Chapter 6: The Tuco Gambit
Saul Goodman's office existed in the liminal space between legitimacy and criminality, decorated with garish furniture and motivational posters that seemed designed to inspire the morally flexible. The lawyer himself wore a suit that cost more than most people's cars and a smile that suggested he'd found several legal loopholes just during their phone conversation.
"So," Saul said, leaning back in his leather chair, "pharmaceutical distribution. And by pharmaceutical, we mean the kind that comes in small plastic bags and makes people very happy or very dead."
Elijah had spent the morning calculating approaches to this conversation. Direct honesty rated 34% success with 41% injury probability and 25% chance of death. Indirect negotiation through euphemism rated 78% success with minimal risk.
He'd told Walter the odds were "maybe 60% success" to keep him confident. Now, sitting across from Tuco Salamanca in a warehouse that smelled like motor oil and violence, those manipulated numbers felt like self-inflicted wounds.
Tuco Salamanca was exactly as dangerous as the character Elijah remembered, but reality had added dimensions that television couldn't capture. The manic energy radiating from him like heat from a broken radiator. The way his crew positioned themselves for maximum intimidation while maintaining escape routes. The casual cruelty in how he'd backhanded the last person who'd interrupted him.
"So," Tuco said, bouncing on his toes with chemical enthusiasm, "Saul says you got product. Says it's good shit. But Saul says a lot of things, you know?"
Walter stepped forward with the confidence of a man who'd taught chemistry to teenagers for twenty years. "Our product is 99.1% pure. Laboratory-grade synthesis. Molecular-level precision."
Tuco's eyes lit up like a child presented with a new toy. "Ninety-nine percent? That's some serious science, old man."
Jesse shifted nervously beside them, hands flexing unconsciously. Elijah recognized the body language—preparation for violence that might come from any direction. Smart kid.
"We can provide consistent quality and volume," Walter continued. "But we need a distributor who appreciates craftsmanship."
"Craftsmanship." Tuco rolled the word around his mouth like he was tasting it. "I like that. You know what I don't like? People who waste my time with bullshit."
He turned to Jesse. "You. Kid. What's your story?"
Jesse's voice came out higher than intended. "I'm the... logistics coordinator."
"Logistics coordinator." Tuco's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Fancy words for a dealer, huh?"
"We prefer to think of it as supply chain management," Elijah interjected.
Tuco's attention snapped to him like a targeting laser. "And what do you do, supply chain?"
"I assess risk and optimize outcomes."
"Risk assessment." Tuco nodded approvingly. "Smart. So assess this risk: what happens if your product is shit and I lose customers because of it?"
Elijah activated his power discretely.
Probability Assessment: If product quality disappoints Tuco Salamanca?
73% probability of violence. 45% probability of death. 12% probability of all subjects surviving encounter.
Cost: $450.
"If our product disappoints, you'll have legitimate grounds for ending our business relationship," Elijah said carefully.
"Ending." Tuco's grin widened. "I like how you phrase things. Very professional."
Walter placed a small baggie on the table between them. "Sample. Test it yourself."
Tuco examined the crystal with the focused intensity of a jeweler appraising diamonds. He took a small portion, heated it on a knife blade, and inhaled the vapor with the reverence of a wine connoisseur.
The effect was immediate. His pupils dilated, muscles tensed, energy crackling through him like electricity through copper wire.
"Holy shit," he whispered. "This is... this is beautiful, man. This is art."
The deal should have been simple after that. Tuco loved the product, they needed distribution, everyone benefits. But simple had never been Tuco's style.
"Here's what's gonna happen," he said, pacing like a caged predator. "You're gonna cook for me exclusively. Four pounds a week. Every week. No other customers, no side deals, no fucking around."
Walter's face went pale. "Four pounds? That's double our current capacity."
"Then expand your capacity," Tuco snapped. "Or find someone else who appreciates your art."
Jesse started to protest. "Yo, we never agreed to—"
Tuco's fist caught Jesse in the solar plexus, doubling him over and sending him gasping to the concrete floor. "Did I ask for your input, logistics coordinator?"
Walter took a step toward Jesse, hands raised. "There's no need for violence. We can discuss terms like civilized—"
"Civilized." Tuco's laugh was hysterical. "You think this is civilized? This is business, old man. And in my business, when someone questions my terms, they get reminded why that's a bad idea."
