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i. Cazuela
After the support stanchion smashes through the cement-pouring form, the delay to the underground lab is of such an extent Mike knows he has to bring Fring down to the cavern below the Lavanderia Brillante. He asks Fring to come down around five p.m., an hour or so before the workers start their night’s work.
“Best estimate, we’re a little past the halfway point. Way behind schedule, but the work is solid,” Mike sums up the situation. He meets Fring’s level gaze in the darkness. He’d like to get a better view of his boss’s impassive face, to glean any information he can, but he isn’t planning on shining a flashlight into the man’s face.
“And Werner?” Fring asks.
“I gave him the ‘come-to-Jesus’ – he screwed up. He knows it. Said it won’t happen again,” Mike says.
“And what do you say?”
Not a question to be answered lightly. Would Fring accept it if he vouches for Werner? “I’ve got eyes on him. But, yeah,” he adds, “he’s good.”
Fring nods, then glances at the ceiling high above him. He looks back at Mike. “Good.”
And that seems to resolve the matter for Fring. Suddenly something about his impassive mask shifts; a slight twitch of his mouth, perhaps. Mike can’t quite tell in the darkness. Either way, Fring’s next question takes him by surprise.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
To buy himself time, Mike responds that he’s not wearing anything suitable.
Something about Fring’s gaze softens. “I meant at my house.”
He’s not sure his point doesn’t still stand, and he’s not sure why this invitation – and why now. But otherwise, for Mike, it’d be back to his cold dark house. So he accepts. “I’ll have to call Kitt to bring the guys down here,” he adds.
Fring nods.
They go back upstairs, Mike phones Kitt, and then Mike steps into his Chrysler and follows the Volvo to Fring’s house. There, Fring takes his coat, then puts on a record (something classical) and asks Mike to cut the potatoes and the peppers.
Mike washes his hands, and takes in the room. Half of it is devoted to the kitchen: three long countertops; a large stove and a deep sink. A round table that can seat four is tucked away into an alcove at the back of the room. There’s a coffee table in front of a large, comfortable-looking couch that’s facing a large TV on the opposite wall. Below the TV there’s a low cabinet with the record player on it, two speakers on either side of the cabinet, and there are two narrow, floor-to-ceiling bookcases at the side of the room with the door.
“What are we eating?” Mike asks, as he dries his hands. From the corner of his eyes he sees Fring turn towards the knife block, but Fring only slides out a knife which he offers to Mike, handle up.
“Cazuela,” Fring says. “Stew.” He hands Mike the potatoes.
They prepare the rest of the dinner in silence, but it’s not necessarily uncomfortable. Mike keeps a close eye on everything that Fring puts into the big pan, but everything that goes in is, or seems, innocent.
During dinner, they discuss business; the work schedule, the food stocks for the workers, the employees at the laundry. Fring doesn’t touch upon the night out on the town anymore, and if he doesn’t, Mike isn’t going to bring it up either.
Fring puts down his fork in his empty bowl and dabs at his lips with his napkin. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Would you be open to doing some investigative work for me?”
A row of apple cores on a wall; a bag with 1.6 million dollars in a bathroom cabinet. Fring couldn’t know about that.
Fring must’ve seen some sort of doubt cross Mike’s face, because he purses his lips briefly and says, “Let me explain. A few years ago I set up a scholarship at the University of New Mexico. A chemistry scholarship. I have no hand in whom is allotted the money, but I meet the recipients. All of them, without exception, are capable of becoming brilliant chemists.”
Is that the right thing to say, or does Fring truly believe that? Mike’s not sure. He just listens. He has a sense where this is going, but he’ll leave it up to Fring to connect the dots.
“Some of them know very well what they want to pursue, or achieve. Others are more open to outside counsel. One of the recent recipients seemed willing to work outside of the academic sphere.” Fring’s dark eyes meet Mike’s.
Mike inclines his head a fraction to show he’s following. When Fring remains quiet for a beat too long, Mike says, “a chemist for your lab.”
Fring looks down at the table, then back up at Mike. “That’s what I’d like you to ascertain. His name is Gale Boetticher, and he lives here in Albuquerque. I have spoken with him at length, and looked into him as best I could. I haven’t found anything that suggests he would not be suitable, but I would like for you to make sure of that.”
Mike thinks for a moment. “How much does he know?”
