Chapter 17: The Financial Foundation
POV: Marcus
March 20th, 2008. First week of distribution: forty-five thousand dollars earned. Marcus's cut: eighteen thousand. But raw cash was useless—it needed to be cleaned, hidden, secured through channels that wouldn't attract federal attention or cartel interest.
The money sat in his apartment like a tumor, bundles of twenties and fifties that represented the beginning of something larger and more dangerous than he'd initially planned. Each bill carried the potential for prosperity or prison, depending on how well he managed the infrastructure that would transform criminal proceeds into legitimate wealth.
Marcus loaded eighteen thousand dollars into a duffel bag and drove to Saul Goodman's strip mall office, where the lawyer's expertise in financial alchemy would prove more valuable than any supernatural ability.
Saul's eyes widened when Marcus unzipped the bag, revealing more cash than most people saw in a year. The lawyer's expression cycled through surprise, calculation, and something that might have been hunger as he processed the implications of a client who could generate this kind of revenue consistently.
"That's a lot of hypotheticals," Saul observed, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone who'd learned not to ask uncomfortable questions.
"Need it cleaned. Offshore accounts, legitimate businesses, the works."
"Full service package. I like that in a client." Saul leaned back in his chair, already calculating fees and percentages. "That'll cost fifteen percent."
"Ten."
"Fifteen percent is standard for this kind of work. You're not just paying for paperwork—you're paying for expertise, connections, and the kind of plausible deniability that keeps people out of federal prison."
Marcus let silence stretch between them, using the lawyer's own greed as leverage. Saul needed the business more than Marcus needed his specific services, and they both knew it.
"Twelve percent," Saul offered, "and I throw in a free burner phone each month. Encrypted communication is worth the extra two points."
"Deal."
They shook hands over the money, sealing a relationship that would prove essential to the empire Marcus was building. Saul began pulling forms from filing cabinets, establishing the paper trail that would transform drug proceeds into legitimate business income.
"Few questions for the paperwork," Saul said, pen poised over documents that looked disturbingly official. "What kind of business are we establishing as your primary income source?"
"Consulting. Pharmaceutical distribution analysis."
"Vague enough to be plausible, specific enough to justify irregular income patterns. Good choice." Saul made notes in handwriting that belonged on prescription pads. "Domestic accounts or offshore?"
"Both. I want redundancy."
"Smart. Cayman Islands are traditional, but I recommend spreading across multiple jurisdictions. Bermuda for stability, Switzerland for privacy, Belize for flexibility."
Marcus nodded, impressed despite himself by Saul's expertise. The lawyer might be corrupt and morally flexible, but he understood the technical aspects of money laundering with the precision of someone who'd spent decades perfecting his craft.
"Timeline?"
"Two weeks for basic infrastructure, six weeks for full implementation. You'll have clean money flowing within a month."
Perfect. By the time Walt and Jesse scaled up production, Marcus would have the financial framework necessary to handle significant revenue without attracting unwanted attention.
Marcus spent the following week opening safety deposit boxes across three states, using fake identities that Saul had provided with disturbing efficiency. Arizona, Nevada, Colorado—each box in a different bank, each identity supported by documentation that would fool casual inspection.
The beauty of his door ability was that geographic distribution meant nothing. He could access all five boxes from his apartment in Albuquerque, creating a vault system that existed across state lines but could be reached in seconds.
Cash in Phoenix. Weapons in Denver. Fake passports in Las Vegas. Emergency supplies in Flagstaff. A complete contingency network that only he could access, insurance against every disaster he could imagine.
Ryuk materialized in the Las Vegas bank as Marcus finished loading the final safety deposit box, the death god's presence invisible to security cameras and human witnesses.
"You're paranoid," Ryuk observed, watching Marcus arrange emergency supplies with meticulous care.
"I'm prepared. There's a difference."
"Is there? Or are you just someone who's watched too many movies about criminal empires and learned all the wrong lessons?"
Marcus locked the box and created a door back to his apartment, ending the conversation without resolving the philosophical questions that Ryuk enjoyed raising. The death god was right about one thing—Marcus was building infrastructure based on television knowledge of how criminal organizations operated.
But television knowledge was still knowledge, and preparation was better than improvisation when facing threats that could emerge from any direction.
Saul's offshore infrastructure took shape with remarkable efficiency. Three shell corporations in the Cayman Islands, all registered to addresses that existed only on paper, all managed by lawyers who specialized in asking no questions and remembering nothing.
Money flowed through multiple accounts like water finding the easiest path downhill. Drug proceeds became consulting fees, consulting fees became real estate investments, real estate investments became legitimate business income that could be spent, saved, or reinvested without attracting federal attention.
Within two weeks, Marcus had one hundred fifty thousand dollars "legitimately" accessible through various accounts, plus another fifty thousand in safety deposit boxes that existed outside any financial system. In fourteen days, he'd built financial infrastructure that took most criminals years to establish.
Walt didn't know about the scale of Marcus's wealth. Jesse definitely didn't. As far as they knew, Marcus was just the distribution guy who took his forty percent and disappeared until the next transaction.
They had no idea their partner was building an independent empire that could operate with or without their blue meth. No idea that Marcus had enough resources to walk away from the partnership at any moment, leaving them to face the consequences of their choices without his protection.
Which was exactly how Marcus wanted it.
He sat in his apartment surrounded by financial documents and fake identities, bank statements and incorporation papers spread across his kitchen table like the blueprints of a parallel life. He was no longer just a pharmacy night manager who'd stumbled into supernatural abilities.
He was a criminal entrepreneur with resources, connections, and godlike powers that made him untouchable by conventional law enforcement. The question wasn't what he could build—it was what he wanted to build.
An empire that spanned continents? A network that could move anything anywhere? A criminal organization that operated by rules no government could understand or regulate?
Or just enough wealth and power to ensure his survival in a world that was about to become infinitely more dangerous?
Outside his window, Albuquerque continued its transformation into the setting for Walter White's metamorphosis from high school teacher to methamphetamine kingpin. But Marcus was no longer just observing that transformation—he was actively shaping it, building the infrastructure that would determine whether it ended in tragedy or triumph.
The money was clean. The accounts were established. The safety nets were in place.
Now came the hard part: deciding how much of the monster he was willing to become in service of the empire he was creating.
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