Breaking Bad: Heisenberg - Tuco's Revenge (Heisenberg Book 1 / Breaking Bad)

by Dustin Brubaker

  Tuco laughed, “That’s the problem, Puto, you don’t got anything I want.” He slid the severed finger into the wire cutters again, cutting it in half, “I don’t need names in books, I can get names in books myself. What I need is some real truth, you know?” Tuco grabbed Greg by the shirt and pulled him close, jamming one blade of the wire cutters up Greg’s nose, “I need some deep truth, Hombre. What’s not on the books? Where does he go? Who would he roll in with? What other property does he have?”

  “I don’t know,” Greg wailed, weeping now, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I don’t know who they were, I never saw…”

  “Who were they?” Tuco closed the blades, they began to sink into Greg’s nostril, “What did they look like?”

  “I don’t remember,” Greg pleaded, “Mexican guys, there were other Mexican guys is all I remember. I don’t know their names.”

  Tuco lowered the wire cutters, glared at Greg Allen in disgust. A grown man crying like a little girl. Tuco chuckled, “That’s too bad, man.”

  Giving Gonzo a nod, Tuco walked back around his desk and sat in his chair. He wiped the sweat from his brow, “I mean, you probably got a wife, right? Kids or some shit, right?” Greg Allen nodded, yes, yes he did.

  Tuco watched as Gonzo grabbed Greg from behind and forced him to his feet. Greg cried and begged to be let go, to just be left alone. He would leave and never say anything to anyone. Please, he cried, just let me go. Let me see my wife and daughter…

  Tuco ignored him and began to rummage through the toolbox. He finally found what he was looking for. He smiled and met Greg’s eyes. “No,” was all he said. He lifted the box cutter, slowly pushing out the blade. He missed his Angelita: she had disappeared yesterday with his clothes. That cocksucker, Filipe.

  Tuco felt his anger rising again just thinking of it. He stood and walked towards Greg Allen with purposeful strides. He held the box cutter in front of him, deciding what he would sever first, glad that he had this chance to blow off a little steam before lunch.

  4.

  It was evening now and Tuco had gotten no nearer his goal of finding, torturing and killing Filipe Toledo.

  He sat in the dark alone. Hours before he had sent Gonzo home for the night. No Doze and Vegas remained in the building but were sequestered outside in the hallway. Tuco told them he needed privacy. He needed to think.

  He was pissed off and frustrated. He was running out of places to look and he needed some fresh ideas. They had learned nothing from Greg Allen. The property manager told Tuco nothing new and Tuco was certain the search through his home office would have similar results.

  Greg was clean, out of whatever loops Filipe circled in. Gonzo took the warehouse manager’s body with him when he left. He had been of no use other than therapy for Tuco. It felt good, after the past twenty-four hours of humiliation and strife, to beat something to death. Especially something that cried so much. Tuco took a bump off of the pile of meth on the desk. He wished he had about five more Greg Allen’s. That would go along way towards getting rid of his headache.

  Tuco could still feel Allen’s throat in his hands, the slight give when his trachea snapped. All of these sons of bitches need to learn respect. That’s what it mostly was. Far beyond the assault he had suffered, much more than the lies or the theft of his clothes and his Angelita. It was the lack of respect. I’ll take him apart… Tuco took another hit, drummed his fingers on the desktop… you disrespect me, you disrespect my family… there were only dead ends he was hitting, how would he ever get…

  The phone on Tuco’s desk rang. Only his grandmother and Nacho had this number and he was in no mood to speak to either of them.

  He let it ring a few more times as he calmed himself, taking deep breaths to come down from his dark high. He lifted the receiver and barked, “Tuco.”

  There was a few second pause before the voice on the other end said, “Tuco Salamanca, I thought you might be there. Are you feeling better now?”

  Tuco’s breath stalled in his lungs. You gotta be fucking kidding me. He stood up, the phone pressed to his ear. He recognized the voice and he understood the tone it was taking: smug, entitled, superior. “Filipe Toledo,” Tuco growled, “how in the fuck did you get this number? Where the fuck are you? I need to have a little talk with you.”