“About the lab? Nothing, yet. But he has been creating some samples for me, which were more than adequate.”
He runs his hand across his chin and stares vaguely at the cabinets behind Fring. His gaze drops to the last bit of corn in his bowl – the stew had been good. Looking at Fring again, he asks, “would this be on the books or no?”
When Fring frowns, Mike is quick to clarify: “Should I be licensed as PI? In case someone takes offense?”
Fring holds Mike’s gaze. “For this job, perhaps not.” A pregnant pause. “However...” Fring seems to hesitate – his eyes flick between the glasses on the table to the cutlery, and then back to Mike. “I have another job offer for you. I wasn’t planning on discussing this so soon, while work below the laundry carries on, but it might affect whether you would like to apply for a license or not.”
This sure was a day full of surprises. First he thought Fring would be displeased with him about the delay, and Werner, and that he might perhaps stick a kitchen knife in his back for it. And now he made him dinner and two more jobs were on the table.
“Once everything at the laundry is up and running,” Fring says, “I would offer you a job at Los Pollos Hermanos. Security. I heard your feedback at Madrigal was helpful, if unwelcome.” A shadow of a smile.
Mike pushes his lower lip forward to ensure he keeps a straight face, in return.
“It’d be real work. Employee background checks and such. In that capacity the PI license would be a requirement, I presume. Additionally, you’d be in charge of the security of distribution and transport.”
Gus pauses, but Mike remains quiet. More of this: the prospect tires him. But the pay would, undoubtedly, be good. Enough to cover Stacey’s expenses. Enough, perhaps, to buy Kaylee a better future.
“Please don’t feel obliged to give me an answer now. Think about it at your leisure.”
Mike nods. “I will.”
Fring smiles broadly. “Coffee?”
They shake hands when Mike leaves.
ii. Pasta bolognese
Just when Mike’s about to pour his pasta into the boiling water in the pan on the stove, his doorbell rings. With a sigh, he turns down the flame below the frying pan in which an onion and some garlic are sizzling, and shuffles towards his front door. He’s in sweatpants and a sweater that’s fraying at the seams, and he’s made painfully aware of that when he looks through the peephole and sees Gustavo Fring in a three-piece suit, holding a manila folder. It also explains the way Fring looks him up and down and asks the following, when Mike pulls open the door.
“Am I interrupting your evening?”
“No,” Mike says. “Do you want to come in?” He already steps aside.
Fring takes a hesitant step into the hallway, then breathes in deeply through his nose. “What are you cooking?”
“Uhm, pasta.”
Fring extends the folder. “I won’t keep you from your dinner.”
Mike takes the folder – some information on Boetticher to get him started – but as Fring turns to leave, Mike says, “you could join me, if you like.” A spur-of-the-moment invitation, but Mike’s still not sure where he stands with Fring. He had taken a gamble when Fring had confronted him about Varga’s involvement in Salamanca’s stroke, and yet Fring hadn’t killed him. Rather, he seemed to trust Mike’s judgment – insofar trust was possible in this line of work.
“If you’re sure.”
Otherwise he wouldn’t have offered, which he thinks Fring knows. He returns to the kitchen, and puts the folder on the counter. He stirs the onion and re-weighs the pasta, then pours it in the water.
“I do apologize for the interruption,” Fring says behind him.
Mike turns around and takes a long hard look at him. “ ‘s not an interruption,” he says. “Dinner won’t be up to your standards, though.”
Fring does not contend the matter. Later, though, when Mike serves two plates and apologizes for not having any wine to go with it, Fring seems to eat with some relish. Fring talks about a trip to Germany (“business”) followed by a long weekend in Italy (“not business”), telling Mike about the sights, history, and, at some length, the restaurants he’d eaten at. He tells the story with the muted care and sincerity Mike’s become accustomed to in the time he’s known Fring professionally.
After Mike clears the table, he lifts up the coffee pot as a question.
Fring nods, and as Mike puts two cups on the table he leans forward conspiratorially and says, “tell me something. Do you ever eat at your own restaurant?”
Fring’s expression remains blank for a moment. Then he smiles, genuinely, glimpse of teeth showing. But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks whether he might use the bathroom.
“Down the hall to the left,” Mike says. As the coffee drips into the pot rhythmically slowly, he considers his options. He opens the cabinet below his bookcase and eventually pulls out one of the most battered boxes and puts it on the kitchen table. For distraction? Or to figure out Fring? Mike can’t quite untangle his motivations, but now that the house is filled with company and conversation, he’s loath to switch off the lights and return to a dark silence.