He kicked Jesse in the ribs, producing a sound like snapping kindling. Jesse curled into a protective ball, whimpering.
"Stop," Walter said, voice sharp with command authority. "We accept your terms."
Elijah's mind raced through probability calculations.
If Walt detonates fulminated mercury: 12% we all survive. If Tuco continues violence: 23% Jesse survives. If Walt backs down: 67% Tuco escalates demands.
Total cost: $1,100.
Walter reached into his jacket—Tuco's men tensed—and pulled out a small bag of white crystals that caught the warehouse lights like stars.
"This," Walter said calmly, "is fulminated mercury. A primary explosive. Incredibly unstable. The slightest percussion will detonate this entire building."
He threw one crystal against the far wall. The explosion echoed through the warehouse like God's own thunderclap, leaving everyone's ears ringing and dust raining from the rafters.
Tuco stared at the scorch mark on the wall, then at Walter, then began to laugh with genuine delight.
"You got balls, old man! Huge brass balls!" He helped Jesse to his feet with surprising gentleness. "I respect that. Takes stones to threaten Tuco Salamanca in his own place."
Elijah's power had whispered the probability, but watching it unfold was still surreal. Walter's scientific knowledge had just turned a beating into a business negotiation.
"So," Tuco said, still grinning, "four pounds a week. You handle production, I handle distribution. We're gonna make beautiful music together."
Walter nodded, slipping the remaining crystals back into his jacket. "Four pounds. But we need two weeks to scale up production."
"Two weeks," Tuco agreed. "And if you're late, if you short me, if you even think about fucking with me..." He gestured at the scorch mark. "That won't save you twice."
Back at Jesse's house, they sat in shell-shocked silence while Jesse pressed an ice pack to his ribs. The familiar chaos of his living room felt like civilization after Tuco's warehouse kingdom.
"We're screwed," Jesse said finally. "Four pounds a week? That's impossible."
Walter was calculating on a napkin, scribbling chemical formulas and production timelines. "Not impossible. Difficult. We'll need more equipment, additional precursors, probably a larger cook space."
"And if we can't deliver?"
"Then Tuco will demonstrate why disappointing him is typically a fatal mistake."
Elijah activated his Leverage Finder, focusing on his memory of Tuco from their meeting.
Scanning Tuco Salamanca...
Subject is addicted to methamphetamine. Paranoid schizophrenia exacerbated by drug use. Killed his own lieutenant last year over perceived betrayal. Violent episodes increasing in frequency and severity.
Cost: $3,200.
The secret explained everything—Tuco's erratic behavior, his hair-trigger temper, the way his crew watched him with nervous anticipation. He wasn't just dangerous; he was unstable in a way that made prediction impossible.
"We need an exit strategy," Elijah said quietly.
Walter looked up from his calculations. "Excuse me?"
"Tuco's unstable. Paranoid. This partnership has a very short shelf life before it becomes a liability."
"Based on what analysis?"
Elijah couldn't explain about supernatural reconnaissance, so he chose the next best thing. "Street research. Asking around. Tuco's reputation is violent but inconsistent. People who work with him tend to disappear or change careers suddenly."
Walter's stare was skeptical but thoughtful. "And you recommend?"
"Have a backup plan. Alternative distribution. Contingency arrangements." Elijah looked at Jesse, who was listening intently despite his pain. "What happens if Tuco decides we know too much?"
Jesse met his eyes and nodded slowly—the first moment of trust between them, built on shared recognition of their mutual danger.
Walter dismissed their concerns with academic arrogance. "We'll manage Tuco the same way I've managed difficult students for twenty years. Clear expectations, consistent consequences, professional boundaries."
"Tuco's not a student," Jesse said quietly. "He's a fucking psychopath."
"He's a businessman," Walter corrected. "Violent, unpredictable, but ultimately motivated by profit. We make him money, he protects our operation."
Elijah and Jesse exchanged another look—two people who understood survival mathematics while Walter calculated chemical formulas.
That night, Elijah checked his bank balance: $14,600. The powers were bleeding him dry faster than Walt's operation could generate income. He needed additional revenue streams, and Miami represented his best opportunity.
He booked a morning flight and texted Dexter: New project ready. Bring hardware.
The double life was becoming a tightrope walk over an abyss, and Elijah was running out of net.
But the alternative was fading into nonexistence, and compared to that fate, juggling two criminal empires seemed almost manageable.
Almost.
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