At least Jimmy is honest with Kim about his dishonesty, employing the moniker of Saul Goodman only when operating under his professional alias. He comes clean about offering half-price counsel to nonviolent felons, though he holds back on the specifics—the number of cases he's agreed to take on or the increased likelihood of his potential client pool committing misdemeanors now that defending themselves is cost-effective. It turns out they're almost constitutionally guaranteed to run afoul of some statute concerning vandalism or grand theft, or some comparable, reckless flouting of New Mexico norms—which is precisely what Jimmy was banking on. However, this necessitates needlessly provoking his prosecutorial counterparts at the Bernalillo County Courthouse until they relent and compromise on some sort of plea that does little else but fulfill the prophecy of criminal justice as a parlor game.
At this stage, Jimmy's colleagues have yet to realize just how far Saul will go to rig the results in his favor. Take ADA Ericsen (Julie Pearl, one of many Saul-iverse semi-regulars on whom the franchise has smiled warmly), for example. How else does she not raise an eyebrow when her elevator malfunctions moments after Jimmy jams his way in, jousting over Bluetooth with some nameless ne'er-do-well? Perhaps it's because of the little bit of exposition prior to Jimmy's entering the frame, the one that lays bare Suzanne's smothering caseload, the kind that makes one susceptible to Saul's charms and entreaties over 20 minutes of makeshift deal-making that would make Monte Hall look small.
With Saul as his guiding hand, Jimmy is raking in the dough off the lesser impulses of Albuquerque's reliably delinquent ranks, even giving them a little push into their next petty act. But if this show and its forebear have returned over and again to one central theme, it's that one needn't travel back to the future in order to complicate time and space. Emboldened by Saul's 50 percent discount for doing bad, two sub-Pinkman misfits we'll dub Beavis and Butt-Head (played with degenerative abandon by Sasha Feldman and Morgan Krantz) accelerate their meth habit, eventually getting greedy and purchasing more packets of powder than the 5th Street outpost's drain pipe can handle.
Enter Domingo—now and forever known as Krazy 8, or Ocho Loco, thanks to Lalo's provocation during a deeply unpleasant game of cards—playing handyman, followed in short order by the cops. Nacho saves the day and cozies up to Lalo by playing superhero and literally leaping off rooftops to save their product before the narcs hammer their way into Mouse's lair. But Domingo's already in cuffs and being hauled off, which makes Lalo nervous. So it's Nacho's job to save his friend's ass and get him sprung from his stay behind bars. Thus Jimmy can barely begin lapping up his celebratory cone of mint chocolate chip (the only flavor that matters) before Nacho and his terrifying, Vin Diesel–look-alike muscle, Blingy (KeiLyn Durrel Jones, no doubt tired of the Vin Diesel comparisons), roll up and beckon his presence. That sad, gently licked cone of mint choc chip, much like the stolen garden gnome Beavis and Butt-Head left shattered and prone in a cul-de-sac, is among the least consequential collateral damage in Jimmy's careless game of judicial chess.
Not that the "50% Off" sign doesn't hint at the procedural twists and turns that lie ahead. Gus and Lalo have only just begun their little dance of wits, each trying to outmaneuver the other in the region's drug trade. Lalo is no fool, and he knows Gus is using cunning subterfuge (though he's yet to discover that Nacho is Gus's inside man, even as Nacho risks his life and freedom to get closer to Lalo and protect his family from Gus) and a stealthy expansion of operations. Fortunately for Lalo, as long as he continues to swap Tio Hector's vitamin drink for alcohol, his uncle will dispense wisdom with the ring of that iconic concierge bell. It seems we can soon expect an outright attempt at robbing Gus's loot.
Meanwhile, there's the tale of "Gringo Mike," who is hitting rock bottom and lashing out at poor Kaylee as he contemplates the choices that have led him from protecting the streets of Philadelphia to facing the guilt over his son's and Werner's deaths and a doomed fate trying to fix Gus's mess. Mike's internal drama may not be as gripping as his adversarial relationship with Walt or his surrogate fathering of Jesse, but it beats watching him and Kaylee play house as if making some kind of spiritual amends.
But the most enticing aspect is when Howard arrives and dangles the offer of having lunch with Jimmy and chatting. Not Saul, it should be clarified. With matters concerning Chuck's will and testament put to rest, this could be Jimmy's last chance to go legit and fill the shoes of his brother's legacy. Or, from Howard's perspective, to regrow something noble from the roots of their shared guilt. Besides, that big house Jimmy has been eyeing for him and Kim, not to mention all the movie nights in front of their plasma TV, won't pay for themselves. Then again, he does have a system.