Fring returns and raises an eyebrow. “Scrabble?” He washes his hands, but looks at Mike when he dries his hands. “You might have an advantage, as a native speaker.”
Mike can’t help but snort. As if Fring’s vocabulary isn’t ten times bigger than his.
They play. The folder lies on the counter, forgotten. With about half the board filled, Mike watches Fring, who’s considering his next move. Lost in thought, Fring runs a finger along the side of a wooden letter tile one of whose corners is rounded. The Q. Matty had secretly sanded it down when he was about ten years old, so he knew to avoid that tile.
Mike swallows.
Then Fring places the letters ‘exqui’ in front of Mike’s meager ‘site’ from the previous turn and ‘ly’ behind it, netting him thirty points, and to add insult to injury he got triple word score, so it’s a ninety point addition to Fring’s already formidable score.
“Congratulations,” Mike says.
Gustavo looks up at him from his now empty letter rack. “It’s not over yet,” he says earnestly.
Fring wins. Mike doesn’t mind as much as he thinks he ought.
iii. Charquicán
Fring asked for his feedback on arranging security for the laundry and the chicken farm, so Mike’s having dinner at Fring’s: a stew with a fried egg on top. Just as they’re done eating, Fring’s landline rings. Fring apologises, goes to take the call in his home office, and tells Mike to make himself at home.
Which he does.
He runs his fingers through Fring’s vinyl. Classical – some names he recognizes; a bit of jazz – Ella Fitzgerald (he approves); many records he has no idea about. Then he looks at his books. A lot of non-fiction, some fiction. Most of it in English, but he spots a few titles in Spanish.
The hallway is slightly more interesting. There’s a clear plastic storage box with a lid on tucked away in the corner below the stairs. He doesn’t open it, but it seems to contain some stuffed animals, markers, and colored paper. Then there’s the photo walls. Predominant are various snapshots of Gus with members of the Albuquerque establishment whose faces Mike vaguely recognises from pictures in the paper. There don’t seem to be any personal or family photos; clearly, this wall’s meant to impress whoever visits Fring.
The rest of the doors in the hallway are closed, so Mike retreats, moves the plates off the table, finds the Albuquerque Journal and starts doing the crossword with a pencil he finds in a drawer in the kitchen. He’s moderately curious about who Fring’s on the phone with, but he’s sure that while he’s one of the few who works behind the scenes of Fring’s business, he’s barely seen the tip of the iceberg. After about maybe ten minutes of applying himself to the crossword, he hears Fring come back into the room, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder.
Mike tenses.
But Gustavo only leans over his shoulder and says, “Twenty-two horizontal is ‘antagonist.’” Then he walks away to make coffee.
Mike throws an annoyed look at his back and suppresses the urge to say, is there anything you can’t do.
When Gus puts down two mugs and sits back down, Mike folds the newspaper and pushes it away from himself. Then he bluntly asks, “do you have kids?”
Gustavo doesn’t skip a beat, which makes Mike suspect Fring had expected him to go snooping – and he’s not sure whether to feel manipulated, or whether he and Fring have reached an understanding. “I have a child, in Chile.”
Mercifully, Fring doesn’t ask the same question in return. Mike crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything, and hopes his silence will coax the rest of an undoubtedly well-rehearsed story out of Fring. And it does.
“I married when I was very young, and divorced when I moved to Mexico. My now ex-wife and child remained in Chile. I see my grandchildren once or twice a year, when they come here.”
The information is delivered levelly. Perhaps Fring has had a lot of time to come to terms with the situation, or perhaps he isn’t much of a family man. It’s hard to picture Gustavo Fring changing diapers, but then also it isn’t. Mike guesses he would go about it with the same stoic and ruthless efficiency with which he cleans out the fryers at Pollos or orders a man to be killed.
“How many grandkids do you have?”
“Two – two girls.”
“How old?” Mike wraps his fingers around his mug.
“Six, and four. And Kaylee?”
For a split-second Mike hesitates. But her age is something Fring could find out easily, or simply guess from the fridge drawings from which he maybe remembered her name. “Six, too.”
Gustavo’s face relaxes into a smile, and Mike finds his own expression softening too.
“So... Abuelo Gus.”
For a moment, Mike wonders if he overstepped. But Fring’s face remains relaxed, and he quietly breathes out through his nose in amusement. “I have to say that word makes me feel older than I am.”
Mike knows Fring is forty-seven – he was able to find out that much quite easily. Something about Gustavo strikes him as though he’d be an eternal bachelor, and not the marrying type, but perhaps only because that’d be easier with the business he’s in. But real life isn’t always neat and tidy.
iv. Paila marina
It’s a late afternoon, dull and grey. Mike’s at his kitchen table, and the lamp above it shines a weak light onto it. The portable radio’s on top of the fridge behind him, a shirt with a few buttons missing’s in his hands. A pair of pants with a tear in them is waiting for him. The needle is steady in his hands as he sews a button on, ties off, and trims. He gets up to scrape the raspberry granita he made earlier that afternoon, then sits back down with the sewing.
The granita had been Kaylee’s idea. Mike now picks up Kaylee from school on Fridays every other week, and spends a few hours with her. Stacey’s still on her guard, but apparently seeing her daughter’s glee at bossing her granddad around the house goes a long way towards mollifying her.
Today, after he’d brought Kaylee home, Mike had stayed with her until Stacey came back from work. Kaylee had looked at the pictures in one of her mom’s magazines, and found the recipe section. She’d only allowed pop-pop to leave after he’d promised he’d make her ice cream.
“There’s a strike from Remlinger... A hit... To the right... It’s an infield hit for Hernandez,” the radio crackles in the background.
He’s in the middle of attaching the last button when the doorbell rings. He carefully puts down the shirt and looks through the peephole. Seeing Fring there isn’t exactly a surprise, and Mike isn’t displeased.
“How can I help you?” he asks once he’s opened the door.
“I was wondering if I might cook for you,” Fring asks. He’s not wearing a suit – a charcoal v-neck sweater, instead.
Mike tilts his head. No business, no folders, no paperwork? He won’t let his guard down with Fring, not yet – likely not ever – but he’s curious, and he could eat, so he settles for a “sure. But I don’t have much to offer.”
Gustavo raises his eyebrows, walks back to his car, and returns with two bags.
“You know the way,” Mike says, and closes the door behind Fring. He leaves Fring rummaging for cutting boards and knives while he quickly finishes sewing the last button onto his shirt, then helps him dice onions and carrots.
“Strike... And that’s a strikeout,” the broadcaster says.
Mike sucks his teeth. From the corner of his eyes he sees Gustavo smile.
When the fish stew’s done, they sit down at the kitchen table. Mike waits for Gus to take the first sip from his spoon, and then they eat; talk about sports broadcasting, radio versus tv versus newspaper, film versus silver screen, the recipe for the stew. They drink the wine Fring brought. For dessert, Mike sacrifices his granita. If it’s good, he’ll make it again for Kaylee and Stacey.
Mike sees how Gustavo turns the spoon in his mouth and imagines his tongue against the hollow of the spoon. Something stirs low in his abdomen. Mike pushes the thought away as he doesn’t even want to think about the danger that lies down that path. He focuses on the cold bowl in his hands.
“Show me one of your movies,” Gustavo says after coffee and a liquor, which Fring also brought. Mike doesn’t stock anything stronger than beer.
Unable to anticipate Fring’s moves, Mike can only numbly offer a selection of Cary Grants, and Fring picks Notorious. Mike pops in the VHS, and sits down on the couch, remote in hand to rewind. The armchair’s empty, and there’s plenty of space on the couch, but Gustavo sits down next to Mike.
Fring watches with attention; Mike, who’s seen it before, finds it difficult not to let his mind wander about how and why the soon-to-be kingpin of the drug trade in the US south came to be sitting on his couch. But – although it seems moronic to think about his job in terms of normalcy – Fring has brought a sense of routine and direction to his days. And Mike’s grateful for that.
Suddenly Gustavo’s hand squeezes his knee and asks for the movie to be paused, just as Grant’s character is insulting someone’s wife. Bathroom.
Mike gets up, fills two glasses with water, and sits back down. Fring returns, washes his hands, sits down next to Mike, and eventually the screen shows ‘The End.’ Mike clears his throat then opens his mouth to ask what Fring thought of the movie, but when he turns his head, he is taken aback by how close Gustavo is. Mike could count his eyelashes.
But he doesn’t, and he pushes himself up from the couch.
Their handshake is long and warm when Gus leaves.
v. Eggs and bacon
A few weeks later, after a long night overseeing Werner and his crew, Mike drops them back off at the warehouse at 6 a.m. The guys head in, to the bar, or to kick around the football. Mike can barely keep his eyes open. He had picked up Kaylee from school the day before and had taken her to the park so he hadn’t slept. While he always thought he’s not terrible at staying awake, it turns out that a nightly stake-out is pretty different from working in a dark cave while trying to understand German shouted over the roar of machinery.
For a minute or so he watches the crew blowing off steam, then he turns and waits to be buzzed out of the building. Outside, the morning sun already brightly reflects off the endless New Mexico sands, and he shields his eyes with his hand. He squints, and sees someone standing near where the cars are parked. After blinking a few times, he sees it’s Gus. He stands beside his Volvo, which is parked next to Mike’s Chrysler.
“How did it go tonight?” Fring asks once Mike has approached.
“Fine,” Mike says. “They poured the concrete.” He knows Fring wants more detail, but he’s too tired to elaborate.
Fring slightly tilts his head. “Breakfast?” he asks eventually.
Mike nods.
Fring pats the roof of the Volvo. Mike gets in the passenger seat.
Gus is a good driver; careful, yet decisive. He weaves the dark Volvo into the morning traffic and the speedometer is consistently at the speed limit.
Mike almost nods off twice, part of him wishing he had just gotten into his own car and driven home to go straight to bed. But he remains curious about Fring, and since their meetings happen on Fring’s terms, he doesn’t want to waste this opportunity.
The Volvo comes to a halt on Loyola’s parking lot. Mike looks at Gus and manages to weakly raise an eyebrow. Surely Gus did not just happen to pick Mike’s usual breakfast haunt – but then Mike had, of course, known he hadn’t escaped a vetting by Kitt or Victor.
Sliding into a booth opposite Gus feels like it could be normal. Since it’s a Saturday and the usual early working crowd is absent, Fran quickly arrives to take their orders for coffee, eggs and bacon for Mike, and coffee and eggs and toast for Gus.
With one coffee and half his breakfast under his belt, Mike feels himself waking up a little, and he scrutinises Gus. Mike briefly wonders whether Loyola’s not too low-brow for Fring – like shedding his suits and wearing something more civilian would mark him as an outsider – but in his black pants and light grey sweater he has dressed for the part. It also shouldn’t come as a surprise from the man who moves with apparent ease from attending high-society fundraisers to manning cash registers within the hour.
Fring sits through Mike’s thrice-over with faint amusement lining his face, brow lightly furrowed, hands folded around his cup.
“Was there something we needed to discuss?” Mike inquires eventually.
“Not particularly,” is Fring’s infuriating answer.
“Just breakfast.”
“Just breakfast,” Fring confirms, with what Mike has come to think of as his corporate smile. The one he’ll give strangers, or customers at Pollos. After having seen the real deal, Mike doesn’t like being on the receiving end of this one.
And when Gus drops him off at home with the promise Tyrus will pick him up at five that afternoon, since his car’s still at the warehouse, Mike realises it wasn’t just breakfast. Everything Fring does, serves a purpose for him. Of that, he’s certain.
What Mike’s less certain of is how he figures into Fring’s scheme of things.
vi. Jell-O
On his free day, Mike’s phone rings just when he’s done with a late breakfast. “Ehrmantraut.”
“It’s me,” Fring says. “I would like you to join me for some business today.”
A spark of something. Excitement’s too big a word for it. Curiosity, perhaps. At least something to break through the monotony of the day. “What time?”
“I’d pick you up at one thirty.”
“Alright.” Before Fring can hang up, Mike hurries to ask, “what kind of business are we talking? Heeled?”
A pause. Then: “No.”
The connection’s broken.
At one twenty-nine, Fring’s Volvo comes to a halt behind Mike’s parked Chrysler. Mike leaves, locks the front door behind him, and sits down into the passenger seat.
Fring acknowledges him with a nod, then checks his mirrors and drives off.
He wonders why Gus wants him present, on whatever this little venture turns out to be. Since Mike’s not carrying it’s not a protection job, so whatever this is it sounds like something Gus’d be capable of on his own.
