One of the three cell phones he has on his person vibrates and he does a quick mental checklist, yep, that one he has to answer. He twists his lips in frustration but throws the rest of his hand in and leaves the Pai Gow table with his gin and tonic. No one watches him go and he shrugs at the distinct lack of interest, he obviously was losing both the game and the attention of the elegantly coiffed Chinese gambler sitting at his right elbow. She was the better player by far but he chalked that up to her being at least twenty years his senior. Not that he would have had much luck with either – the gamble or the somewhat wrecked beauty - regardless. His head just doesn't seem to be sitting straight on his neck lately. He rubs a hand over his nape, smooths down his comb-over and fishes the phone out of his front pocket.
He is simultaneously elated and deflated. His caller id is flashing Skyler White's name. He flips the phone open and presses it hard against the side of his face, a deep breath, and then "Saul Goodman." He adds, "At your service."
A feminine giggle and a lot of background noise.
"Hello?" he asks a bit thrown.
"Are you really, I mean really, at my service?"
It is Skyler and she is clearly drunk. But it's also her best Marilyn Monroe and he bites his upper lip hard.
"Mrs. White. Always a pleasure. What can I do you for?"
More giggling. "What can you do for me? Well, Mr. Goodman, here's the thing. I don't think I can drive and I can't take a cab because I need my car tomorrow. The baby carseat is in it. Do you have a driver you can send over here to where I am?"
He closes one eye at this nonsensical ramble and decides that he's been wasting any luck he does have on cards. "What? Do I have a driver? No I don't have a driver, Jackie O. Why can't you drive? Where are you? Is Walt there?"
She laughs and the sound spins over the invisible cellular airwaves, into his ear canal, straight through his body, and down the length of his dick. He groans slightly.
"Walter? No, of course Walt isn't here. Marie's here! She's drinking Tequila Sunrises. I don't like those. We're dancing."
He groans inwardly again. "Let me understand this. You can't drive because you've had one or seven to many, but you need your car, and you want me – why me? – to find someone who will drive you and your friend home?"
"Not my friend. Marie's my sister, silly. Better call Saul." More background noise and she shouts something incomprehensible to someone. "Can't you drive us yourself? Have you been drinking? Wherever you are."
"Never mind that." He's losing her fast and he literally can not believe that he even begun to entertain the thoughts currently tapping a keg in his brain. "Where are you?"
"Hang on hang on. Marie! Wait, see that woman there in that purple blouse, yeah, ask her, where are we? What? Saul, we're at "Crackers". That's where I am. Yep."
Crackers? "The bar?"
"Yes, the bar. But there's dancing here. And Tequila Sunrises."
"Skyler. Stay there. I'm on my way. Oh, and order a tall glass of water, wouldja please?" He castanets the phone, tips the rest of his admittedly crappy diluted G&T down the gullet, and strolls purposefully out the door and into the warm night. He slides into the front seat of his car and by that time has convinced himself that this twisted Prince Charming act is entirely for the benefit and safe-keeping of one Walter White. Entirely. He will chauffeur Walt's drunken wife and her sister safely home. Drop off Mrs. White first, yeah, that's the ticket. Then deliver the sister, double back and park Skyler's car, call a cab and drive himself home to bed, safe in the knowledge that he is working hard to protect his investment. He stomps on the accelerator.
The bar is a less-than-stellar establishment but apparently on a good night they also have a jukebox and inebriated dancing. He can hear the tolerable music system from the door and as he walks in the dance floor is unmistakable with flashing lights and checkerboard linoleum. He Rodney Dangerfields the knot in his tie and looks around the room. He doesn't see Walt's wife so he makes his way over to the bar and leans across the sticky surface and orders another gin and tonic, heavy on the Tanqueray, if you please. Then, drink in hand, he turns and there she is and how on earth had he missed her. Dancing. His hand stills with the glass halfway to his lips. The other woman dancing with her could be her sister, although there really isn't a familial resemblance but the two are laughing generously in one another's faces and creating a kind of feminine wall that seems to be successfully repelling the two men who are gyrating close by. Saul sits on a bar stool, hooks the toe of one wingtip over the rung, and allows himself to enjoy the show.
A drunken senior citizen to his left leans over and slurs into the vicinity of his ear. "That blonde? That's a stone cold fox."
Saul can only nod his agreement. She can move, no question about that at all. And she seems to know it. But even in the awareness of how delectably she can move her body she appears to be relishing the very simple fact that she can dance, can dance with her sister, can dance to 80's r&b, can move her hips just. Like. That. And that she can dissolve into the music. And that none of it has anything to do with any one outside her own skin. To Saul, she seems completely self-contained.
