Down at the precinct, Tony was being a "pal" and hooked Fiona up with a private room to settle things with Eddie.
Sitting across from him, Fiona led with an apology, trying to play peacemaker for Lip and Ian. Eddie wasn't having it. He let out a harsh, dry laugh. "You Gallaghers..." He went off, dragging the entire family through the dirt for a good while.
Fiona's skin crawled, but she bit her tongue. "Eddie, I'm sorry. Lip and Ian have been punished. I'll make sure they never pull anything like this again..." She made her promises and then pivoted to the real trade. "Look, let's just end this here. Otherwise, we're both screwed. Ian goes to juvie, and you go to prison for assault. Is it really worth it?"
As a father who had just beaten the hell out of two kids to "defend" his daughter's honor, Eddie didn't give a damn about jail ti. He scoffed at her offer and shut it down imdiately.
Fiona had expected as much. She brought in Karen, telling her to talk so sense into her dad. Karen obliged—but since she hated Eddie's guts, she went off-script, tearing into him with a barrage of insults that left him reeling.
Eddie looked at his daughter with a mix of grief and disgust. He couldn't wrap his head around how he'd raised soone so shaless and ungrateful. Was it worth rotting in a cell for a girl who hated him this much?
Not a chance.
Finally, Eddie took the deal. A short while later, Tony processed his release. Eddie went ho, packed his bags, and walked out on his life without looking back.
Fiona headed ho to fill Carl and Debbie in. Then, she rounded up the kids—Carl, Debbie, and baby Liam—and headed to the hospital. It was late, and the Chicago winter air was starting to bite.
---
An alarm blared.
Dexter woke up and stuck to the plan. He checked out of the hotel, hopped in his rented cargo van, and parked across from the Alibi Room. He sat in the dark, waiting.
After about thirty minutes, the lights in the bar cut out. Kevin stepped out, locked the heavy doors, and started walking ho. By now, the street was a ghost town.
Dexter didn't rush. He waited another ten minutes to make sure Kev was long gone before pulling on a mask and driving the van into the alley behind the Alibi. He did a quick sweep—no witnesses.
He hopped out with his tools and headed for the basent. The door was secured with a heavy iron padlock. No big deal. He brought out the bolt cutters, snapped the chain like it was a twig, and slipped inside.
He flipped his flashlight on. Damn.
Rows upon rows of high-grade marijuana plants sat under the glow. It was a beautiful sight. Dexter grinned, shut the door behind him, and got to work.
Snip, snip, snip.
It took about three hours. He left two plants behind for Kevin to find—just for the hell of it—and stuffed the rest into the oversized black bags. He loaded the van until it was packed to the brim and drove back to the hotel parking lot.
It was 3:00 AM. Too early to go knocking on Mickey Milkovich's door, so he decided to wait for sunrise. It wasn't like anyone was going to ss with a van in a hotel lot in the middle of the night—especially since Dexter had already ditched the license plates.
The hours ticked by without a hitch.
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, Dexter drove over to the Milkovich house.
Mickey was definitely still crashed out, but Mandy was up for school, picking at so breakfast. When she heard the knock at the door, she looked confused. Nobody ca by this early. She opened the door and saw Dexter.
"Who are you looking for?" she asked, suspicious.
Dexter looked at her and felt a flicker of pity. In the show, Mandy wasn't a bad person at heart, just dealt a crappy hand. Between her psycho dad Terry and her obsession with a jerk like Lip, she never stood a chance. She basically paved Lip's way to MIT and got nothing in return, eventually ending up on the streets. He rembered her telling Lip once—in a mont of total heartbreak—that she knew he'd move on to a better life and leave her behind in the slums.
Poor girl, he thought. He gave her a polite smile. "Hey. I'm looking for Mickey. Is he around?"
Mandy sized him up. "What do you want with him?"
"We talked earlier. Got so business to take care of. Could you grab him for ? Thanks."
Mandy hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. Wait here."
A few minutes later, Mickey stumbled out, yawning and rocking that "don't ss with " swagger. "You're early. Where's the stuff?"
Dexter gestured toward the van parked at the curb. As he moved, he purposefully let his jacket ride up, flashing the Glock 17 tucked into his waistband. "It's all in the back."
Mickey clocked the gun. He didn't flinch, but it definitely woke him up. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Dexter. Dexter wasn't a heavy smoker, but he figured when in Ro, so he took it.
Mickey lit his own. "Let see the goods."
"Sure."
The van's windows were tinted pitch black, so they walked over to the passenger side and Dexter swung the door open. Mickey hopped in, eyeing the mountain of black bags. He tore one open and poked his head in.
Mickey looked impressed. "Man, this stuff is fresh. Looks like it was just harvested."
Dexter smirked. "Doesn't matter."
Mickey raised an eyebrow. "Is the owner gonna co looking for it?"
"Nope," Dexter said firmly. "I 'took care' of the owner."
Mickey blinked, glanced at the gun again, and nodded. "Fair enough."
Dexter tossed him the keys. "I need the van back later, and I want my cut today."
"No problem," Mickey said easily. "Where do I find you?"
Dexter pulled out his phone. "Let's swap numbers. Call when the cash is ready."
Once the details were ironed out, Dexter turned and started the walk back to his hotel. He'd been up all night; he needed a hot shower and a long nap.
Mickey, anwhile, didn't waste a second. He ran inside, threw on so clothes, did a quick brush of his teeth, and called up two of his cousins. They had a literal ton of weed to move, and money to make.
As for "ripping off" the mystery guy and keeping all the cash? Mickey thought about it for a split second before tossing the idea. It wasn't worth the heat. Getting a 50% cut—tens of thousands of dollars—for just making so calls was an easy win. No point in getting into a shootout with a guy whose background he didn't know.
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