But then it’s not a question of capability, not even when he’s facing the cartel at midnight, flanked by five or six of his guys. It’s about communicating a narrative – one of having loyal backup, that translates to a warning that retaliation will follow if something happens to the boss. It’s not just a show of force – otherwise, Kitt and Victor would’ve joined them.
Then Mike wonders whether maybe he’s there not to impress whoever they’re meeting, not for the image, but that he’s there for Gus.
After about twenty minutes’ driving, in silence, Fring leaves the main road and turns onto a lane leading to a gigantic circular driveway in front of a building with a tall façade, a half-circle at the tall top. Casa Tranquila, the big sign outside reads, and in smaller print Senior Assisted Living & Retirement Community. Mike suppresses the urge to ask what the hell’s going on.
Fring parks, and precedes Mike into the building that’s A/Cd to an extent it makes Mike’s eyes water. Fring clearly knows where he’s going, as he climbs the stairs to the second floor and navigates to one of the bland offices in one of the bland hallways.
“I need to discuss some arrangements with the managing director. Would you mind waiting here?”
Mike shakes his head. Gus knocks on the door, which is opened by a surprisingly vital-looking man who’s in his fifties, Mike guesses. He receives Gus enthusiastically, and the door closes as they are already in conversation. Only muted noises reach the hallway, so eavesdropping’s out of the question.
It seems improbable that Gus has a relative staying here. Mike mentally pursues various avenues, but ultimately has to accept he sees no connection between the laundry, the chicken farm, or Pollos to this nursing home. Perhaps it’s just a social visit – or perhaps Gus is on the board of this place, too. But that explanation doesn’t sit well, either – Fring wouldn’t need Mike for that kind of business.
After about a ten-minute wait involving watching seniors and nurses shuffle along the squeaky linoleum-floored hallway at an excruciating pace, Mike’s approached by an elderly woman. She’s wearing a pair of rectangular glasses with a red frame that evokes the image of a strict school-teacher, but her eyes are kind. “Sir? Are you joining us for the bingo?”
His jaw slackens. “No, thank you – I’m just visiting.”
The woman smiles. “Alright then. If you change your mind we’re in the common room on the first floor, and just down the hall.”
He mumbles a thanks and looks at the woman move away down the hallway towards the elevator, to what will undoubtedly be a riveting afternoon of entertainment. When he averts his gaze, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a large, framed print of an old-timey map of New Mexico on the wall. Were his cheeks always so sunken?
His ruminations are interrupted when the door opens and the director sees Fring out of the office. Gus shakes the man’s hand with a smile, they exchange some last pleasantries, and then Gus looks at Mike, jerks his head slightly as he stalks down the hallway. Not to the bingo, Mike hopes as he follows him.
But Gus takes him by the elbow, guides him to an alcove off the hallway and looks him in the eye. “What do you think of it?”
Mike frowns. “What, the nursing home?” As Gus nods, Mike glances around. “Fine?”
“Not good?”
Mike shrugs. “It seems clean and reasonably well-staffed. It’s just...” he tapers off. He’s not sure what Fring wants to hear.
But Fring remains silent, just boring into Mike with his hard brown eyes.
Mike shrugs. “Hope I’ll never have to spend a day in a place like this.” Implicit: the hope he’ll never be written off like this. He doesn’t add that for a long time, he’s thought that he’ll never make it to an age where he’ll need a nursing home.
Fring releases Mike’s arm, looks away and smiles unpleasantly. Then, very quietly, he says: “I’m going to pay for Hector Salamanca’s residence here.” The smile leaves as soon as it came. Then, with a look and a voice Mike can only describe as innocent, he adds, “it’s one of the highest-ranked nursing homes in the state, with Spanish-speaking staff members.”
Mike grunts. He’d guessed Salamanca’d survived, but not that he was in a condition to leave the hospital. He’s not quite sure what to make of it. Fring’s relationship to Salamanca remains a mystery to him. As far as Mike's concerned, Fring should've let him put a bullet through the man's head and be done with it.
An orderly pushes a cart down the hallway and stops at the alcove where they are standing. She looks at Mike. “Have you had your afternoon snack yet? Wait,” she says without waiting for Mike’s response. She reaches into the cart and then pushes a plastic cup into his hands. She smiles sweetly at Gus, then continues down the hallway.
He looks down at the cup of raspberry Jell-O in his hands, then looks at Gus, who seems to be en route to a smile.
