Jimmy McGill dragged his beat-up suitcase up to 2131 North Walls Street.
One of the wheels was busted, squeaking like a dying rat—pretty much matching the noise in his head right now.
He looked up at the three-story redbrick apartment building. The paint was peeling off in chunks, like it had some kind of skin disease.
Two years ago, when he got out of prison, he'd pictured himself standing in front of a fancy high-rise office, not this dump on the edge of the projects.
The door flew open, and three huge guys squeezed into the doorway at the same time.
"Jimmy McGill!"
The one in the middle—black hair, jaw like a bucket, built like a fall-season grizzly—stuck out a hand. "Victor. Long time no see. This is Ethan, my brother."
Jimmy noticed all three were wearing faded T-shirts. Victor's right knuckles were covered in old calluses—the kind you get from pounding a heavy bag for years.
How'd they know Michael again?
Michael was missing a chunk of his left ear—yeah, that was from when Old Joe ripped out his earring back in the day.
Ethan and Victor had changed so much Jimmy barely recognized them.
He pointed at Victor. "Dude, when did you turn into a bear?"
Victor didn't say anything. Real gentle guy. Everyone else called him a fat pig, but in the dark, something about him just… moved. Maybe it was a gift.
"Come on in, counselor."
Ethan grabbed Jimmy's suitcase like it weighed nothing.
Inside wasn't as bad as the outside. At least it didn't smell like mold.
The living room had a second-hand couch, a few plastic chairs, and walls plastered with boxing posters and training schedules.
Coffee was brewing in the kitchen.
Victor stepped outside and fired a blank into the air. The boom echoed through the block. Jimmy jumped. Footsteps scrambled away in the dark.
"Man, this guy's got a gift. You couldn't spotlight him if you tried."
Victor locked the door, then the metal security gate, and came back in.
"You've got Scavengers on your tail."
Ethan handed Jimmy a black coffee. No sugar.
Jimmy's fingers tightened around the mug.
South side punks who stalk ex-cons and homeless guys, rob their last twenty bucks, sometimes kill them and sell the organs—it happens all the time.
Illegals have it rough here.
"They know I took a legal aid case. Thirty bucks payout…"
Victor nodded, pulled an old revolver from the coffee table drawer like he was grabbing the remote.
"Take it. South side trash only understands gunpowder. Finish that coffee, keep the gun. Self-defense. And your skin's thick—you'll be fine."
Jimmy opened his mouth, but the bitterness of the coffee hit his tongue, just like the last two years of his life.
Studying like hell after prison, passing the bar, the high of thinking he'd made it—then rejection after rejection:
"We need clean-background attorneys."
"Clients won't trust an ex-con."
"Sorry, you couldn't even beat your own rap—how you gonna convince a jury?"
He was one step from crawling to his brother, who hated his guts.
"I can't even afford a decent suit."
Jimmy's voice cracked. "Last week, this divorce client saw the loose thread on my cuff and a milk stain on my shirt. Thought I was some deadbeat player. Switched lawyers on the spot. Legal aid says they might not assign me cases next month."
The three brothers shared a look.
Victor set his mug down. Clink.
"We've got a proposition."
Victor leaned in. "I'm training for the March boxing tournament next year. Got some investments on the side. But deals like that… you know. Need legal cover."
"I can do it!"
Jimmy's eyes lit up. He sat straight. "I'm criminal defense, but I can learn business law! Give me a month—"
"A month?"
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"No, a week's not enough. I'm not some prodigy."
Jimmy pushed for time. "Six months. Just six. I'll be as good as anyone."
"No rush."
Michael spoke for the first time, voice low. "We got a guy who knows investing. Meeting tomorrow, 10 a.m."
That night, Jimmy slept on a fold-out cot in the living room, listening to Victor count push-ups in the next room.
For the first time in two years, he felt a spark of hope. As long as someone gave him a meal and a chance, the future might not suck.
Next morning, Victor was already at True Man Gym, smashing the heavy bag. Every punch landed clean and hard.
Michael fried eggs in the kitchen. Ethan read Securities Law for Beginners without looking up.
"Who's this contact?" Jimmy asked, taking a plate from Michael.
"Blair Pafa. You know him—the prodigy kid! Works on Wall Street now."
Ethan didn't lift his eyes. "I told him we've got fifty grand for investment advice."
"Wall Street guy's gonna fly out for a boxer's fifty K?"
