The Accountant Page #6

Every one.

Managing partner...

Christian Wolff.

- Christian Wolff.

- Come in.

Christian Wolff, last year, ran $75,543

through his accounting firm.

Whoa. Who is Christian Wolff?

The accountant.

- 75 grand? That's chump change.

- Agreed.

But he ran another $287,765

through Kim's Nails,

$445, 112 through Great Mandarin Chinese,

and you'll love this,

$505,909 through Paul's Laundromat.

Paul's Laundromat?

Are you f***ing kidding me?

He's playing with us.

He can't clean that kind of money

through an accounting firm.

The paper trail's too heavy.

So, he's laundering it

through cash businesses.

All of those are in the same strip mall

south of Chicago.

ZZZ?

I mean, he doesn't care about the traffic.

It's a front. All of it.

Christian Wolff, Carl Gauss,

Lou "Lewis" Carroll.

He's using the names

of famous mathematicians as a cover.

Charitable contributions here

to Harbor Neuroscience.

Last year alone,

that's gotta come to close to...

$1,000,100.

That one's not a cover.

That's the real deal. I checked.

So, you're telling me

this guy risks his life

doing forensic accounting for some

of the scariest people on the planet,

collects his fee, goes through

all the trouble of laundering it,

and then gives almost all of it away?

Well, what if

he's taking other means of payment?

Yeah, possible. Yeah.

I caught him, Ray.

Maybe.

Pack a bag. We're going to Chicago.

90% probability they're all right-handed.

Up to me, I'd snap four right wrists.

But maybe you enjoy waiting

on a schoolyard sucker punch.

Life is a series of choices,

none of which are new.

The oldest is choosing to be a victim.

Or choosing not to.

Second oldest:
loyalty.

Family first, good times or bad.

Bonjour, fellas.

They're only glasses.

You think if you don't fight back,

then maybe they'll like you.

Stop picking on you, calling you "freak."

Well, here's what it is.

They don't like you,

they don't dislike you.

They're afraid of you.

You're different.

Sooner or later,

"different" scares people.

Victim or not? Make a decision.

Go.

You're different.

Sooner or later,

"different" scares people.

In here.

.357 Colt Python.

Serial number's gone.

Hydra-Shoks.

Wireless security cam.

Infrared, weatherproof.

He's got a network of 'em.

Whole backyard's got eyes.

This is our guy.

So, why does a guy who's

up to his elbows in cash live here?

Given his clientele, he figures

blending in will extend his shelf life.

It's the smart move.

Well, maybe not smart enough.

High-tech security cameras back here,

anybody could roll up in the front.

How does he cover this?

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Don't see that every day.

Boys, let's have a situation report.

We good, Ike?

All clear.

Rock and roll.

And how about you, sport?

It's Bobby.

I got nothing.

Okay, yeah, I'm getting

a feed on the camera now.

Move it to the left side.

Is all this really necessary?

You should be watching his home.

Yeah? What you think?

That's your idea on the subject?

Love it when people tell me

how to do my job.

I believe I recommended

you leave the country.

- You declined.

- He's an accountant!

I could see it in his eyes.

The freak wasn't gonna let it go.

My best to Michelle.

I will.

I was old 10 years ago.

So, what's your story, Medina?

You know my story.

I know what the courts said.

Stuffed a handful of cocaine

up a drug dealer's nose,

pistol-whipped him

into the trunk of his car.

I was 17. It was August.

He cooked for three days, but lived.

Do you regret it?

The coke was half borax.

Same sh*t he kept selling my sister.

She's a dental hygienist in Annapolis now.

Married, three kids.

No, I don't regret it.

That's rough.

All due respect, Director King,

what the f*** do you know about "rough"?

Wait! I gotta call it in!

Move it!

You tell me, Medina.

Men kill each other

for any number of reasons.

Bobby, you hear me?

Money, power...

Fear.

Right there, motherf***er!

Nine men would die

that day at the Ravenite,

but for none of those reasons.

No, they'd taken something

from the man who was killing them.

Something that couldn't

be made whole again.

Something very important to him.

And he was there for his pound of flesh.

Please.

Just f***ing stop, man!

Just put the gun down!

Little Tony Bazzano.

I'd been wedged in a van for six months

listening to that arrogant little prick

belch, fart, and brag.

Please.

I'm f***ing begging you.

I didn't recognize his voice

with all the fear in it.

I didn't touch him.

I didn't touch that old man!

I wasn't even...

Our man had come for revenge.

And he got it.

Nine dead.

And I was 10.

Your name?

Ray.

Raymond King.

Who employs you, Raymond King?

I'm a Treasury agent.

Are you a good one?

No.

No, not particularly.

Is that it?

Kids, I got... I'm a dad.

I got two kids.

Grown?

Yeah.

Yes, yes, they're all...

They're all grown up.

Were you a good dad, Raymond King?

Yeah. I've been a good dad.

I'm a lousy agent,

and I've been a weak man,

but that I didn't screw up.

That I got right.

Imagine you're a Treasury agent

approaching the twilight

of a spectacularly dismal career.

And then one day, that break

you should have been looking for.

Francis Silverberg, a black money legend.

Cleaned cash from Monte Carlo

to Havana to Vegas.

He cooked the books for the Gambino family

for 40-plus years.

Until one day, the boss, Big Tony Bazzano,

thought maybe the old man's age

made him vulnerable to prosecution.

Ordered his son, Little Tony,

to kill Francis.

Kid f***ed it up.

Francis ran, became a federal informant

in return for protective custody.

Could have turned my career around

if only I'd listened.

I didn't.

He was processed out,

and he lost the only protection he had.

Stand clear of the gate.

The protection that he was promised

when he testified against Big Tony.

And this time, Little Tony got it right.

He had Francis in a couple hours.

Down in a filthy basement in the Bronx,

nailed to a chair,

tortured to death.

So, I volunteered for a joint task force.

Sat outside the Ravenite

in a surveillance van for months

hoping to get a shred of evidence

to use against Francis' killers.

Wait! Wait!

I gotta call it in!

Move it!

I went in there hoping

I could ease my guilt.

And I met our accountant.

Why he let me live, I didn't know.

But he changed my life.

Gave my notice at the Department.

I started looking forward

to the day again.

You know, feeling the sun on my face.

Quit drinking.

Was on my way out the door...

And then, the phone rang.

Ray King.

I'll never forget that voice.

Do you like puzzles, Raymond King?

She tells me she works for the accountant.

And that a shipping container

packed with Chinese nationals

is passing through the Port of New York.

Few months later,

one ton of uncut Jurez cartel product

is entering Miami.

All those cases you put together...

Smoke and mirrors.

So, who is he?

This accountant.

Prisoner 831.

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