Chapter One: The Defiant Ones

Saul, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 1

I was vanishing into thin air. The life that I had so meticulously crafted was disintegrating all around me. It was like I'd pulled out a piece on a Jenga puzzle and lost. Time to create a new identity.

The man who was gonna change my life picked me up in an old van. It was pretty anti-climatic; I guess I was expecting to be swept away by the Bat Mobile, or something deep undercover, like a garbage truck. No, my life was gonna be changed by a man in a maroon Toyota. And the guy driving the van, that was Ed, the extractor himself. I thought he'd have a vast network of associates, like the Underground Railroad, but apparently, this guy ran a streamlined operation.

He wasn't a tough guy like I expected, but a guy with a greying crewcut who looked like a grandpa or, at the most, like a retired private eye. I didn't care because I was so damn relieved to step into that van.

I hustled my bags into the back and took a seat. I breathed in deep but my breath got caught on an overpowering old car odor that smelled vaguely of dog.

I smiled, looking out the window as my last glances of Albuquerque whisked by. No more Walter White, no Jesse Pinkman, no more lunatic drug dealers, or DEA agents crawling up my ass. But I had no delusions. I knew I was walking away from life as I knew it. But life as I knew it had been reduced to representing these terrible men who'd do anything for their own survival. All my attachments had withered away. The hiss of death had become so loud I'd do almost anything to survive. Almost anything.

Ed took me to a vacuum cleaner repair shop. He actually dealt in vacuum cleaners—the nerve of this guy. No metaphors in his repertoire. I allowed myself a brief chuckle, but then I thought about Walt. He'd be using the extractor too, and if luck prevailed, we would not overlap.

"So, how's Walt?" I ventured, to see where the landscape laid.

"See for yourself," Ed said, pointing to a video surveillance monitor. My heart paused for a moment. The monitor showed a sterile room with a little window, a couple of cots, and an agitated Walter White pacing around like a baboon. I felt a sucking sensation pulling me deep back in to my old world. I took a Xanax.

The extractor said Walt and I would be bunkmates for a couple of days. Ed didn't have to remind me, but he reminded me anyway, that my case was made more difficult by my saturation ad campaign. That made me think—turn off the TV ads—but on second thought no, I was disappearing into thin air. A dead man doesn't cancel advertising.

Ed took me down to the safe room, which had a stale, unpleasant air, like a locker room. Walt wasn't surprised to see me and seemed to not care one way or another about my presence. He railed on and on, mostly about Jack Welker and how Welker took his "life's work." They were the ravings of a thwarted tyrant. I wondered if Walt had lost it. Well, let's face it, Walt had been losing it right along, but maybe now he had slipped into some dark place where no form of reason could reach him.

I felt a little sorry for him, and then I felt angry at myself for having compassion for this mad man. If there was someone to blame for my life falling apart, it would have to be Walt. I mean, he kidnapped me at gunpoint to get me to do his bidding in the first place. And now here we were, fugitives, imprisoned in this 'safe room' together. I vowed to keep my head down and to not engage him.

That first day we both pretty much kept quiet. It was hard for me to remain silent, but I wasn't crazy enough to venture into the maelstrom that was Walter White without provocation.

Walt, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 1

I was mulling over my revenge options when the door to the basement opened and in walked Saul Goodman, all mousy and paranoid.

He brought matching blue suitcases with him, an electric, sissy blue. I had to assume one of those bags, probably the smallest, was filled with money—the children of my genius.

I barely acknowledged him. He reeked of weakness. He still had the bruises on his face from where Jesse beat him. What was he running from? He wasn't suspected of killing anyone. What's the worst thing he'd done? Aiding and abetting? Money laundering? He'd throw his life away for that?

I was too busy for commiserating. I had too much to do and no tools with which to do it. Priority One: exact revenge on Jack Welker… get my money back and kill the thieving son-of-a-bitch. Priority Two: get the money to my family. Priority Three: tie-up loose ends.

I started to make a list of things I'd need from Ed. First item: throw-away smart phone to follow breaking news. Second item: newspaper. Ed had taken my phone, said he didn't want me to make any accidental calls or to, God forbid, answer the phone—like calling has become some kind of animal reflex.