  On the other end of the phone, Filipe chuckled, “Talk? Are you sure that’s what you want to do? You want to talk to me like you talked to that gringo property manager earlier? Talk to me with a pair of wire cutters?”

  “How do you know about that?” Tuco looked around them room, suddenly feeling eyes upon him. No one knew about that, it had just happened a few hours ago. Unless somehow… “How do you know that? Did you put cameras in here?” Tuco began looking behind photos, underneath lamps, papers and comic books, “microphones? You bugged my office?”

  Tuco’s head was spinning, anger mixing with insecure paranoia sending him into a psychotic fit. He remembered No Doze and Vegas were in the hall and pressed the door release button on the small desktop control panel. A glance at the monitor showed him his two employees understood the message: get your asses in here.

  Within seconds they were in the room next to Tuco who was pacing now, one hand with the phone held to his ear while the other hand moved photos, shook magazines and threw them on the floor. The two henchmen waited for orders, knowing better than to ask questions when their boss’s eyes were lit with that particular unbalanced fire.

  “I don’t know who you think you are or what the fuck you think you’re doing, but I’m gonna peel you, Puto, I’m gonna peel you like a fucking banana. I’m taking off your skin from your fucking face to your goddamned toes. I’m gonna start a fucking fire in your mouth and put it out with my fucking dick you piece of sh…”

  “You would have to be able to find me to do that, Tuco, and I don’t think you’re smart enough to do that.”

  Tuco wanted to respond but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream but no sound was possible. He was that shocked by Filipe’s arrogance. It had been a long time since anyone had dared speak to Tuco Salamanca like that. Who the fuck… Tuco slammed his hand on the desk, “Who the fuck do you think you are? You got lucky. You fucking coward, you drugged me, like a fucking bitch. Like a fucking bitch, slipping me drugs and stealing my clothes, leaving me to die in the fucking desert?”

  Tuco began to pace again, stirred up, his passion rising as he continued, “No desert can kill me, mother fucker, I was born in that shit. I got sand in my fucking blood, asshole, I’m made of fire and cactus, cocksucker, you can’t kill me, I’ll fucking kill you.” He threw the phone into the wall and began ripping pictures from the wall, knocking papers and magazines from his desk in a rage. He punched the file cabinet, seething, flowing freely between Spanish and English curses.

  No Doze and Vegas were unsure what to do so they stepped back, trying to make themselves invisible until the storm passed. It took several minutes but Tuco finally got control of himself. He continued pacing and muttering about doing unspeakable acts to whomever was on the phone. Vegas looked sideways at No Doze: what the fuck?

  No Doze did not dare to even shrug his shoulders or shake his head. He stood still and waited for a direct order from Tuco.

  Stepping over the file cabinet he had thrown to the floor in his tantrum, Tuco dug the phone out from under a pile of newspapers and car magazines. “What exactly do you want and it better be good.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line that lingered long enough for Tuco to fear he had disconnected but then Filipe calmly said, “I want you to know I could have killed you. I could have let my dog fuck you. I could have done anything I wanted to and I chose to leave you in the desert. I gave you a chance.”

  Tuco struggled to maintain his composure enough to carry on this conversation. He picked the chair up and sat in it, “And you point is…?”

  “My point,” Filipe told him, “is that you are alive and every day for the rest of your life you are
going to know, know beyond any doubt, that you have me to thank. You are always in my debt and I have every right to take from you what I want. Anytime.”

  “What in the fuck are you talking about? You’re crazy, Puto, way past loco. You don’t get n…”

  “I will take from you Tuco, I’ll take every goddamned thing you have whenever I want to take it. You are finished and there’s nothing you can do.”

  Tuco stood, his body bucking with barely controlled rage, “What the fu…”

  On the other end of the phone, Filipe’s voice raised, it too was escalating with impassioned fury, “I will take things that matter to you, Tuco Salamanca, I will take your important things, things you might keep locked up and safe.”

  He waited a few moments before he went on: Tuco’s silence gave Filipe the sense he had caught the not so subtle hint. “That’s right,” Filipe said as Tuco walked slowly over to his small safe bolted to the floor, “I think you’ll like what’s inside. And I want you to know that there will be more if you don’t obey me. I will take things you love,” Filipe paused, letting his words sink in. Tuco kneeled in front of his safe, listening, confused but riveted with anger and a thread of fear.

