Chapter 203: Business
"Hey Mickey, is your dad home? I need to talk to him," Frank said.
"You're looking for my dad? What for?" Mickey frowned.
"Grown-up stuff."
Frank stepped inside and was immediately met with the sight of a burly man in a tank top and shorts, lounging on the couch watching TV. His body was covered in tattoos, and his face looked mean enough to make most people avoid eye contact. He had the kind of presence that made cops stop him on the street just to check his ID.
"Huh? Frank? You're still alive?" Old Milkovich looked up, surprised.
"Of course I'm alive." Frank was just as puzzled—why did everyone act like they'd seen a ghost when they saw him?
"What're you doing at my place?" Milkovich asked. He was surprised but didn't take it too seriously. He and Frank weren't friends, just neighborhood acquaintances who'd once shared a drink or two.
"I've got a business proposition. Try this," Frank said, pulling a small bag from his pocket. Inside was a sample.
"Good stuff," Milkovich said knowingly. He caught the sample, took a glance, and instantly recognized the quality—it was top-tier.
"If everything you've got is this good, I'll take it all," Milkovich said as he began prepping the sample to test it.
"You're gonna use it yourself?" Frank asked.
"You think I can't handle it? How much do you even—whoa! Sh*t, this stuff hits hard!" Milkovich suddenly leapt from the couch.
"I've never had anything this strong. This is some premium product. Where'd you get it?" Milkovich was clearly high, visibly excited under the influence.
"That's not important. Point is, I've got a lot of it, all the same quality," Frank replied.
"Alright, name your price. I'll take it all," Milkovich said, finally settling down on the couch.
"I told you, it's too much for you alone. That's why I came to you—we've known each other a long time. You've tried the product, it's all this quality. You're gonna need to bring in more people," Frank said.
"How much we talking?" Milkovich asked.
"Twelve pounds," Frank replied.
"Tw—what!? Did you say twelve pounds?" Milkovich's eyes widened in shock.
"Yeah. Can you handle it?" Frank asked coolly.
"What the f*ck… where'd you get that much? You working for someone now?" Milkovich asked.
Twelve pounds wasn't a small number. That was cartel-level volume—most dealers wouldn't even come close to moving that much product.
Milkovich knew what kind of guy Frank was. There was no way this was his own operation. He must be moving someone else's stash.
"Exactly. That's why I said you can't handle it solo. But I came to you because we go way back. You know the quality now. It's all like this. Call your people and split it up," Frank said, not bothering to explain the source.
"How much are you asking?" Milkovich asked.
"Sixty grand a pound," Frank said boldly.
"No way. That's way too much," Milkovich objected immediately.
"We'll talk price later. For now, call your people. Let's meet somewhere and hash out the details. Bring cash. Strictly business—money for product," Frank replied.
"Fine. This afternoon," Milkovich agreed.
"I'll find the spot. I'll call you. Here's a sample for them to try," Frank said, tossing over roughly an ounce before leaving.
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In New Mexico, Frank and his crew had the product but no buyers. Now that they were back in Chicago, the moment they hit town, a connection appeared—and with just a few words, a deal was in the works. That's the power of local connections.
Frank and Old Milkovich weren't friends, but they'd known each other for decades—since before either had kids. They'd shared drinks in bars back in the day.
They knew each other's pasts and had no reason to suspect an undercover cop. In this kind of business, trust was everything. Countless crime dramas had shown how trust issues led to mutual suspicion and collapse.
Once trust was established, the rest was easy—it was just like any regular business deal. Talk about the product, set the price, handle logistics.
Frank approached Milkovich because he had reach—he knew people from all walks of life.
Frank had too much product on hand, and even established dealers couldn't take it all.
It's not that drug lords were broke—this line of work was high-profit. But just like real business, few people had hundreds of thousands in liquid cash lying around.
That's why Frank needed Milkovich to organize the sale and make it a bulk deal.
Old Milkovich was the type who could get anything done—assassinations, human smuggling, body disposal, alibis, even influence inside prisons.
In the South Side ghetto, almost all the criminals were related in some way. And the Milkovich family had more connections than most. With Milkovich acting as a middleman and guarantor, there was no need to worry about being ripped off.
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Knock knock knock!
Frank returned to the motel and knocked on the door. But no one answered.
"The room number's right… don't tell me something happened," he muttered, frowning as he double-checked the number.
BANG BANG BANG! Frank knocked harder, and finally the door opened.
"Whoa! What the hell are you doing? Don't point that thing at me!" Frank yelled, quickly ducking to the side.
Inside the room, Jesse Pinkman was holding a gun in both hands, aiming right at the door. When Frank walked in, the barrel nearly touched his forehead.
Jesse had always been a small-time punk with no real nerve. Though he'd toughened up a bit after helping dispose of two bodies, he still didn't have the guts for this.
Now, holed up in a motel room guarding product worth hundreds of thousands, he was completely strung out—afraid of both cops and thieves.
Every time someone passed by the door, Jesse's heart nearly leapt out of his throat. He'd been nervously bouncing his leg and clutching the gun Frank left for him.
Back in New Mexico, Frank had trained Jesse a little—after all, if you're in this business and can't even fire a gun, you're asking to get killed.
That gun was for emergencies. If anything went wrong, Jesse was supposed to use it to protect himself.
When Frank knocked, Jesse's whole body tensed. He stood up, gun shaking in his hands, slowly inching toward the door. That's why it took him so long to open it.
The second knock startled him so badly he almost dropped the gun. He reflexively pointed it at the door and only then cracked it open.
Frank saw Jesse's hands still trembling and was afraid the kid might accidentally shoot him. He quickly snatched the gun away.
As soon as Jesse realized it was Frank, he exhaled deeply—the tension draining from his body.
"Urgh!" The moment he relaxed, Jesse dashed into the bathroom and started vomiting from sheer nerves.
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