The worst part of being disappeared was that I couldn't reach out to Skyler or Junior. What must they think? That I killed Hank, that's what. Would they really think I was capable of that? Maybe they'd read about the SUV perforated with hundreds of bullets and realize how heroically I acted. That I was almost killed and that I tried to save Hank. My own brother-in-law. How could they think differently? Because the DEA would lie to Skyler, that's how. They'd tell her that I'd masterminded Hank's murder, just like I'd planned and executed everything else. Who was she going to believe? The DEA or her 'disappeared' husband? Hell, maybe she thought I was dead. Guilty and dead.

Saul, Thursday Morning, Day 2

On the second day he spoke, and as I suspected, I liked silent Walt much better. He asked me to list five hit men, like I was some kind of directory assistance operator for the criminally insane. I tried to explain that I didn't know any hit men, but Walt didn't care about reality. He thought I could reconstruct my chain of contacts out of thin air.

I got out of it through sleight of hand… talking my way out, like I manage most problems. I changed the topic and focused on Skyler and how he should do the right thing by her. My suggestion was radical: Walt should stay and take responsibility.

We were discussing the more subtle points of RICO seizure laws, moving large sums of illegal money, and familial responsibilities when Ed opened the door and announced that I was ready to go. A wave of relief passed over me, I felt the tension going out of almost every one of my muscles. But the feeling lasted precisely one nanosecond because Walt was saying something…

"Change of plans. He's coming with me," Walt told Ed.

I was bombarded by a dump of adrenalin that put my whole system on red alert. I protested pathetically, "No. No, that's not…"

"We're going together. I can use him," Walt was saying. What the hell?

Ed said he would give us a minute to discuss and he left me alone with Walt. I tried to explain to Walt that I wasn't a lawyer anymore. Subtext: I was done being used by egomaniacal drug lords.

But Walt kept backing me up, right into the wall. Literally. Here comes an ass-kicking, I thought. But the cancer had him back in its grip and it seized him with a coughing attack. The spittle rattled in his chest and he fell to the cot, fighting for air. I heard Ed open the door and I thought, Freedom beckons.

"It's over," I told Walt, self-satisfied that I had stood my ground, metaphorically anyway. I grabbed my bags and started up the steps only to be met by the muzzle of a gun. Again. Twice in one week. Ed looked regretful, but he always looked kind of sad. Maybe it was his line of work.

"Don't do this…" I stammered.

"Sorry, counselor," Ed said. I heard Walt behind me and turned to see him holding the wand of a vacuum cleaner. It seemed incongruous until he revealed its purpose by swinging the wand at me. He caught me in the knee, and I did a Humpty Dumpty down the stairs, suitcases and all.

Next thing I knew they were digging me out of a tangle of luggage and spilled clothes. Ed helped Walt toss me on the cot and then Walt used handcuffs to fetter me to the metal frame.

I was having some difficulty processing what had just happened. Clearly, Walt had bought off Ed. It was painful, seeing as Ed was "my guy" and everything. But Walt had more buying power than me, an oil barrel full versus a tote bag. And Walt was mean, a sadistic creep; he must have remembered me saying I have bad knees on that night out in the desert when he and Jesse threatened to toss me in a grave. Why can't I keep my mouth shut?

"Walt, what the hell?" I found my voice, but it was weak and trembly, giving away my sheer terror.

"I told you, Saul, it's not over until I say it is," he said, his voice filled with rancor.

"You expect me to cooperate with you?" I protested, though I had a feeling he had this all figured out. "Let me stay here, then. I can do more good as your lawyer if I don't run." The pain from the knee was radiating up and down my leg, sending my muscles into spasm.

Walt approached my cot. I tried to shrink away. He held two photographs about five inches from my face. One was Chuck and the other Kim. Chuck, I had mixed feelings about. But Kim... "What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice breaking.

Walt, Thursday Afternoon

I started to realize Saul might be useful after all. I figured he could be a sort of assistant to me while on the lam since I'd be under deep cover, unable to show my face. His disappearance wasn't going to attract the same publicity as mine. He could be out and about. He could be my errand boy in addition to providing the occasional legal advice.

In the sobering dank of Ed's cellar, Saul seemed to be calming down, sloughing off his Goodman character. His over-the-top posturing and manic energy were dissipating. For the first time ever he wore a normal shirt, white with simple vertical stripes. Who knew he had that in his wardrobe? Did he go out and buy special clothes for disappearing? Probably. In any event, I sort of liked this new Saul that was emerging in captivity.

But apparently Saul didn't have the same vision for the fugitive life as I did, claimed he was no longer a lawyer! Ha. He had balked on supplying the names of hit men and I could see that he wasn't going to cooperate without incentive. I had gone upstairs on the pretext of doing paperwork for my new identity. Instead, I set about lining up some things to ensure the continued services of my counsel.