  Filipe’s voice was cold but a quiver of emotion ran deep underneath his words, “Things you love most, just like you took from me.”

  5.

  In Autumn of the previous year, Tuco was partying a lot with a coyote out of Las Cruces. This coyote was a big bearded gringo named Barley and twice a month he would haul people and product across the border for a hefty commission. Sometimes, when he could arrange a van full of pretty senioritas, the price would change. He would take more than cash for his services.

  That past autumn, October, 2008 to be precise, Barley had a van full of particularly lovely young women and he took them to the Salamanca ranch outside of El Mapias. Tuco and his cousins were there along with a few close friends. The girls were scared, only a few were willing. Their fear aroused the already boiling blood of Tuco and his company, all of them jacked up on meth, drinking tequila and taking pills. One of the girls was Natalia Toledo, the nineteen-year old baby sister of Filipe Toledo.

  Natalia never arrived at her pick up location. Her cousins checked back several times and called Barley before they told Filipe. They had to make sure what was going on before they ruined the surprise. Filipe had no idea his baby sister was coming and they were looking forward to seeing the look on his face.

  Three days later her body was found in the desert along with three other girls. There were no identifications but Filipe recognized her picture on the news. She had tiny photos in a locket around her neck: one side Natalia at age sixteen and the other their mother, long since passed. His cousins told him their story, eventually, with some intense coaxing, Barley told his. Once the coyote was buried, Filipe’s revenge began.

  Eight months. That’s how long he had been planning, scheming, organizing. Eight months. Making sure everything was arranged and could be carried out how he wanted. Eight months of careful preparation because this had to be perfect, total and complete.

  He did not want Tuco Salamanca dead, not right away. He wanted him broken. He wanted Tuco crazed, torn with paranoia and heartbreak until he snapped. He wanted Tuco to beg to die. He wanted it to be slow and to savor every moment. Like yesterday when Tuco said yes. Yes he would come to the party.

  It was all falling into place. Everything was working perfectly.

  It would just take time…

  Kneeling in front of his safe, Tuco heard the phone disconnect. Filipe had hung up the phone. I’ll take the things you love most, just like you took from me. Tuco could not remember a time when he had been this angry. Who in the hell does he think he is? Playing games with me?

  He was so angry that he had a strange calm about him, as if he had gone all the way over the edge and was hovering in nothing but a void. Floating in a vacuum where noting could exist except hate. Except scorn.

  Tuco’s safe was small and made from cast steel, a rotary dial that opened heavy bolt locking cylinders when the correct sequence of numbers was entered. Tuco entered those numbers and swung open the door.

  It took him a minute to process what he saw. Three things in particular were noteworthy. One, all of his money, over four hundred thousand dollars, was gone. Two, all of his drugs, about three pounds of meth and one pound of marijuana, were gone. In short, everything he had put into the safe was missing. That only left the third noteworthy thing in the safe. A map. A map that was not in there before.

  His hand was steady as he took the map and unfolded it. It was a portion of a detailed topographic map of Albuquerque and its surrounding area. The map segment was of the southwestern quadrants: South Valley, Westgate Heights, I-40, stretching deep into Canoncito Indian Reservation and Laguna Pueblo. Tucked in the foothills outside of Bear Canyon was a small town, Paguate. A small ‘x’ had been drawn there with red ink. Beside the ‘x’ was an address: 42 Porkchop Hill Road.

  Tuco didn’t move. He stared at the piece of map. It was a challenge. Filipe Toledo just sent a challenge. He wants me to come to him. Tuco stood and waved over No Doze and Vegas. He wants to challenge me. He handed No Doze the map and began pacing again, rubbing his chin, picturing possible events. He wants to fucking take me on?

  “Hey,” said No Doze, suddenly having his own ideas, “do you guys think maybe this might be a trap?”

  Tuco stopped pacing. He turned to No Doze, stepped towards him. “Are you asking me or are you telling me?”

