The Ballad of Filipe Toledo
a Tuco story
1.
“Good shit, right?” Filipe asked, not really a question, a statement. He was sure of his stuff. Still, it was his first time dealing with Tuco Salamanca and he had heard stories.
The meth burned Tuco’s nose. Medium quality stuff, for sure, but there wasn’t much else around that month. Dog shit, Tuco thought, like fucking dog shit. “It’s all right,” Tuco told him, “tastes like fuck but it’s got a kick.”
Filipe smiled and glanced at Hector, his childhood friend and business partner. Hector was bigger than Filipe, broader, not a burly bulldog like Tuco, but more like a tree: an oak tree with tattoos and a deeply scared cheek.
Filipe was the thin one; he had always been slight in stature but quick in thought. With his father in prison and his mother so ill, Filipe’s lack of direction quickly pointed him towards the fringes of the cartels and their easy money. He moved his way around the New Mexico underground with brains and balls, leaving the brute violence to Hector. They were a good team. After tonight, we’ll be a rich team too.
Filipe tongued the tip of his gold bicuspid, “Fuck yeah, it’s got a kick.”
“So what do you want for this shit?” Tuco asked, “I know you’re giving me some kind of… what? An early labor day sale or something, right?” He leaned back in his leather chair, wiped his running nose with the back of his thick hand, “No way this shit’s full price.”
Filipe turned back to Tuco, “Twenty large for the pound.” He gave another smile, bigger this time, trying to keep cool as Tuco’s men stepped slowly forward.
Even’s Tuco’s laugh was dangerous, “Twenty?” he challenged, “Ese, that’s too close to retail. I’m thinking more like thirteen.”
“You got to be kidding me,” Filipe said, “thirteen’s not even…”
“”Maybe twelve,” Tuco interrupted, “ten even sounds good now.” He stood and from his belt holster he pulled his knife. Angelita. This was his favorite part, the moment when he flipped open the blade and it locked into place with a ‘snikt.’ His little angel was famous on the streets of Albuquerque: everyone knew Tuco’s legendary lock blade knife.
Filipe knew her. Tuco could see it in his eyes right away. Filipe knew she was a weapon made to draw blood, slit throats, remove tongues, gouge eyes. Heavy, with an eight-inch blade folding out of a polished bone and steel casing, held Angelita up, using it as a mirror to examine his teeth.
“Yeah,” Tuco said, lowering the blade until its tip pointed squarely towards Filipe’s face, “I’m thinking ten sounds plenty good, don’t you think so, Gonzo?”
Tuco’s lieutenant, Gonzo, took a step forward and hovered behind Filipe. He nodded slowly, scratching his massive stomach, “Ten’s real good.”
Hector started to stand but Filipe stopped him with a hand on his arm. Besides Gonzo, Tuco had three other men in the room and none of them had been shy about brandishing their pistols. Filipe knew the two of them did not stand a chance in a fight. They were outmanned and out gunned. We don’t need to be stronger than them, we just gotta be smarter. Patient.
Filipe leaned back in his chair, hoping he looked more comfortable than he felt, “Ten, fifteen… it’s all numbers, right, Tuco?”
Tuco stared. “What’s your point,” he asked impatiently, stabbing the tip of his knife into the already well-nicked desktop.
“Numbers are just numbers, man, right? I mean, I can give you ten or fifteen and it doesn’t really matter, and you, I’m sure your organization could pay ten or thirteen or thirty and it wouldn’t matter either. Right? This is all…” Filipe looked around, meeting eyes, double-checking his surroundings… “It’s all drops of water to men like us.”
Tuco’s face was stone, he glared at Filipe, “Men like us?” he asked, stabbing the tip of Angelita into the desk again, “Like us?” Another stab. Tuco burst into a laugh and snorted, “Men like us?”
He dumped the rest of Filipe’s sample bag on the table and crushed the meth crystals into small chunks and powder. He scooped it up with the end of the blade and put it up to his nose. A sharp inhalation. Stars and cold light exploded behind his eyes.
“Fuck,” Tuco shouted, “Cock balls, mother fucker.” He spit on the ground and walked around his desk, getting in Filipe’s face, “Ain’t no men like me ‘cept me, Cockroach, I’m a fucking original.”