For a long moment. Then she catches sight of him. And the elegance falls away and she makes the strangest cheering movement with both fists over her head and sways towards him, weaving between dancers and talbes. He forces himself to sit rigid and still on the stool, watching her approach. Beside him, the drunkard snorts appreciatively.
"Mr. Goodman!" She grabs the drink out of his hand, steadying herself with the other hand firmly on his knee and pulls deeply at the liquid. He cocks one eyebrow at her and when she takes a breath he gently prises the glass out of her fingers.
"Yummy! What's that?" She laughs, licking her lips and pressing her hip against the side of his leg.
"My drink."
"I want one."
"That is not a good idea. Are you ready?"
"Ready?" Her eyes cloud over and suddenly a slow, modern tune begins to snake out of the speakers and her gaze clears and she smiles mischievously at him. "Dance with me?"
Owe a penny you might as well pull out the checkbook. He tosses the remainder of the drink back and stands. She actually squeals and the sound reverberates inside his ribcage and she grabs his hand and pulls him messily back out to the floor. The song iss heavy on the bass line, and warming his ears up from the inside out. He decides he's going to wrestle this one back into his own control. He lifts their twined hands to his collarbone and pulls her against him hard, fingers of his other hand fast on her lower back She quickly catches on and they move together in a modern parody of a slow time waltz. That will work he thinks and finds himself mystified at the stupidity of Walter White.
Just as they find their rhythm and the fullness of her female form begins to remind him of the potential turgidity of his own male form, a rude hand pushes between their bodies and then the sister is standing between them gesturing in small tight gestures speaking too low to be heard over the music and Saul walks back to his stool. His brief glimpse into the alluring boudoir of Walter White's wife slams shut in his face. But he can't complain, not really. The entire situation is rapidly becoming the most dangerous rattlesnake he's ever attempted to distract and he's done more than his fair share of snake handling. But this time, this time, he actually wants to get bit, feel the venom in his veins, ride it out, let it engulf him. Hope for an antivenin or not. This time the snake is charming him.
Time to take the ladies home. Definitely.
The three of them are outside, beside Skyler's Cherokee. She is fishing in her purse and he has to chomp down hard to keep from asking her to produce crazy things out of the seeming bottomless depths. Bark out items Monty Hall-style: tire pressure gauge, skeleton key shaped bottle opener, a – god's please oh please – super thin Japanese Crown condom. "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, I want to make a deal with you." He sighs and looks heavenward, tapping a toe. What the freakin' hell has gotten into him.
Marie is staring at him openly. He tries his best indulgent smile on her and she scowls.
"I know you." She wags a finger at him, her head tilted.
He stops smiling. Skyler produces the keys and hands them to him. He walks around the jeep to the driver's side door, one ear cocked to the loud whispers of the two women.
"He's kinda cute, huh?" Skyler trills.
"Ewww. No."
"He's got broad shoulders though."
"I guess. Who is he? A friend of Walt's? And he's willing to drive us home?"
"Shotgun!" Skyler says in a rush and jumps into the front seat.
He turns in the driver's seat, his hand on Skyler's seat, his fingertips brushing the edge of the collar of her blouse. "Alright, ladies. I need directions, I don't think this vintage vehicle is equipped with Map Quest. Could be wrong. Is that a cassette player?" He recoils from the dash.
"You can call a cab after you drop me off, right?"
"Absolutely…" he draws the word out long. Marie leans between the front seats.
"Are you a teacher at the high school? How do I know you?"
Skyler giggles. "He's a friend of Walter's, Marie."
He holds up one finger. "An associate."
Marie pulls a face.
"Seat belts," he says firmly and waits for her to sit back into the darkness of the rear seat and listens for the click of the belt.
He starts the car.
In Marie's driveway, he and Skyler look at one another. She smiles as if he's in on the secret.
"What time is it?" she asks and he pushes his cuff back on his left wrist and looks at the Rolex knock-off he was told only a jeweler could identify as a fake. Buy a Rolex he puts at the top of his mental list, with Walter's money, buy a Rolex.
"Uh, not yet midnight. That's a surprise."
"Let's go back."
He's lost with this sentence. "Go back?"
She nods. "To the bar. Let's go dancing. And you can buy me one of those drinks."
He considers this. Really considers it. He wishes he had a pair of matched dueling pistols and a page that could be sent to Walter White's condo with a beautifully hand-scripted challenge. He spends a moment basking in the idea of an early dewy morning, back to back with Walt, the pistol in his hand.
He puts the car into reverse and heads back to the bar.