Chapter 3: Small Moves
Three days since waking up in a stranger's body. Three days of NZT clarity, careful observation, and not getting killed.
The morning started at Jesse's house—I'd been crashing on his couch, same as before. The arrangement benefited both of us: Jesse had company, and I had a base of operations. But the dynamic had shifted. Jesse watched me differently now. Not suspicious exactly, but noticing. The old Pete wouldn't have avoided Rico's bust. The old Pete wouldn't have suggested they stay in instead of getting high.
I made coffee while Jesse slept. Real coffee, from grounds I'd bought with the last of my cash. The smell filled the kitchen and for a moment I was back in Marcus Gilbert's apartment, rushing through morning routines before another eighteen-hour day.
Different life. Different stakes. Same need for caffeine.
My phone buzzed. A text from Denise again: you hear about tomas? something going down
Tomas. I pulled up Pete's memories. Mid-level dealer, worked under a guy named Little H, ran a couple corners in the valley. Unremarkable except—
The NZT-enhanced pattern recognition kicked in. Over the past three days, I'd been watching the streets. Prices. Movements. Who sold what, when, and to whom. And Tomas's prices were wrong.
He was undercutting his own supplier by fifteen percent. That didn't make sense unless he had a side source. And if he had a side source, his boss didn't know about it.
Which meant Tomas was either stealing or skimming. Either way, someone higher up would pay for that information.
I finished my coffee. Left a note for Jesse—out, back later—and headed into the morning.
Finding Little H wasn't hard. Pete's memories included the general territory, and three days of observation had filled in the details. A laundromat on Second Street, open 6 AM to 10 PM, cash business that probably cleaned more than clothes.
I walked in around ten. A couple of women folding sheets. A guy behind the counter reading a newspaper. And in the back, visible through a doorway, a Hispanic man in his thirties with a shaved head and a gold chain.
Little H. Real name Hector Rodriguez. Controlled four corners in this part of ABQ, answered to someone bigger, kept his operations clean and quiet. Good reputation on the street—fair prices, no unnecessary violence, didn't mess with kids.
I approached the counter. The guy with the newspaper looked up.
"Help you?"
"I need to talk to H. Got some information he might want."
The guy's eyes narrowed. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Pete. Pete Schwartz. Jesse Pinkman's friend."
"So?"
"So I've got eyes. And I saw something that might save H some trouble."
Long pause. The guy glanced toward the back room. Little H had heard—he was watching through the doorway.
"Let him through," came the voice. Calm. Measured.
I walked to the back. The room was small—desk, couple chairs, filing cabinet. Little H sat behind the desk, hands visible, posture relaxed but ready.
"Skinny Pete." He said it like a test. "I know you. You're Jesse's boy. Run errands sometimes. Use too much of your own product."
"Used to. Trying to clean up."
"That right?" No inflection. No tells. "So what's this information?"
I stayed standing. No threat posture. No reaching for anything.
"Tomas. Your guy on Montgomery."
Little H's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened. "What about him?"
"He's running a side source. Selling below your rate. Which means he's either stealing from you or buying somewhere else."
Silence. Five seconds. Ten.
"And you know this how?"
"I watch things. I notice patterns. The numbers don't add up."
"You a cop?"
"Look at me, man. Do I look like a cop?"
Little H actually smiled at that—thin, humorless. "No. You look like a junkie who's suddenly gotten interesting. What do you want for this information?"
I'd rehearsed this part. "Two hundred. And no questions about where I got it."
"Two hundred?" He laughed. "Information's cheap if it's wrong."
"Then verify it. If I'm wrong, I walk away with nothing. If I'm right, you saved yourself a lot of trouble and I made a fair trade."
Deal Sense told me to stop there. Pushing harder would signal desperation or ambition—both dangerous. Let him decide.
Little H studied me for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Peeled off one fifty.
"Here's what happens. I check your story. If it's true, you come back tomorrow and I give you the other hundred fifty. If it's not true, or if you're setting me up, I find you and have a different kind of conversation. Clear?"
I took the fifty. "Clear."
"Now get out."
I walked out of the laundromat without looking back. My hands didn't shake until I was two blocks away.
The afternoon stretched into evening. I walked neighborhoods, mapped more territory, tested my Presence Reduction. At full focus, I could walk through a crowd and have no one remember me. At rest, I was just another forgettable face in a city full of them.
Useful for observation. For information gathering. For becoming someone who could be anywhere without anyone noticing.
A thrift store on Central had cheap sneakers. My old ones had holes—Pete's old ones. I spent eight dollars on a pair that actually fit, with soles that didn't let pavement through. The improvement seemed trivial, but my feet stopped aching for the first time in days.
Small things. New shoes. Real coffee. A stomach that wasn't gnawing at itself.