Hector tensed, his hand automatically going for his waist where his pistol was usually kept. Tuco’s men had taken their guns in the cage outside the door. It doesn’t matter, Filipe smiled, keeping his calm, “That’s what I hear. There is no man like Tuco Salamanca,” he stared into Tuco’s bloodshot brown eyes, “but what I want to know is what does a man like Tuco Salamanca believe in.”
Tuco stood straight, looked briefly at Gonzo, shot a look to No Doze and Vegas standing by the door. “Believe in?” he asked Filipe, “you mean like Jesus and shit?”
‘No,” Filipe answered, “I mean, fate or chance. Do you believe that we all have some kind of destiny or something, like we’re all part of some bigger plan, or is it all random? Is it all just luck and chance?” Filipe leaned forward now, realizing he had Tuco interested. The two men silently stared for a moment, faces close. “Would you, Tuco Salamanca, rather be destined or lucky?”
It took Tuco a moment but the laugh came. A hooting and hollering laugh, jacked up and unhinged. He slapped Filipe on the shoulder, “You’re fucking crazy,” he said, giving a whoop and raising his arms over his head like a prizefighter after an easy victory. Filipe’s smile spread across his smooth-shaven face. Hook, line, and sinker. Now we just have to reel him in.
“I’ll tell you what,” Filipe said, standing slowly. Gonzo placed his hand on his pistol, as did No Doze and Vegas. Filipe was short, but he still had an inch of Tuco. He looked down at Tuco, “I’ll give you the pound for ten, no problem, but I want you to come to our party tonight.”
Tuco was amused, “Party?” He slapped Angelita against his palm, “You having a party?” Filipe smiled and nodded. Tuco laughed, “You got bitches?”
“We got a swimming pool, a hot tub, and we got bitches growing on trees, Ese, more than you ever seen.” Filipe looked at Gonzo, at No Doze, then back to Tuco, “Bring your crew,” he said, “I’ll do you a solid here, ten large for a pound of good meth. Then you do me a solid by letting me tell all my friends Tuco Salamanca was at my party.”
Tuco’s laugh was wild, he shouted, “Hell yes, you got a deal.” He walked back to his desk and sat down, began breaking up more meth with his knife, “Let’s fucking celebrate, right? Fuck chance and fuck luck and fuck you.” He took a large hit, his face turned red, drool dripped from his lips, “Tight, man, tight.” Tuco screamed and stabbed Angelita into the desk, let her stick there, “I’m the fucking man.”
Filipe hit the meth Tuco offered. A burning icepick to the brain. He felt the drip running down the back of his throat. You’re the fucking man, Tuco… Filipe snorted another hit, rubbed his nose, picked at his nostril… that’s why you won’t see this coming.
2.
Tuco wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke. He just knew it was hot. Bright. He was sweating and sore. He opened his mouth to groan but no sound came. His throat was dry; it felt like he had been eating dirty cotton.
Whatever he was laying on was uncomfortable and it stabbed slightly into his sides and the back of his head. He brushed it away and discovered two things. One: he was naked. Two: he was in the desert. What the…
He rolled over, t
rying to get out of the heat, out of the sun that blazed through is closed eyelids, but it was no use. Tiny twigs and pebbles dug into his bare skin. Tuco opened his eyes slowly, a little at a time. The sky was dark blue, only a few clouds floated high overhead. It was a perfect summer day.
His head pounded and his body ached but he sat up. He looked around. Mother fuck. Open desert was all he saw. Scrub grass and scattered creosote bushes. Hard beige sand and sharp grey rocks. Far in the distance the Sandia Mountains rose out of the high desert, the horizon shimmering in heat waves coming from the parched earth.
A groan beside him. Tuco turned. It was No Doze, also naked and just waking up. “Puta madre…” No Doze muttered, sitting up and holding his head. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. When he saw Tuco he shook his head in disbelief, “What happened?”
Tuco didn’t know and told him as much, adding, “Where’s the others?”
Tuco was referring to Gonzo, Jesus and Vegas, they had come to the party too but they were nowhere to be found. Only Tuco, No Dose and the blazing sun. “What the fuck, Cabron, where’s our fucking clothes?”