I got in touch with one of Saul's men, Patrick Kuby. It turned out that his loyalty was to the highest bidder. Plus it helped that Kuby was pissed at Saul, who'd disappeared without settling up with the henchman.

Kuby did some research on the important people in Saul's life. At first, we thought we were going to have to use that bitch, Francesca. But Kuby was able to unearth a disabled brother and a surprisingly fetching ex-girlfriend. It was easy enough for him to take a candid photo of the ex getting into her car.

The brother, however, was a shut-in and proved to be a more difficult photographic subject. Kuby ended up posing as a meter reader and knocked on his door. That photo was priceless: the brother flinching at having his picture taken. When I showed Saul the pictures, I had to reassure him that I hadn't emalready/em hurt his brother.

The photos accomplished their purpose. Well, the photos combined with a little bit of intimidation. Mind you, I'm not violent by nature, but sometimes you have to resort to it to accomplish your goals. Saul's a squirrelly one, and he needed a little convincing.

I'd hit him in the knee to ensure his cooperation. That, and I was a little mad at him. What kind of lawyer gives up on his client in his time of need? If Saul tried to run, that knee would slow him down.

But I still worried that my hold on Saul was tenuous. He could see the difficulty I was having in putting together a hit on the Welker crew, that my efforts were dependent upon his contacts. I wasn't exactly building credibility. He had to wonder how much of a serious threat I could be to his brother and his ex-girlfriend.

Saul, Saturday, Day 4

I was surprised at how quickly Ed lined up new identities for Walt and me now that we were disappearing together. I suspect he must have been working on these identities even before the whole vacuum cleaner wand incident. Ed came into the safe room and declared, "You're going to Minneapolis. You'll be brothers. Frank," he nodded at Walt, "and Paul Dobbs."

"Whoa, wait. Saul/Paul? Is that some kind of biblical humor?" I asked. "Because it's not funny."

Ed paused and considered me. I don't think he usually had to spend so much time with his customers. "I don't make these names up. Believe me. I had to search long and hard for the same two surnames. Maybe think of this as your conversion: Saul becomes Paul…"

"Well, the Jewish thing was getting old…"

"You're not Jewish?" Ed asked.

Snap. I'd stepped in it.

Ed wanted us to start using the names right away. It would jeopardize the cause if someone heard us calling each other 'Walt' and 'Saul.' Neither one of us had an on-the-down-low kind of name like, say, 'John.' Especially me. There had to be, what, five 'Sauls' in all of New Mexico? And Minneapolis wasn't going to be much better.

Ed also wanted us to grow beards; Walt was to fill his out and I was to grow a full beard. I hate facial hair. And Ed was going to give me a hair cut. Goodbye comb-over. I wondered if getting my hair cut would tarnish my creative abilities.

Walt, Saturday

The photographs proved sufficient motivation for Saul to come through with the name of a middle man: 'Simon'. Ed brought me Saul's cell phone and I perused the contact list, but all he had in there was a list of movies and TV shows.

"What is this, Saul? Your pathetic attempt at coding your phone numbers? Where's your decoder ring? What's the secret code for Simon?"

He tongue was playing with a tooth causing his mouth to fall open like an idiot. It was his nervous tick. I could tell I was pushing him, but I didn't want to take it too far. It would be so easy to break him. "The Day of the Jackal," he answered. I wrote down the number, then out of curiosity looked for my old phone number.

"Dr. Strangelove? A bit obvious, isn't it?" I remarked.

I couldn't resist messing with him. I hit send and handed the phone back. He reacted like it was a hot potato, desperately fumbling for the end call button.

"Nice job, Walt. You just established in the phone record that I tried to contact you. Makes you look alive."

"No. It makes you look alive and wondering where I am."

Saul, Saturday Night

Walt had this crazy plan. He wanted to eliminate Jack Welker and his neo-Nazis and he wanted me to make the arrangements. I was to call my middle man (AKA the guy who knows a guy) and put together a meet to make a down payment and provide intelligence about the operation. While I had used Simon's services plenty of times over the years, clients had always handled making the contact with Simon themselves. I was a complete novice at setting up a hit.

Ed would drive me to the meet with Simon, but that's it. Apparently there are limits to his involvement. Like he's not going to get out of the car when there are guns about.