Marcus Gilbert had never appreciated these details. He'd lived in a nice apartment and eaten takeout at his desk without tasting any of it. Always rushing toward the next deal, the next promotion, the next rung on a ladder that ended in a heart attack at thirty-four.
Pete had never appreciated them either—too busy chasing the next high to notice anything outside the cycle.
I wasn't either of them anymore. And maybe that was the point.
I went back to the laundromat the next morning.
Little H was waiting. Same position, same measured expression.
"Sit down."
I sat.
"Tomas," he said. "You were right. Side source. Buying from some puta in Santa Fe, pocketing the difference. Been doing it for two months."
"What happens to him?"
"Not your business." He pulled out more bills. Counted a hundred fifty. Slid them across the desk. "But you—you've got good eyes. Question is, what do you do with them?"
This was the moment. The opening I'd been maneuvering toward.
"I watch. I notice. That's what I do with them."
"And you sell what you see."
"To people who pay fair prices for good information. No setup. No loyalty games. Just information."
Little H leaned back. "Most people in your position, they'd try to work their way in. Become a corner boy, prove themselves, climb the ladder. You're not doing that."
"Ladder leads to jail or a grave. I've seen enough to know that."
"So what do you want?"
I chose my words carefully. "To be useful. Not necessary. Not dangerous. Just... useful. A guy who hears things. Who notices things. Who trades what he knows for what he needs."
"And stays out of the game itself."
"Exactly."
Little H smiled again. Less thin this time. "You know what? I believe you. Most people want in. They want the power, the money, the respect. You want... what? To survive?"
"To build something."
"Build what?"
"I don't know yet. But not this. Not corners and product and looking over my shoulder every day."
He considered that. Then he stood, extended a hand.
"You hear anything else useful, you bring it to me. Fair prices, like you said. No games. And Pete?"
I shook his hand. "Yeah?"
"Stay clean. The shit fries your brain. You're more useful with it working right."
I walked out with a hundred fifty dollars, a contact, and the beginning of a reputation.
The rest of the day was spent in a diner bathroom.
I stood at the mirror, counting cash. A hundred fifty-four dollars—the fifty from yesterday, the hundred fifty from today, the four leftover from my original twelve. Not much. But more than I'd had seventy-two hours ago.
Information as currency. The same principle that had made Marcus Gilbert successful on Wall Street, scaled down to street level.
I catalogued what I knew about the local ecosystem:
Little H controlled four corners but answered to someone bigger. That bigger someone was probably connected to regional distribution.Tomas's situation meant there were inefficiencies in the supply chain—side sources, skimming, freelancers working the margins.Rico's bust proved law enforcement was active but not comprehensive. They targeted obvious operations, missed the quiet ones.Jesse's house sat in a no-man's-land between territories—useful for staying neutral.
Tomorrow, I'd start mapping the next layer up. Who supplied Little H? Who were the other mid-level players? Where did product come from, and where did money go?
But tonight—tonight I'd do something for Pete's body.
Real food. A proper meal with protein and vegetables and calories that would start rebuilding muscle.
I found a diner that wasn't the one Jesse and I had visited. Ordered a steak, baked potato, salad, and three glasses of water. Ate slowly. Tasted everything.
The waitress refilled my water twice without being asked. A small kindness.
When I finished, I left a ten-dollar tip—extravagant by any measure, but she'd smiled at me like I was a real person instead of a junkie killing time. That was worth something.
Outside, the desert sky blazed orange and purple over the Sandias. Beautiful in a way that ABQ's poverty and danger couldn't diminish.
Marcus Gilbert had lived in Manhattan. Never saw sunsets like this. Never stood still long enough to notice them.
I walked back toward Jesse's house. Took my time. Let the cool evening air fill lungs that were learning how to breathe without chemicals.
A hundred fifty-four dollars. A contact who paid for intelligence. Powers that were still revealing themselves.
Not much. But enough. Enough to keep moving. To keep building. To stay one step ahead of a timeline that would destroy everyone it touched.
The house was dark when I arrived. Jesse's car was gone—probably out with Combo or Badger. That was fine. I didn't need company.
I let myself in, locked the door, sat on the couch where I'd woken up four days ago as someone else entirely.
On the coffee table, a piece of paper. Jesse's handwriting: Went to combo's. Call if you need anything.
Under it, something else. A twenty-dollar bill.
No note explaining. Just money. Because Jesse had noticed I was broke, and this was his way of helping without making it weird.
This is who he is, I thought. Underneath the drugs and the bravado. Someone who notices. Someone who cares.
Someone worth saving.
I pocketed the twenty. Turned off the lights. Lay down on the couch and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow: more observation. More information. More quiet accumulation of resources and contacts.
The timeline stretched ahead—Walter White and Heisenberg and everything that followed. But timelines could be changed. Events could be redirected. People could be saved.
I just had to be smart enough, patient enough, and alive long enough to do it.
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