Chapter 317: Surveillance
"Just take the money back outright. Once you've got that much cash, you don't need to keep doing this dangerous business anymore."
"And we should quit—really quit. Not because someone's forcing us, not because anyone's demanding it, but for us. For ourselves."
"We won't touch this stuff again. We're good people. We should wash all of it away," the Jane said.
"Yes," Pinkman nodded. "You're right."
As she spoke, the Jane grabbed the things scattered on the floor and rushed into the bathroom.
"…"
Several minutes passed, but there was no sound of the toilet flushing.
"The money isn't back yet," she said as she came out, leaning against the doorframe.
"Once we get the money, then we'll quit."
"For now, let's not waste it."
She walked back over.
Time slipped by, and after the hazy euphoria faded, the two of them slowly came back to their senses.
"Even if Dad agrees to give me all the money back, I can't just leave right away," Pinkman said, his arm around the Jane's smooth shoulder.
"He helped me. I can't just walk away like nothing happened. There are still things that need to be handled—at least I need to finish those first."
"I trust you," she said, kissing him lightly.
"Yeah. This batch is already done. In a few days, I'll go to Chicago to deliver it. I'll explain everything, get my money back. When I return, we'll leave together—New Zealand. Just the two of us." Pinkman squeezed her hand.
What was happening on Pinkman's side was completely unknown to Frank, who was thousands of miles away.
Even Walter, who was technically "local" in New Mexico, had no idea.
Walter had just gone through surgery himself and was still in recovery—taking medication on schedule, going to regular checkups, and taking care of his newborn daughter. He simply didn't have the energy to keep an eye on Pinkman.
Frank, meanwhile, could never have imagined that in barely a month, Pinkman had already "turned away."
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say—love really was that powerful.
"Sigh…"
After hanging up the phone with Pinkman, Frank let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples.
"What's wrong, Dad?" Debbie asked, looking up from her homework.
"Nothing," Frank said, patting her head. "I was just thinking—if all my kids were as well-behaved as our Debbie, life would be a lot easier."
"Hehe," Debbie giggled, beaming at the praise.
While Frank was still worrying about Pinkman, trouble suddenly cropped up at home again.
"Frank, what kind of fruit do you feel like eating?" Jimmy asked. He was wearing an apron, had just finished making lunch for Liam, and was wiping his hands as he spoke.
"So," Frank said, pausing his writing, taking off his glasses, and looking up at him, "you've officially become my family's nanny now?"
Ever since Jimmy had smuggled his wife's boyfriend from Brazil into the U.S., he'd basically been living at Frank's place. When he wasn't doing chores, he was helping watch Liam.
Now that Frank was sick and the rest of the family was constantly busy, Jimmy had taken on the added role of looking after Frank as well. He really did resemble a live-in nanny—or more accurately, a househusband.
Whenever Fiona ran into trouble with her studies, Jimmy would help out too, diligently working to earn her goodwill.
Every so often, if there was an emergency signal from his wife's side, Jimmy would rush back to deal with surprise inspections from immigration.
As for cars, he didn't steal them much anymore. After all, his Brazilian father-in-law was worried his daughter might not adapt well to life in the U.S. and had provided them with a generous amount of money.
Still, whenever Jimmy spotted a really nice car on the street, his fingers would itch. He might casually steal one or two, just for old times' sake.
All in all, Jimmy's life had been fairly comfortable and carefree lately.
"…By the way," Frank said, leaning on his cane and standing by the window as he looked out at the street, "doesn't something feel off to you? It's like someone is… watching our house."
Outside, two black SUVs were parked on the street—polished to a shine, without a single scratch or dent. They didn't look like secondhand vehicles at all, more like brand-new cars fresh off the dealership lot.
In the South Side slums, those counted as luxury vehicles.
And there were two of them.
If they'd only been parked there for a day, Frank wouldn't have thought much of it.
But he'd noticed that they'd been sitting there for two or three days straight. That was a problem.
More than that, the cars were positioned one on each side of the house, almost as if they were boxing it in.
"Police?" Frank's first thought was immediate and instinctive.
"Are they watching me? Did the Blue Angel business finally get traced back to me?"
That was the downside of a guilty conscience—when something happened, your mind went straight to the worst-case scenario involving yourself.
But Frank quickly dismissed the idea.
Those cars couldn't belong to the police.
For one thing, his countermeasures were airtight. He'd layered protection upon protection, scattered decoys and smokescreens everywhere. If the police had started investigating, there would have been rumors—some kind of wind, at least.
More importantly, the police weren't that "well-funded."
Law enforcement was perpetually understaffed. Surveillance usually meant one team, one car. Only at the very end—when it was time to close the net—would they mobilize large numbers.
And even more telling: the police weren't idiots. They wouldn't park two conspicuously out-of-place vehicles in plain sight on a street like this. It was far too obvious.
The feeling these cars gave off wasn't surveillance so much as intimidation.
As if they were openly saying: We're watching you. Don't even think about running.
All in all, it was strange. Frank couldn't recall offending anyone recently—especially given his current physical condition.
Could it be that someone knew about his connection to Heisenberg? Were they trying to use him as a lead, to trace their way back to the mysterious Heisenberg and uncover the Blue Angel formula?
Frank studied the vehicles more closely. The windows were specially treated—those inside could see out, but from the outside, all you saw was pitch-black glass.
Not knowing who was on the other side, Frank didn't dare act rashly.
"You're probably overthinking it," Jimmy said.
Focused on the scene outside, Frank didn't notice the slight stiffness in Jimmy's expression.
"Tony, I need a favor," Frank said after a moment's thought, ignoring Jimmy as he pulled out his phone and called Officer Tony.