Chapter 205: Dr. Blue's Package
"Why? Didn't you say you could sell however much we make?" Walter asked.
"Because of the materials," Frank replied. "Without enough raw materials, we can't make that much product."
These twelve pounds had already exhausted all of Frank's stored supplies.
While trying to convince Walter to rejoin the operation, Frank had sent Pinkman out repeatedly to stockpile materials. That's the only reason they were able to cook up such a large batch all at once—and rake in a big profit in one go.
But doing it like this again? Selling over a dozen pounds in one shot? That was a one-time deal. It's just not feasible going forward.
Besides, this time Walter had taken Pinkman out to show him the ropes. That left only Walter at home, watching the house.
Walter still had cancer and needed regular treatment. His family was always keeping an eye on him. And aside from chemistry, he didn't know anything—he had no idea how to source supplies or navigate the market.
Even if Walter wanted to go all in and cook more, it was like trying to cook without rice—he simply didn't have the means.
"I remember during a meeting you said some of the raw materials are really hard to get."
"Exactly. So if we solve the material problem, no matter how much we make, you'll be able to move it, right? Let me handle the raw material issue. I'll redesign a new chemical formula for production," Walter said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Frank was stunned. Redesign a chemical formula?
"I'll call you when I've figured it out. Wait for my call." Before Frank could wrap his head around what Walter meant, the call was already disconnected.
"What did Mr. White say?" Pinkman asked curiously.
"How many times do I have to tell you—when we're out in public, call him 'Heisenberg'," Frank reminded.
"Yeah, yeah, got it, old man," Pinkman replied casually—who knows if he was actually listening.
Meanwhile, after hanging up, Walter tucked the burner phone back into his pocket and walked back into the house.
"Where'd you just go?" Skyler asked casually.
"Nowhere—just needed some fresh air. I was feeling a bit stuffy," Walter replied.
"Is it a side effect of the chemo again?" Skyler asked with concern.
"I'm fine," Walter reassured her.
Just then, a knock came at the door—knock knock knock.
"You've got a delivery. Please sign here," the courier said.
"A package? I didn't order anything..." Walter signed the slip, puzzled.
After the courier left, he picked up the package. It was surprisingly heavy—he had to strain a little to carry it inside.
"Did you buy something online?" he asked Skyler as he brought it into the house.
"No. We barely have enough money to keep the lights on," Skyler replied, walking over.
They had drained their savings for Walter's treatment. Buying things? They'd been selling things—small items, decorations—everything they could, just to stay afloat.
"That's weird. Who sent this?" Walter set the box down and checked the label.
"The sender is someone named Dr. Blue. It's from the Department of Cell Biology at Gebon College in New York," Skyler read from the shipping label.
"Dr. Blue... oh, right. That does ring a bell." Walter paused, suddenly recalling.
He had met Dr. Blue online—a well-educated, intellectual type. They had hit it off and chatted often.
When Dr. Blue found out about Walter's cancer, he mentioned he was researching a new compound—something that might potentially treat Walter's illness.
According to Dr. Blue, if the compound worked, it could treat not just cancer, but ninety-nine percent of known diseases.
He sent a sample to Walter, hoping that with his chemistry background, he could help analyze and study it. If it worked, it might just cure Walter's cancer.
At the time, Walter hadn't yet reentered the drug game. Facing an overwhelming $90,000 treatment bill, he didn't want to take on debt. It wasn't that he didn't want treatment—it's that he didn't want his family to suffer financially.
So during one of their chats, Walter shared his address with Dr. Blue. It was a shot in the dark—but when you're dying, you'll try anything.
He even mentioned it once to Frank over drinks. Frank had warned him not to trust random people from the internet—they're all scammers, he said.
But then everything happened so fast.
Walter had decided to undergo treatment and got back into the drug business. He had completely forgotten about it.
And now, after all this time, the package had finally arrived.
Walter grabbed some scissors and cut the package open. Inside was a small portable cooler box.
He opened it and found it packed tightly with cold packs. Removing the top layer, he saw two blood bag-like pouches filled with a red liquid, similar in appearance to blood.
"Blood bags?" Walter muttered, holding one. It was ice cold in his hands. He frowned slightly.
"What is it?" Skyler asked.
"Oh, nothing. Just some research materials a friend sent me," Walter said casually, placing the pouches back in the box and covering them with the ice packs.
Right now, he wasn't in the mood to examine mysterious blood bags. His mind was consumed with something else—restructuring a chemical formula that didn't rely on hard-to-get raw materials. A formula that could allow for large-scale production without limitations.
Walter stored the mysterious contents in his lab at school.
Far away in Chicago, Frank had no idea what Walter was up to.
If he knew Walter had received a package from some shady online acquaintance, he'd have told him to throw it in the trash immediately.
Back in the hotel, Frank and Pinkman were discussing how to get their money back home. There was no way they could deposit $660,000 into a bank account—that would be suicide.
In America, what's the scariest government department? Not the FBI. Not the CIA.
It's the IRS.
Even if you're a mob boss, tax evasion is a death sentence. The IRS will ruin you.
If you try to deposit that kind of money, they'll immediately want to know: where did it come from? Did you pay taxes on it?
Game over.
That money—let's face it—is dirty. It can't see the light of day until it's been laundered.
Which meant they had to carry all that cash back to New Mexico.
"What are you doing?" Pinkman asked, watching Frank stuff a thick roll of bills—at least ten grand—into an envelope.
"Relationship building. You're coming with me. Bring all the money," Frank replied.
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