The Accountant Page #3

Listen, just listen to my tone.

I say, "Oh, I'm another year older,

"and I don't know if I'm ever gonna

get out of this f***ing place."

And you say...

You're probably right, Francis.

You're extremely old.

- It's unlikely you'll survive to...

- No. No...

No. Hold on. That's not what you say.

Two years together every night, you know.

I gave you a PhD in black money,

but you gotta learn this.

- This is crucial.

- You're frustrated.

- What am I?

- You're frustrated.

That's what I am.

I'm frustrated. Good, good. Excellent.

Finally. All right. Let's do another one.

Lights out, ladies. Lights out.

Names and addresses. Go.

Semion Ivankov.

79 Primorsky Boulevard, Odessa.

The Meier brothers, Moshe and Itzhak.

221 She'arim Boulevard in Jerusalem.

Dominic Rabito of

960 Court Street, Brooklyn.

Ask for Bobby.

Ask for Bobby.

You know, I'm old.

I may be remembering things

a little rosier than they were.

I mean, you want to fill out 1040s

and itemize deductions,

and pull in 50 grand a year?

I mean, that's a living.

Because if you go down

this road, this road...

You can't go back, you understand?

It's dangerous. Do you understand?

I understand.

You find one person

you can trust, just one.

And do not make my mistake.

You keep moving your ass around.

They gave me a new handler today.

I don't like this guy. He's dull.

Worried.

Ah, f*** it.

Good night, son.

Good night, Francis.

What about Zurich? Saudi Arabia?

The Swiss are cheap.

Dubai is one thing, but we're

too conspicuous in the Kingdom.

I vote Chicago.

- Why?

- There's an uptick in online chatter.

People looking for you.

- What people?

- The unfriendly kind.

Let's try a legitimate client for once.

No cartels, arms brokers,

money launderers, assassins.

I like safe. I like you safe.

Everyone's hiding something.

At least there's honor among thieves.

There's honor among Illinois

electronics manufacturers.

They're in your current backyard.

No risk of movement. You'll meet?

Yeah, I'll meet.

One last piece of business.

Just the Renoir.

I don't have a buyer for the Renoir.

The Pollock can move.

Will you ever let it go?

Hello?

Just the Renoir. Drop the price.

Heavy sigh.

Go to work, dreamboat.

Now, Mr. Wolff, I half-suspect

we're wasting your time.

I'm quite sure you're not.

And you know this how?

I'm on the clock.

Sh*t.

I hope we're not wasting ours then.

Look, kidding aside, I think if you

saw our books, you'd run for the hills.

We have an incredibly complicated

accounting system.

Depreciation schedules

on hundreds of different items.

Full-time and contract employees.

Department of Defense classified accounts.

It's a numerical shitstorm.

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