I would not be carrying; Walt wasn't about to trust me with a gun. Hell, he only begrudgingly agreed to get me a crutch, and he knew full well I could barely walk without it.

On the way to the meet, I asked Ed "What's he paying you…. I'll double it." Damn if I wasn't going to take every opportunity to get the hell away.

"He's paying me with your money," Ed said in that emotionless way of his.

"Aw, crap," I hung my head, defeated.

"I have to give Walt a full report. Best if you don't ask too many questions." Ed had drunk the Kool-aid. I could remind him about all the business I'd floated his way over the years, but somehow it didn't seem like loyalty was a big motivator for him. And, obviously, my frequent flyer status was now coming to an end.

Ed stopped on the street near the alley where I was meeting Simon.

"Uh, dya think you could get a little closer?" I asked, pointing to the crutch.

"Sorry. I'm keeping my distance." I gave Ed a disgusted look and scrambled out of the van inelegantly. By the time I was a quarter of the way down the alley I had worked up a sweat in spite of the crisp fall night.

Simon stepped out from behind a dumpster. I'd always assumed he was kind of impish because, well, he was British and also because he always seemed kind of nervous on the phone. He wasn't tall, maybe 5'10", but he was built. Definitely not an imp.

"Bloody hell, Saul, you're a cripple?" Simon greeted me.

"Just temporarily. I twisted my knee."

Simon kept scanning the alley. "Let's go with the money."

"Wait a minute," I said, putting on my tough guy voice. "Change of plans… I give you the money and all you have to do is get me out of here."

"What?"

"I'm being held against my will. I need a ride out of here. I'll give you all the money, just for that." Involuntarily, my register came up.

Simon chuckled. "$100,000? To help you escape? From whom?" Just then, Ed's van appeared at the end of the alley, hovering there. Simon pulled out a gun and in one seamless motion he grabbed me from behind and held the gun to my temple.

"A simpler plan would be: I just take the money." The crutch had slipped away and I was still upright only with Simon's unwitting assistance.

I raised my hands to show my defenselessness, hoping this guy had a sense of mercy. "The money, Saul," he said.

I was carrying the money in a fanny pack, turned around so the pouch was at my stomach. I reached for it but Simon pushed me down. I tried to break my fall without bending my knee, causing my wrist to jam. Simon liberated the fanny pack then he kicked me in the stomach. Now Ed decides to drive into the alley.

I scrambled to my feet. "He took the money! We have to catch him!"

Ed had climbed out of the van to help me get in. "What the hell happened?" Ed asked.

"He's not gonna hire the hit man! He jumped me!"

"He stole the money?"

"Yes!"

Ed took me down to the bunker like he was taking me to the lions. He left me alone with Walt who was pacing as if already knew something went wrong.

"It was a set up," I said, my voice sounding desperate, almost pleading. Walt stopped dead and gave me the stink eye. Now, surely, here would come an ass-kicking. But Walt started coughing instead. I made note: the coughing would overtake him whenever he got upset. Useful information.

"The cancer is back?" I asked, sounding more sympathetic than I intended to. Walt just gave me a steely stare.

I headed toward the sanctuary of my cot. My whole world had been reduced to a lumpy two inch mattress on top of a creaky, jabbing, metal frame. I laid down and offered him my right hand for the handcuff, but withheld the left. "Just the one hand, please. I think this might be broken." I showed him my left wrist as if he cared.

"Jesus, Saul, what happened?" I looked into Walt's eyes and saw a softness there, the same sympathy that I heard in his voice.

"There were two of them and they had guns. They jumped me and took the money." Walt put his hands up to his head. I glanced surreptitiously up at the camera, as if it could let me see whether or not Ed was watching.

"So, no hit?" Walt asked.

I shook my head no, averting my gaze, scared of what might happen next.

Walt picked up the house phone and called up Ed. "Can we get a couple of ice packs down here?"

Walt, Saturday Night

Ed and Saul were gone for about an hour. A reasonable amount of time, but I got antsy anyway. I envisioned all the scenarios of how things could go wrong. When I saw Saul, I knew that they had.

He was roughed up, and his crutch had scuffs on it—scratches from the asphalt. So, I knew he wasn't faking, or if he was faking, it was a masterful job. He had a terrified look in his eyes, like a cornered animal. He explained to me what happened, but he didn't need to. He got overpowered by an opportunistic middle man. What did I expect?

I wasn't as upset about the money as I was the lost contact. Now how was I going to find a hit man? I'd have to come up with another plan.