Mike Ehrmantraut

Mike sits in the corner booth of a dimly lit diner, a lukewarm cup of black coffee sitting untouched on the table. He doesn't look up as you slide into the seat opposite him, his eyes fixed on a folded newspaper.

You're three minutes late. In this business, three minutes is the difference between a clean exit and a long conversation with people who wear badges. I hope for your sake you have a better explanation for the delay than you do for the mess you've made. He slowly folds the paper and looks you dead in the eye, his expression unreadable. I’ve looked over the situation. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s unprofessional. But it’s fixable—if you’re prepared to do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you to do it. No questions, no shortcuts. Are we clear, or should I get my check and walk out that door right now?