inside the car, a lone man is asleep, arms akimbo. sprawled across the seat. half-empty bottle of seagrams v.o. radio on, playing tinny jazz music. picture the tiredest, meanest, grouchiest son of a bitch self-hating loser you can. now give him a two-year-old suit from c & r clothing. such is the aforementioned hallenbeck.
three neighborhood kids have gathered around the car. enjoying the spectacle of a sleeping drunk. one tosses a baseball from hand to hand. one picks his nose.
hallenbeck snores. the mashed squirrel perches on his chest. a shadow falls across him as --
the lovely cory approaches jimmy at the bar. harp looks on.
near the stage, the would-be eddie murphy steps up to the mike and says:
the two other hitmen return to their gray, late-model sedan. climb into the car and sit, watching the nightclub. waiting.
the hitmen wait in the darkened sedan. watching jimmy and cory. the driver keys the ignition. starts the car. in his lap is an automatic rifle.
jimmy puts it in reverse. the car backs up. steam pouring from the crumpled hood. the hitman, now freed, collapses to the street. like a sack of flour.
hallenbeck kneels and peers under the car.
in a dream-like slow motion, he approaches the overturned car. there are two dead bodies inside. a woman. a little boy. in the window, a stuffed garfield doll clings with suction cups to the remaining glass. the furry cat is splattered with blood.
not a terrible fate, under normal circumstances. in this case, however -- a fifty-foot drop.
jimmy's boat roars out of the fog.  and suddenly he's in a world of shit. less than fifty yards to port is milo's yacht. fifty years to starboard is the senator's marlineer.
hallenbeck thrusts forward, hooks his bound hands around the passing anchor and whoosh -- !
they move like sleepwalkers to the cockpit window. stare in disbelief. joe looks at jimmy. jimmy at joe. debris rains down. cut to:
he hides the ingram beneath his body, cocked and ready. cut to: