Chapter 204: The Deal
"You feeling better?" Frank asked as the sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. Pinkman wiped his mouth and stepped out.
"Yeah. Did you find a buyer?" Pinkman nodded, sitting on the bed and taking a sip from the beer on the table.
"It's settled. We're meeting them at noon. You're coming with me," Frank said firmly.
"I... I'd rather not go," Pinkman hesitated.
"No. You're coming." Frank cut him off before he could finish.
All he had to do was throw up before a deal—that level of nerves wouldn't do. Too timid, completely unreliable. Frank knew he needed to toughen him up, and this was just the beginning.
Frank had plans to groom Pinkman. Otherwise, he wouldn't have brought him all the way to Chicago.
Though reluctant, Pinkman eventually complied under Frank's forceful demeanor, following along without resistance.
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Frank led Pinkman to the designated meeting spot. Old Milkovich was already there—accompanied by over a dozen people. Judging by their formation, it was clear there were three separate groups, all local drug bosses.
"Who's he?" one of them asked warily, eyeing the unfamiliar Pinkman.
"He's my godson. One of us. No need to worry," Frank vouched.
They glanced at Milkovich, who gave a nod of confirmation.
"This is the product. Go ahead and test it. It's the same as the sample—top grade," Frank said, placing his backpack on the table.
They opened the bag and poured out bags of crystalline powder, each group conducting their own inspection.
"No issues," they agreed after a brief discussion.
Then came the haggling over price. The initial offer of $60,000 per pound was met with immediate resistance—it was far too high for a wholesale deal.
After intense negotiation, they settled on $54,000 per pound, selling all 12 pounds for a total of $660,000.
The entire stock was split among the groups, cash for product. The massive amount of money filled a large travel duffel.
Pinkman trailed behind the whole time, dazed and speechless.
In his mind, a fair price would've been around $35,000 per pound. Selling the full batch for $400,000 would've been a massive win already. He never imagined Frank would close for nearly double that.
$54,000 per pound—wholesale.
Back in New Mexico, they had struggled to push product. Even working day and night trying to build a distribution network, they barely sold a single pound retail for just over $40,000 after a week.
This didn't make sense.
Retail should be more expensive than wholesale—so how was the bulk deal pulling in more?
Simple: Pinkman underestimated the value of the product.
This wasn't your average meth. It was Heisenberg's premium formula—ultra-high purity. That alone pushed the value up.
More importantly, this wasn't New Mexico—it was Chicago.
Just like coal is cheaper near the mines in Shanxi, so too is meth cheaper near its origin. New Mexico borders Mexico, a country flooded with drugs and home to major cartels. Ninety percent of the U.S. meth market originates there.
So naturally, prices in New Mexico were suppressed.
But in Chicago? No such influence. No cartel glut. Higher risk, higher demand—higher price.
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Regardless of the reasoning, Frank and Pinkman had struck it rich. Seeing that duffel stuffed with cash made the rough journey from New Mexico all worth it.
"Will there be more of this in the future? Can you keep supplying it?" one of the group leaders asked as he packed up the product.
"There will be more, but I can't guarantee steady supply. I'll reach out when I've got something," Frank replied.
The route from New Mexico to Chicago was long and dangerous. Not to mention sourcing the raw materials was becoming increasingly difficult. Regular supply just wasn't feasible.
If only Walter lived in Chicago—Frank thought—he could sell out an entire batch the same day it was cooked.
"What crew are you with?" someone else asked.
"Crew? We're not a gang. We're Heisenberg. Looking forward to working together again." Frank tossed the cash-filled duffel to Pinkman and turned to leave.
"Heisenberg? Never heard of that. Is it a street name or what?" the three groups murmured among themselves.
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Frank and Pinkman didn't stick around. They left the South Side immediately, driving into the city's more prosperous district, where they used the freshly earned cash to check into a high-end hotel.
Despite Milkovich's assurance, the South Side was still dangerous—especially with that much money on them. It was too risky. Walking around there with that kind of cash was just asking for trouble.
In the South Side, even withdrawing money from an ATM in broad daylight could get you mugged.
That's why they moved uptown—more security, more peace of mind.
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"We're rich. We're freaking rich!" Pinkman exclaimed, slumping onto the hotel sofa and staring in disbelief at the pile of money on the table.
The $660,000 in cash formed a mountain. The sheer visual impact was overwhelming. Pinkman had never seen this much money in his entire life.
"And this is just the beginning. There'll be a lot more where that came from," Frank said, popping open a beer, his eyes drinking in the glorious sight.
They'd split the money three ways—$220,000 each.
From buying raw materials to transporting the goods from New Mexico to Chicago, the entire operation had taken less than a month.
A net profit of $220,000 in one month. What other business could generate that kind of return?
This industry was all profit, Frank knew. But it came with massive risk. One misstep could mean a bullet to the head—or life behind bars. It was like gambling with your life.
Frank decided to share the good news with Walter and shot him an email.
A few minutes later, Frank's burner phone rang.
"Seriously? You sold everything?" Walter's excited voice came through the receiver the moment Frank picked up.
"Yeah, all 12 pounds. Pulled in $660,000. Even after some expenses, we're each walking away with at least $200K," Frank replied.
"You're not lying to me? You guys just got to Chicago!" Walter asked, still in disbelief.
Walter had once set a life goal: make $800,000 before he died. And now, just like that, $200,000 was already in his pocket—a quarter of the way there.
"I told you, Chicago's my turf. I can move a lot more here. Though next time, I doubt we'll be able to sell this much in one go," Frank said.
(End of Chapter)
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