Tuco stood, jagged shards of stone and wind-blown cactus thorns pricked his thickly calloused feet. He scanned the area: the mountains are on our right, that means A-B-Q is left. There’s gonna be a road, there’s gonna be someone gonna help us.
He began to walk, ignoring the pain in the souls of his feet… gonna be some trees ahead, there’s gotta be some shade… overlooking the red-hot ice pick jabbing into the bottom of his brain from dehydration... “Come on,” he grunted, not looking back to see if No Doze followed, just walking, just making it another step and then another and then…
By six o’clock in the evening, Tuco was home at his Abuela’s house. The best he could figure was they had walked for two hours before finding a road, and then another three hours before the car stopped. Tuco almost felt sorry for the guy, he was old and was probably tough when he was younger. Like my grandpa. Abuelo. There was no choice though.
The old man was frightened of the two naked strangers. Why wouldn’t he be? He was an old man, not a stupid one, he had been around these parts long enough to know the cartels and the violence that surrounds them. He gave them water and one button down shirt but he refused to let them in the car. It was too bad for him he was not faster in pulling away. Tuco busted through the driver’s side window and grabbed the old man be the hair. It was over quickly after that.
It was an hour and twenty minute drive home from there. Tuco dropped No Doze off down the block from his house and told him to call Gonzo and find out where he is and what he knows. They would meet at Tuco’s office after dinner: they should come prepared for bloodshed.
Tuco made it to his grandmother’s house, told her a few lies… I was helping a friend, Abuelacita, we were cutting down trees at his new house, that’s all, just a few scratches and sunburn. Yes, I would love some water, Abuela… and ate an entire roasted chicken she prepared for him while he showered and rested.
After, he lay down in bed but sleep did not come. Not for hours. His body was spent but his mind raced on endlessly fresh legs. It had to be that perro, Filipe. That’s the last thing he remembered. They went to Filipe’s house on the northeast side of town, the same general direction Tuco woke up in this morning.
They were there for a few hours, drinking, smoking, snorting. There were girls. Lots of girls. Hanging around a hot tub set into the concrete patio. There were a couple other guys there, Filipe’s men, but they were cool, they stayed out of Tuco’s way, dancing, grinding up on swimsuit covered asses and bouncing breasts. Tuco took a big hit of… what… he remembered Filipe said something about trying his newest product… try this Tuco, this’ll knock your dick off… and then it all went blank. Then it was morning. The headache. The disorientation. The desert. The goddamned sun.
Tuco eventually fell asleep, dark dreams slamming his slumbering mind. He was naked, being dragged behind a horse, hurtling over the gouging desert ground, bleeding and screaming as they raced towards a sun so hot it had turned black, radiating Tuco’s flesh as it scraped off on rocks and shards of glass and tufts of thorny bush.
Riding the horse, laughing as they plunged towards the sudden edge of a cliff, was Filipe Toledo: Filipe screaming for the horse to go faster, laughing, wild and crazed.
Tuco woke before they could go roaring over the edge of the cliff.
He looked around his bedroom, making sure where he was, making sure it was real. He was sweating, breathing heavily, gripping his sheets. One thought repeated in his head, a phrase angrily screamed, now fading in urgency with each second that passed... keep laughing mother fucker, keep laughing…
3.
Gonzo was Tuco’s brother-in-law and he was certain that, after all these years, he had seen every possible incarnation of Tuco’s anger. Today he learned he was wrong.
Normally, Tuco’s fury was rabid, erratic, bordering on irrational. Sudden grand gestures of violence and torture were Tuco’s style, screams and hoots and hollers, a dark exuberance accompanying every violent act, an almost sexual release as he clobbered, cut or stabbed. So far today, however, there was none of that.
Tuco was quiet, brooding in grim silence. Waiting for more news, sitting at his desk and staring at the closed curtains. Gonzo wanted to ask him something but he was afraid to speak. He glanced at Vegas who raised his eyebrows. He felt it too. Somehow, this silent and controlled Tuco was infinitely more disturbing than the crazed demon.
