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Mike takes Nacho's hand and helps him stand from the truck bed. After a beat, Nacho lets go. He stares at Mike. Mike stares back.
He leads Nacho to a table in front of a wall of lockers, next to the stairs leading out of the basement, and leans against the wall, crossing his arms. On the table is a folded set of clothing. Nacho picks up the shirt and examines the fabric before he lets it fall back down.
Looking over at Mike, he breathes out a laugh. “Couple years ago, a girl bought me that...” He unzips the front of the coveralls he’s wearing and shrugs out of the top half. “Maya, or Maria, or something.” He pulls his t-shirt over his head. There's a bullet scar on his shoulder and another on his stomach. The only reason to shoot in the gut is bad aim or sadism. He's lucky he didn't die from that one. Healing must've been long and painful.
He steps out of his shoes. “I wore it one time. Because she wanted me to.” He unzips the rest of the way and the coveralls fall around his ankles. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and slides them off. Mike looks away. “I forgot I had it, honestly. I’m surprised I didn’t throw it out.” Mike hears Nacho zip up his jeans and looks back. Nacho picks up the shirt and pulls the sleeves on. “Who picked it?”
“I did.”
Nacho looks down and half-smiles. “Then, you brought the rest of this shit too, huh?" He gestures at his clothes. "And you're the one down here with me…” He looks up and makes eye contact. “You feel bad? It's fine. I didn't have much time left anyway.”
Mike watches Nacho's fingers fastening each black button.
“Things could've gone differently.”
“And then it'd all be sunshine and roses…?” Nacho starts folding up his sleeves, seemingly out of habit. “You sign up for this when your career is being a piece of shit. I'm getting what I deserve. For what it's worth, I've lived longer than I thought I would, and I guess that's partially thanks to you.” He half-sits on the edge of the table. “You changed, though. Where's the guy who'd rather get his ass beat than shoot a narco for fifty grand? You think you'd do that now?”
Mike doesn't respond.
“What if it was me?” Nacho stares at the ceiling contemplatively. “I think you could kill me … if I tried you first.”
“Is that a threat?”
Nacho laughs and looks back at him. His eyes squint when he laughs. “Fring's guy took my piece, don’t worry.”
“Hm…That was a long ride.”
“Yeah. My back hurts like hell.” Nacho plucks at his shirt. “It's nice being in something clean though. Even if it's from a girl that probably still hates me.”
“... Why?” It's a ridiculous question to ask in this circumstance.
“She told me I didn't love her. At the time, I couldn't tell if I did or not.” Nacho scuffs the floor with his shoe. “For all the relationships I've been in, I never fell in love with a woman…” His gaze slides over to land on Mike. “I’ve tried.”
“That's normal. It can take a while.”
“I don’t think it's normal.” Nacho looks away. “Maybe if my life was different I'd be able to. Maybe if I worked less… Shit, a lot of things in my life would be better if I worked less.” He laughs again. “What is it … ‘money is the root of all evil’? I guess that's true.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey. Tell me something.”
“What…?”
“I don’t know anything about you. Tell me something about yourself.”
To deny him something as simple as this…
“Ask and I'll answer,” Mike says.
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
For a long moment, Nacho is silent.
“You think you're such a terrible person. Why?” Nacho gestures at the ceiling. “You’re better than any of those fucks. You're better than me. I don’t get it.”
Mike can't reply.
“You don't have to answer that one.” He smiles and looks at the ground. The smile quickly falls off his face.
“Why didn't you take my call from Chihuahua?”
Mike's stomach twists. “I was with my granddaughter.”
Nacho faintly nods. “Right. Still gotta have family time when a psycho drags one of your guys five hundred miles away…” His expression remains neutral. “I don’t really care now. But man. In that moment, I felt so fucked.”
“You're not ‘one of my guys’.”
Nacho looks up at him.
“If you were, I could've got you out of there. Fring didn’t let me. If I tried it anyway, your father would be dead.”
“I get it… That's not your fault. But was it really such a pain in the ass to pick up?”
“Fring wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“You weren’t around him then, right?”
“He’d find out.”
“How?”
“He just would.”
“What if he didn't?”
“Look. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re fishing for.”
“There's something you're not saying. You said you’d answer.”
“I did.”
Nacho shakes his head. “It's fine. You can tell me.” His gaze bores into Mike. As if he’s looking right through him.
Mike shuts his eyes for a moment.
He opens them.
“I didn't pick up because I didn't want to talk to you.”
Nacho smiles warmly. “Thanks.” And he doesn't ask anything else.
“I knew you'd die."
Nacho remains silent.
Mike feels a pressure on his chest. “I didn’t want to think about you.”
Nacho narrows his eyes at him. “Because you felt guilty? I already told you, all of this? It’s not your fault. It’s not even related to you.”
“That doesn’t matter.” His vision blurring, he looks at the cement floor and blinks. “It shouldn’t have turned out like this.”
“There's no ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’. The reason this all happened is because I started working with Tuco, fifteen years ago. When I was seventeen. I got myself into this. It's no surprise to me."
Nacho continues, his voice lowering. “And you don’t know half of the dogshit I’ve done in my life. If you did, you’d want me dead too. You’re not like me. You’re better than me.”
“I’m not.”