before— in his gut.

Turns out, it's a bad fucking idea to even look like you're trying to tell somebody how to run their crew.

He loses track of how long they wail on him, mostly because he blacks out.

Who the hell knows how long it is before he wakes up, but when he does it's not in his own bed. Everything's white and everything hurts, one of his eyes is swollen shut and it's a few seconds before he even realizes he's in a hospital.

Bad idea. He fuckin' knew it from the start.

Comments

[uncertainty_principle]

"Good," Walter nodded, letting a bit of relief wash over him as he took a seat in the uncomfortable hospital chair next to the bed. "Good. As soon as they get involved, we'll have no chance of pulling this off. None."

He was sure that Jesse understood that, better than anyone, but this wasn't like Albuquerque, where Walter at least had some knowledge of where the investigation was headed. They had no ears on the inside, no connections, nothing.

"Are you going to tell me what really happened? I can make a few guesses, but I'd like to hear the truth."