Chapter 250: Kicked Out of the House
"Dad, when will you be back?" Debbie and Carl clung tightly to Frank, reluctant to let go.
Frank had told them he'd be leaving for a while, and the two little ones wouldn't stop hugging him.
"I'll be back soon," Frank said, gently patting their heads.
"Where are you going, Dad? Let me come with you," Sammi said.
"No need. Pinkman is coming with me," Frank replied.
After comforting the kids, Frank left early the next morning with Pinkman, heading back to New Mexico.
But before leaving the city, they had to stop by the station to retrieve the money they'd stashed in a locker.
There was a total of over $600,000. Frank and Pinkman took their shares, leaving only about $200,000 in the bag.
Traveling with over $600,000 in cash was far too risky and inconvenient. But with just $200,000, it was manageable—it could all fit into a briefcase.
If they had carried all the cash, they would have had to drive back to New Mexico over several days, which would have been a miserable trip. With less cash, they could simply fly back instead.
That same afternoon, Frank and Pinkman arrived in Albuquerque.
"What's going on?" Pinkman tried unlocking the door with his key, but it wouldn't turn.
"Did you bring the wrong key? Try another one," Frank suggested.
"No, this is the right one," Pinkman said, puzzled.
"Damn, did someone break into the house?!" Unable to open the door, they went around to the backyard to try the back door. But when they looked through the window, Pinkman blurted out in shock.
The house was completely empty. Everything—tables, chairs, even the stools—had been taken.
"This doesn't look like a break-in. What kind of burglar steals the furniture?" Frank frowned.
Pinkman realized something was wrong too. None of his keys worked—not even for the garage.
Not being able to enter the house was one thing. Losing all the furniture was another. But not being able to access the garage—that was serious.
Why? Because the mobile meth lab—the RV—was parked in there. Before they left, they had locked it securely inside.
"It has to be my mom!" Pinkman suddenly realized. His mother had a spare key to the house.
Frank drove Pinkman over to his parents' house.
Frank stayed outside; he didn't go in. Pinkman went in alone.
Ten minutes later, Pinkman returned and slammed the car door shut. It was obvious he was in a foul mood. The conversation hadn't gone well.
"F***!!" Pinkman cursed, pounding the car seat in frustration.
"What happened?" Frank asked.
"They kicked me out of the house," Pinkman muttered, lighting a cigarette and explaining what had happened.
While they were away, Pinkman's mom had found a stash of meth hidden by his younger brother. The brother immediately blamed Pinkman, claiming it had been given to him by Jesse.
Given Jesse's past behavior—he had taken the fall for his brother before—the parents didn't doubt the accusation.
After all, under their eyes, the younger son was a model student: top of his class, well-behaved, respectful.
In comparison, Jesse had a long record of trouble. There was no contest.
They even called Jesse in Chicago to confront him. Jesse, of course, denied everything, but the phone conversation turned into a heated argument. His parents were condescending and accusatory, and the call ended badly.
Later, Jesse's parents went to his house. He wasn't home, but his mother had a key.
They hired a moving company and cleared the house of everything, storing the furniture elsewhere and changing all the locks.
Technically, the house wasn't even Jesse's. It had belonged to his aunt and had been passed down to him—kind of. The title was still in his parents' names. He was just allowed to live there.
And now, his parents had kicked him out for good.
As for where Jesse would live going forward? They didn't care. They were completely done with him.
"What about the RV?" Frank asked—that was the most important part.
"They had it towed," Pinkman said.
Before they left, they had locked the RV securely. Pinkman's parents didn't have the keys and couldn't get inside or drive it.
But they didn't want it sitting in the garage, so they called a towing company and had it hauled away.
Frank and Pinkman immediately drove to the towing yard, and sure enough, the RV was parked right there.
For less than a thousand bucks, they got it back and drove it out.
"Now we need to find a place to stay," Frank said.
With Pinkman's house no longer an option, the two had nowhere to stay. They needed a temporary base.
A hotel wasn't a long-term solution—this was their main operational area. It would be better to rent or buy a house.
Most of Pinkman's money was still being laundered in Chicago, and he only had a few thousand in cash on hand. Buying a house was out of the question—for now, they'd have to rent.
They scoured newspaper ads for rental listings and eventually found a promising one.
The landlord was a beautiful young woman named Jane. Petite and delicate, with long black hair.
"You're Jane, right? This place is nice," Frank said as he and Pinkman looked around.
The place was about 80 square meters, with two bedrooms and a living room. It was bright, spacious, and well-lit.
However, it was unfurnished. Aside from the basics like a refrigerator and a washing machine, there was no furniture. They would need to buy everything themselves.
"Technically, it's my father's house," Jane explained. "I'm just helping manage it. I live in the house next door."
"All the blinds are brand new. The place was recently repainted. Everything works. If you want cable, just call to have it connected—it's easy."
"As for the rules—they're in the ad, but let me remind you: no smoking indoors, no pets. If you need to smoke, do it outside," she added.
"Let's take it," Pinkman said.
"If you're renting, I'll need you to fill out these forms," Jane said, handing them some paperwork and a pen. "I'll need recent income proof, employer information, and your previous addresses."