Jimmy frowned. "That's like five middle-class salaries. They don't need chump change. He coming?"
The call connected at 10 a.m.
Blair's voice came through the speaker, crackling with static.
"Fifty thousand?"
He repeated it like it was pocket lint. "I need to see the plan. Can you come to New York?"
Ethan glanced at Victor, back from training, everyone busy. "Better if you come here."
"Come here?"
Blair paused. "We're expensive…"
"We'll pay $200 consulting fee."
Ethan thought that was generous.
But Blair shot it down. "We work on commission."
"Let's talk."
Blair offered a middle ground. "$200 for travel. I'll be there this afternoon."
After the call, Jimmy couldn't help but laugh. "This guy's treating fifty grand like gold. Must not be doing so hot."
Victor, fresh from the gym, suddenly punched the wall. Drywall caved in.
"Jimmy, we're friends. Even if it flops, we eat. That's it."
His voice was ice. "Or you think our loyalty's fake?"
Jimmy raised his hands. "Nah. If it wasn't real, you wouldn't need a screw-up lawyer like me."
Victor kept training at home—Old Jack said Michael could spot him. No need for the gym every day.
Jimmy started studying the finance books Ethan gave him, sneaking glances out back at Victor pulling resistance bands, sweat gleaming in the sun.
At 6 p.m. sharp, the doorbell rang.
The guy at the door was nothing like Jimmy expected from Wall Street. Blair Pafa wore a wrinkled suit, carried a scuffed briefcase, and had bloodshot eyes behind thick glasses.
But the second he stepped inside, the air changed. Like a shark just swam into a goldfish bowl.
"So,"
Blair dropped his bag, stared at Victor, then turned to Jimmy. "This is your lawyer?"
His eyes X-rayed Jimmy's frayed cuffs and patched shoes. "Tell me, Mr. McGill—do you know the SEC's latest rules on private equity funds?"
Jimmy's throat went dry.
That wasn't in today's crash course.
All three brothers stared. The room felt like it froze.
In that moment, Jimmy McGill realized: this wasn't just about fifty grand. This was a battle of brains.
---
"So you're a rookie who can't even land an interview?"
"You're a criminal defense attorney who couldn't beat his own rap?"
Jimmy glared at Blair. Blair glared at Jimmy. Michael and Ethan kept reading. Victor stared at his plate of dog-food-looking slop and finally snapped.
BAM!
Victor punched the table. "Michael, what time is it?"
Michael chewed his grilled chicken. "Dinner time, Victor. Don't start."
"Start? This ain't just dinner—this is a reunion meal! I spent sixty bucks on groceries, and you're feeding me this?"
"It's healthy."
"I don't want healthy. I want chicken."
"Victor, chicken's on tomorrow's menu."
The argument ended with Victor scarfing down the whole pile.
Then Blair gave his fifty-grand advice:
"Fifty K could buy three buildings like this…"
Victor cut him off. "I already own this one. Say I rent to keep it quiet. And real estate's too slow."
Blair didn't flinch. "Then invest in the stock market. I can set you up—"
"No!"
Victor shut it down. "If you're so smart, you wouldn't nickel-and-dime me for travel."
Blair's face darkened. "Then I can't help you."
Victor thought of a couple companies he knew from 1984—ones that were trash now but would be giants later. He asked. Got the answers he wanted.
"Fine. $25,000 in Nike stock. $25,000 in Apple."
Blair looked like he'd been slapped. "Nike just gave some rookie a crazy contract—they're desperate. Stock's in the toilet. Dead end.
"And Apple? The founder hired his own enemy to run the company. Jobs is pushing this portable computer—Lisa. A computer you carry? Wall Street says he's getting booted any day."
The more Blair talked, the more Victor grinned.
He didn't know much—but Nike and Apple? Future giants. No way they lose.
Victor glanced at Michael and Ethan. Decision made.
"We're buying both. I'm betting on their future."
Blair lost it, slammed his coffee mug on the table. "You idiot, I'm telling you—"
"If we lose, it's on me!"
Victor played his ace. "But if we win? You get 1% of the profits."
Blair sneered. "You might as well burn the cash. At least it'll keep you warm."
Victor pointed at the spill. "Clean it."
Blair didn't move.
"Fine. Forget it."
Victor gave up on Blair. "Just buy the stocks. Take your commission."
Blair gave up on Victor, thinking he was a total moron. He crashed one night, then left the next morning.
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