“Really,” Mike says.
And then the smile’s there. Gus puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder and guides him down the hallway, towards the stairs. “Come. I’ll drive you home.”
He peels the foil lid off the dessert later that night. It’s sugary and cloying, and he throws it away after having taken a few mouthfuls.
vii. Crema de limon
When his phone rings and Fring invites him round for a late coffee, Mike wonders if he should accept that paying social calls to Gustavo Fring is now a part of his schedule.
Gus lets him in, and points towards the couch and invites him to sit down. Mike does; he stares at the reflection in the TV and sees the faint shape of Gus moving around the kitchen behind him. He wonders about the other rooms of Gus’s big house, that he’s not seen. Comfortable and elegant, doubtless. Normal, probably.
But not lived-in, Mike thinks, as he listens to the hiss and sigh of the coffee machine. Mr Fring spends a lot of time at any number of his restaurants, and then there’s his other business to consider. He wonders why Fring chooses to spend part of his limited little free time with him.
Gus walks around the counter and puts down two cups of black coffee, and then returns with two bowls of ice cream. It’s a velvety, fresh dessert tasting of lemon.
“Mm.”
“Good?” Gus asks.
“Very.”
“I’m glad. A dear friend of mine came up with it – and he subsequently taught me the recipe.”
“Send him my thanks.”
Something passes over Gus’s face, but after he’s taken a sip of coffee it’s gone. Then he asks about Mike’s week.
Which has been uneventful. The long nights at the laundry are followed by short days on which he mostly sleeps. It’s a school holiday so Stacey has taken Kaylee to stay at a holiday resort for a few days, so he hasn’t seen them. The most exciting thing that’s happened was that when he was doing groceries an older woman had slipped on a puddle of olive oil from a broken bottle. Mike had later heard that footage from the security tape showed that she had knocked the bottle off the shelf herself, and had lain down in the mess in an attempt to commit insurance fraud.
He tells Gus and is rewarded with a quiet and brief laugh.
He’s halfway through the ice cream, but Mike puts the bowl back on the coffee table and places his hand on the couch deliberately, palm slightly more up than would be natural for a relaxed pose. And surely, after a few seconds, Gustavo reaches out – very gingerly, very carefully – and places his hand in Mike’s. Mike slowly wraps his fingers around Gus’s and runs his thumb up and down his knuckles a few times. Then he swallows, feeling the heat creeping up his chest and neck. He doesn’t look at Fring, only at their intertwined hands. He takes a deep breath to ensure his voice will be level, then asks, “What is this?” punctuating the question with a squeeze of his hand. Only when Gus starts speaking does Mike meet his gaze.
“I enjoy your company outside of the professional realm,” Gus says, his voice calm, his face – as ever – impassive.
It’s an answer devoid of any real significance. So Mike asks: “What does that mean?”
For the shortest moment, Gus’s façade cracks – it’s a quick glance down, a parting of the lips – then a breath in, and unwavering eye contact again. But he speaks quietly. “It means I would like to kiss you.”
Everything in Mike goes still and cold for a second.
Then he looks into the face of the man who rarely smiles, and sees reflected in Gus’s dark eyes his own need for a companion who understands what kind of men they are. The tug in his abdomen is back, and he realises that he, too, would like to kiss Gus. So he leans forward and tilts his head, and Gus presses his lips against Mike’s, for three, four, five racing heartbeats. They sit back, and Mike realises he’s crushing Gus’s fingers in his grip, so he relaxes his hand. Gus squeezes back, and when Mike looks at him he sees a faint worry line between his slightly raised eyebrows, which disappears when Mike pulls one corner of his mouth up.
Ice melts; a spoon shifts and clatters in a bowl.
They release each other’s hand and get up, almost simultaneously, Gustavo bringing the bowls to the counter, and Mike their cups. Mike glances at the small digital clock on the oven. It’s half past ten, and he’s due to relieve Tyrus at eleven.
“I have to go,” Mike says.
Gus walks him to the front door, where they look at each other. Gus reaches for Mike and Mike takes a step forward into Gus’s space and kisses him, softly – another gentle press of their lips together. Then Gus places his palm against Mike’s jaw, and lets his hand rest against the side of his neck. He slides his thumb across Mike’s throat, and Mike thinks Fring could kill him if he only tightened his grip.
And part of him wishes he would.