  No Doze wasn’t sure, it became hard to think with that look in Tuco’s eyes coming nearer and nearer… “I… I wasn’t…” he stammered

  Tuco got up in No Doze’s face, “You wasn’t what? What the fuck do you mean?”

  No Doze leaned back, “I just mean he wants you to come there, right? It looks like it could be a trap. I mean, he could set up people and guns and shit, right? Do you thin…” No Doze could not finish his sentence as Tuco’s right fist slammed into his jaw. His knees buckled but he did not fall.

  Tuco grabbed him by the shirt, “You think I didn’t think of that?” Tuco shook No Doze, “You think I’m fucking stupid, man? You think I don’t think he’s got something there?” Tuco didn’t think, he head butted. No Doze collapsed to the floor, blood gushed from his broken nose.

  Tuco glared at Vegas who flinched back but said nothing. “I know this mother fucker’s got something planned,” Tuco screamed, starting into his restless pacing, “I know he thinks he’s in charge of this but he doesn’t know.”

  Tuco grabbed the map out of No Doze’s hand. He paced, read and mumbled, paced, read and mumbled…

  He stopped. His brow dug deep in thought, he turned back to his subordinates, “You,” he said to No Doze, “wash your fucking face off and clean this place. You,” he said to Vegas, “you’re coming with me.”

  6.

  Tuco loved his aunt’s molé, he had always thought it was the best in his family which was no small statement. The Salamanca familia’s chicken molé recipe was a legend back in their village and it had been handed down from mother to daughter across generations and now, with half of the Salamanca’s in the United States, across countries.

  Every birthday, this is the exact meal Tuco would request. Chicken molé, rice, pork tamales, pickled salad and tripe soup. It took Tuco back to childhood, walking with his Uncle Hector in the cactus field, running his first operations as a teenager in New Mexico, learning the hard way about familia and honor.

  Normally, molé night was a boisterous and fun occasion filled with reminiscing and laughter and often tears for those family members that could not be present. Tonight though was somber. Tuco brooded and ate, in no mood to remember or relax. His sour mood was contagious and it didn’t take more than a few minutes for the festive mood to fade and silence to fall. Only forks scraping plates, breathing, chewing.

  After dinner, Tuco’s aunts and female cousins cleared the table while the men went out to the back p
atio. Cigars and cigarettes were lit. Scotch and tequila were sipped. Tuco brought his twin cousins, Marco and Leonel, off to the side. Tuco gave Vegas a nod and Vegas lit a joint, took a large hit and handed it to Marco.

  “So,” Tuco said, staring up at the dark desert sky, “what did you find out?”

  “He’s got family in Canoncito,” Leonel told him, taking the joint from Marco, “on his mother’s side going back generations.” Leonel smoked, passed the skunky cigarette to Vegas, “They were one of the first families on the reservation so if he wants any backup or needs to dig in deep, he’s covered as long as he’s there.”

  Tuco took the joint from Leonel,”As long as he’s there,” he repeated, smoking and snarling. Leonel nodded, a smile haunting his lips.

  Tuco blew out a thick cloud of smoke, his eyes growing glassy and red. “What else do you got?”

  Marco pulled a photograph from his inside suit coat pocket, “Toledo has a nephew,” he said, giving the photo to Tuco, “we can get him.” The photo was taken through a dirty window, a telescopic shot of a young man, seventeen or so, working behind a shop counter. The kid was scrawny, shaggy hair and stubbly face, the chronically droopy eyes of a career stoner. “He works at a gas station a ways up SR 279. He runs jobs with Filipe’s crew sometimes, but the kid’s still in high school so he keeps a straight job. Kid’s a gear head, he likes spending cash on his Gran Torino.”

  Tuco smiled as a rip of release shivered up his spine. Oh God, yes, he’s gonna be down before he knows he’s been hit. Tuco felt good. He felt ready. He had been depressed and moody, his confidence wounded these past twenty-four hours. Letting Toledo get the drop on him, allowing himself to be violated, his own office broken into and his safe opened: he had been exposed and that showed a complete and daring lack of respect. A lack of respect for Tuco himself, but even more, a lack of respect for the Salamanca family and the entire Juarez cartel by extension.