Chapter 14: Business Facade
The A1A Car Wash was a sun-scorched relic, its faded blue sign sagging over a lot stained with soap scum and tire marks, the asphalt shimmering under a merciless noon sun. The air was thick with synthetic lemon wax and the sharp bite of hot rubber, a chemical haze that clung to Alex's throat, making him wince. He stood beside Saul Goodman, whose pink shirt screamed against the dull concrete, a garish peacock in a junkyard of neglect. Alex adjusted his sunglasses, the lenses catching a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, his 8x stamina keeping him sharp despite the brutal heat. Saul's my shield, but this place is my castle. The cracked pavement radiated warmth, burning through his sneakers, a constant reminder of the stakes. One wrong move, and the cartel's knocking. His fingers brushed his hoodie's hem, a small ritual to steady his nerves, his 8x senses scanning the lot for hidden eyes.
Bob, the car wash owner, shuffled out of the office, his grizzled face etched with suspicion, his glasses glinting in the glare like twin warnings. His boots scuffed the pavement, a slow, deliberate rhythm that screamed distrust, his hands fidgeting with a stained rag, betraying his unease. His eyes, narrowed and wary, sized up Alex like a man expecting a con. He's smelling a scam, but he's smelling the cash, too.
"I don't get it," Bob grumbled, folding his arms, the rag dangling like a flag of surrender. "You're a kid who drives a decent car, and you want to buy a car wash that hasn't turned a real profit since the nineties. Why?"
Saul, leaning against a rusted vacuum machine, its metal creaking under his weight, launched into his pitch, his voice a carnival barker's drawl, dripping with theatrical charm. "Mr. Thorne here is a visionary, Bob! He sees potential. He sees opportunity. This isn't just a car wash; it's a foundation! A stepping stone to a legitimate, tax-compliant future!"
Alex cut in, his candor a calculated gamble, his voice steady but sharp. Let's see how he handles the real deal. "That's all spin, Bob. Here's the deal: I'm making a lot of money in a very gray area of the economy, and I need a legitimate, cash-heavy business to funnel it through. A car wash is perfect. Minimal oversight, lots of transactions, and no one bats an eye at a ten-dollar wash. I want a fresh start, a clean slate, literally. It's the perfect front."
Bob's jaw dropped, his glasses slipping down his nose, the rag falling to the pavement with a soft thud that echoed in the tense silence. Nobody says that out loud. His eyes darted between Alex and Saul, his voice cracking with disbelief. "Saul, what the hell is this? Is he… is he serious?"
Saul's grin didn't falter, his hand waving like a magician dismissing a trick, his pink shirt a blur of motion. "He's eccentric, Bob. Brilliant, but eccentric. Thinks honesty is the new hustle. Look, the check clears. Title transfer is clean. Do you want your retirement in cash, or do you want to worry about an eccentric young millionaire's philosophical approach to money laundering?" He tapped the briefcase of $200,000 on the vacuum machine, its leather creaking under the weight, the sound a siren call to Bob's greed.
Bob's eyes locked onto the cash, his wariness melting into avarice, his fingers twitching as if already counting the bills. Money talks, candor just confuses. He scribbled his signature on the papers, the pen scratching like a confession, his shoulders slumping as greed won out. Alex's smirk hid his ambition—this car wash was his second front, a legal fortress for his empire, a hub to clean his system profits and shield his ops. Base of ops, secured.
Saul slapped Bob's back, ushering him off with a theatrical flourish, his pink shirt a beacon of sleaze. Alex tilted his head at the faded sign, its paint peeling like old skin, his voice dry with humor. "Well, Saul, looks like we're finally cleaning more than cars. Now we wash souls, too. Only mine will actually come out clean."
Saul winked, pocketing his cut, the envelope crinkling in his jacket like a secret. "Kid, you buy the canvas, I paint the masterpiece. Now, let's talk about the next front. I know a laser tag arena…"
Not a chance. Alex's funds dipped below $200,000, but the car wash was his, a cornerstone for his growing empire. He circled the lot, his phone buzzing with encrypted feeds, his 8x senses scanning for threats. Time to check the timeline and make sure Walt's still breathing. He adjusted his sunglasses, the motion a ritual to refocus, and headed for the office, the transition a deliberate shift from deal to duty.
The car wash office was a claustrophobic tomb, its air thick with the stale reek of old coffee and peeling paint, a single bulb buzzing overhead like a dying fly. Alex sat at a wobbly desk, its surface scarred with coffee rings and scratched initials, his laptop glowing with Breaking Bad wikis and intercepted drug chatter. The heat was oppressive, static clinging to his skin, but his 8x stamina kept him focused, his fingers hovering over the keys. Walt's with Tuco now. Gotta keep him alive to keep the show on track. His intelligence sifted data, flagging a junkyard meetup spiked with extra cartel heat—a deviation from the Season 2 script, likely due to his market disruptions. My deals are stirring the pot. Can't let it explode.
He typed a quick text to Walter's burner: Junk yard meetup is blown. Salamanca's eyes are everywhere. Reschedule or it's a body bag, Professor. - A Friend.
The send button clicked, a quiet act of nobility, his fingers lingering on the phone as if to seal the deed. Saving the bad guy to save the show. The system flashed, its tone dripping sarcasm, cutting through the stale air.
[SYSTEM: Achievement Alert: Noble deed logged. Yawn.]
Alex snorted, leaning against the wall, its paint flaking under his shoulder, the rough texture grounding him. "I know, System. Saving Heisenberg's a real thrill." His wry humor masked the stakes—Walter's survival kept the timeline steady, but the fallout from their split lingered like a bad smell. He's with Gus soon. That's when the real chaos hits. He stretched, his joints popping softly, a small ritual to shake off the tension, and stepped outside, the transition a deliberate shift to vigilance.
The sun scorched the car wash lot, the asphalt shimmering like a mirage, heat radiating through Alex's sneakers, burning his soles. He knelt by a leaky hose, water pooling at his knees, the cool dampness a brief relief. His 8x senses prickled, a warning in his gut. Someone's watching. A black sedan idled two blocks away, its driver's aviators glinting, his newspaper a flimsy cover, absurdly archaic. Cartel scout, not a cop. Amateur hour.
[SYSTEM: Status Warning: Tail detected. Keep moving.]
Alex stood, feigning a stumble over the curb, his 8x agility turning it into a convincing act of clumsiness. Look harmless, then vanish. He shuffled into a crowded convenience store, the bell jangling sharply, the air cool with the hum of fridges and the faint smell of stale chips. He weaved through aisles, his heart pounding briefly before his stamina kicked in, his senses tracking every sound—the buzz of a cooler, the clerk's bored yawn. At the back, he vaulted a cinder-block wall, his 8x strength making it effortless, landing silently in an alley reeking of dumpster rot and sour beer.
He sprinted through backstreets, the air sharp with decay, his breath steady despite the blistering pace. "Dodging shadows like a pro," he muttered to a stray cat, its yellow eyes glinting in the dark, his sarcasm a shield for his spiking paranoia. The tail was gone, but the cartel's interest was a growing storm, a reminder that his empire needed more than legal fronts—it needed teeth. Car wash is my shield, but I'm one ambush away from needing a tank. He adjusted his hoodie, the fabric catching on his thumb, and headed for his SUV, the transition a silent vow to escalate his game.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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