Watching him sit motionless was like watching a bomb you knew would explode any second, the anticipation growing worse than any actual detonation. As if by some act of mercy, Tuco’s cell phone rang, breaking the tension that thickened the dim room.
Tuco answered the phone, “What do you got?” He listened, head nodding slowly, “No one?” Again, he listened. “Did you go to the other address? Who is it? Do they know where he is?” Tuco finally smiled and a shiver ripped between Gonzo’s shoulders. Tuco said, “Bring him in and I’ll fucking ask him,” and hung up the phone. He turned to Gonzo, “Get my toolbox from the car.”
No Doze brought the man in thirty minutes later and shoved him down in the chair in front of Tuco’s desk. The toolbox Tuco had requested was there and opened.
The man was middle-aged and tall, Caucasian with a red beard and hair. His name was Greg Allen and Greg Allen could see the contents of the toolbox from his seat. Pliars. A wrench. Two hammers, large and small wire cutters. There was a bloodstained rag wadded up and stuffed in the side of the box: none of it made Greg feel any better about his situation.
Greg looked across the desk and stammered, “Please,” his eyes puffing with tears, “I don’t know who you all are or what you think I did or know, but I promise you I don’t. I’m keeping my head down, I’m not asking questions, so please, you can just let me go and I won’t say anything.”
Tuco was unimpressed by the pleading. He leaned forward in his chair, “You don’t know me?” he asked.
Greg didn’t look up “No,” staring at the desk, “I never saw you, so we can…”
Hand slamming on desk, “Look,” Tuco commanded, “Look at me.” Tuco stormed around his desk, “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Greg was so frightened he didn’t know what to do. His default panic reflex was to do as he was told. So he looked at Tuco. Square head with a jaw like a cinder block. Sweating profusely. Dark brown skin, black hair shaved down to stubble. Bloodshot brown eyes, dilated pupils. There was something missing from those eyes, Greg could tell that immediately, there was something missing deep within Tuco’s eyes. Somewhere near where the glow of conscience might illuminate a humanity or soul, there was only emptiness, a dull void. They were a predator’s eyes and when Tuco picked up the wire cutters, Greg Allen knew he was sitting, ready, able prey.
“I…” Greg stammered, “I don’t know what you’re…” he stopped, his explanation turned into a squeal as Tuco casually placed the wire cutte
rs around the webbing between the white man’s index finger and thumb and snipped.
Blood dripped from the cut, pain flooded Greg’s senses. He tried to jerk his hand back but Tuco grabbed him by the wrist and leaned in close, placing his sweating forehead against the top of Greg’s head, “Where the fuck is he?” Tuco asked.
Greg began to sweat, dizzy, he was afraid he was going to vomit. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I told you I…”
“Filipe Toledo, that son of a whore, Filipe Toledo.” Tuco wrapped the scissored blades of the wire cutters around Greg’s index finger, “I know you rent him a warehouse in the South Valley, tell me where I can find him.”
Greg’s mind stumbled, it was hard to form thoughts or make words. He tried to remember but he couldn’t place the name. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quivering, “I don’t know who that is, I’m just a property manager. They’re not my clients, I just work for the guy.” Greg felt the cutters closing, biting into his finger, crushing bone and slicing skin. “I can look though,” Greg said quickly, “I can look up address and names in my book.” The blades paused, not releasing but not tightening either. Greg took this as a good sign and continued, “I have a ledger, everyone’s names, I…” Tuco snipped.
Greg screamed as blood spurted from the nub of his left index finger. The finger itself dropped to the desk and twitched twice.
Tuco hooted like he just sank a three-pointer at the buzzer. “Do you fucking see that?” he asked Vegas, “It was like his finger fucking jizzed all over the table, it just…” Tuco mimed an ejaculating phallus, “Whoo!” He picked up Greg’s finger, “Look at that,” he shoved the finger in Greg’s face, “That’s gotta hurt, right?”
Greg couldn’t talk, he gripped the bleeding nub where his finger had been attached, “What the fuck, I said I’d tell you everything. I’ll give you everything I have.”
Breaking Bad: Heisenberg - Tuco's Revenge (Heisenberg Book 1 / Breaking Bad) Page 1