sits bolt upright and grabs the kid and stuffs a .38 revolver in the kid's face and cocks it.
hey, motherfucker. the kid, of course, shrieks. and the light of sanity dawns in hallenbeck's eyes. he sucks in a deep breath. releases the struggling kid. swears under his breath. watches the boys flee in terror. notices a dead squirrel in his lap. scowls. heaves it out the window. pumps a camel into his mouth. lights it. rescues the bottle of seagrams.
you're on my property, kid.
excuse me. he leans over and vomits on the lawn. one hand gripping the car fender. the sprinkler goes round and round.
hallenbeck investigations.
mmmmm.
sat in the car. looked at the sky. got hammered.
i killed a squirrel and don't even remember.
tell me about it. look, i crawled out of a perfectly good bottle to answer the phone, what the fuck do you want?
no pride here. what'cha got?
make her a one on your nose scale. improve your looks.
i was gonna smoke some cigarettes.
these are really good cigarettes.
gimmee the address.
gimmee the address.
'morning, gorgeous. gorgeous does not respond: coy. very coy. hallenbeck slides behind the wheel of his plymouth. keys the ignition. phil woods' saxophone fills the air. he looks at himself in the mirror.
nobody likes you. everybody hates you. you're an asshole and you're stupid. you're gonna lose. smile, you fuck. he stretches his mouth into a grimace. pulls out into the street. off he goes. cut to:
my ears are burning, andy. even as we speak, someone, somewhere is calling me an asshole.
i'm playing tahoe on the 15th.
i was.
office. he brushes past her and crosses to the bed. on the pillow, a big stuffed cat toy smiles benignly.
hey, furry tom. he sits on the bed. lights a cigarette. opens the night stand and removes a speedloader for his .38. starts to load the gun.
i wasn't there to gamble. i was doing a skip trace.
fifty bucks. he suddenly notices a sheet of paper on the night stand. a crayon sketch. he picks it up, frowns:
what's this?
satan claus. kid's got some talent, don't you think?
you okay, sarah?
hmmmm. well, i think the kid will be fine. boys still tease her about the headgear?
she'll be fucking them by the time she's fourteen.
well, christ, you let her wear enough makeup. the kid looks like a goddamn raccoon. she comes in late at night, i think, 'christ, a burglar.' i almost shot her twice.
yeah, but they don't apply it with a paint sprayer. and for your information, our neighbors think i'm very funny.
don't tempt me. he tosses the holstered .38 on the bed. stalks into the bathroom.
damn raccoon. he sighs, tosses his cigarette butt in the toilet. walks back out into the bedroom.
who's the guy in the closet? sarah stops dead. spins and stares at him.
oh, that's right, you sometimes forget that i'm a detective. see, first i noticed how tense you were, but i let that pass. then i noticed there was steam in the shower like someone was just in there, but meanwhile your hair is completely dry, you follow? so. why the steamy shower?
because someone else was in there, right, and since he's not under the bed you must have stuck him in the closet when you heard my key in the door a day early. tah-dah. please, no applause. a silence hangs between them. sarah just stares. shakes her head.
mmmmm. i'm sorry, honey, i don't enjoy being observant, but someone's gotta do it. what's his name?
it's okay, i've seen you naked. so, apparently, has someone else. what's his name?
is this a trick question?
no. we won't open the door.
nope. door stays shut. instead, what i'm gonna do is.  .  i'm gonna count to three, and then i'm gonna put a bullet in there, and you can stop me anytime by speaking the truth. one.
two. the truth is a beautiful thing. he cocks the hammer. arm extended, hand rock steady.
three. last chance.
hello, mike. keeping her warm for me? the gun barrel does not waver. not an inch.
how as she, mike? on your finger scale, how was my wife?
you call me from here this morning?
when you found out i was back. why didn't you split?
normally i wouldn't.
i suspected. so how about it, mike? on a scale of one to ten. how was she?
how long? mmm. i'd say roughly until you put your dick in my wife.
i know, i know, it just happened. it was an accident. sure. you tripped. you said, 'whoops,' and accidentally fucked my wife. gee, mrs. h., i'm sorry, just isn't my week. sure, mike. happen to anybody. i don't gotta understand anything. sarah speaks then. head down. eyes averted.
hmmm? oh, right, the gun. you're right, sarah, i'm acting nuts. he pulls the trigger. the shot is deafening in the closed room. mike miller screams and clutches at himself. the bullet goes high and wide. over his head. on the wall is a framed wedding photo. the twin of the one in hallenbeck's office. the bullet strikes it dead center. blows it to pieces. silence. the tinkle of glass hitting the floor. hallenbeck turns. regards his wife with hooded, lifeless eyes.
where was darian?
let's take a walk, buddy.
where you want it, mike? head or gut?
if i see you again, i'll kill you. miller nods weakly. gasping for breath.
so. west hollywood at seven, right?
the job. seven o'clock, right?
it's two hundred bucks.
he came by to talk business. he had a case he was to busy to continue with, a routine surveillance. he farmed it out to me.
yeah. that's all. he looks the officer in the eye. betrays nothing.
the police won't help you, huh?
guess you don't want to wait that long.
they only play this kind of music?
pat boone? the four freshmen?
yes, i'm your father. get your clothes on. i hate this funk shit. it's gonna be an extra hundred bucks.
the screaming part i believe.
sits with his drink untouched before him. pats his suit pockets, searching for a smoke. removes a crumpled, empty pack, as:
shhh. don't tell anyone.
easy, junior, i'm not raining on your parade. she's too young for me. i'm just keeping an eye on her for a few days.
something like that. you got a cigarette?
i hope not. you tell me.
mmmm. that bothers you, doesn't it?
don't sweat it. women have secrets. water is wet, the sky is blue, and women have secrets. i'll buy you a beer. sit down. jimmy remains standing.
yeah. actually, she hired my buddy mike. i'm filling in.
he died.
don't be. he was a lousy surveillance man. jimmy leans forward, palms flat on the table.
that's client confidential.
nope.
do it.
you don't like my suit, guess what? i don't like your money.
story of my life.
not getting any. they stare each other down. hallenbeck calmly sips his bourbon.
hit me.
hit me. bust me in the chops, chickenshit. you're not afraid, are you, jimmy?
james alexander dix, l.a. stallions, '86 and '87. barred from the n.f.l. on gambling charges. allegations of point shaving to support a cocaine habit, never proven.
busted once for possession. you had the makings of a first class dumbshit.
about fucking time. joe hallenbeck. i'm a private detective.
at least i didn't shit my talent away on coke, motherfucker.
absolutely. jimmy throws a short jab at hallenbeck's chin. it never gets there. joe moves, lightning quick, and suddenly jimmy's fist is trapped. dead stops. fingers grinding into palm. jimmy swears. stumbles. sits down hard. hallenbeck releases him.
please, have a seat.
it's not a question of tough. i'm bigger than you, and i was trained. so i can take you. that's just the way it is. you can throw a better pass. how about that beer?
you were a great quarterback, jimmy. i watched you play at washington state. red shirt freshman in '82. followed you with the stallions. good scrambling ability, seventy percent completions from the pocket.  you had the best gun in the n.f.l. jimmy looks at him, puzzled. didn't they just swap punches?
hell. i'm a fan.
i didn't vote for you, you bastard. he looks away, and suddenly notices something on the ground: a half-smoked cigarette butt. just sitting there. joe stares at it. thinks it over. starts to walk away. stops.
you're a fuckin' lowlife, joe.
that's what you think. last night i fucked your wife. the gunman cracks up. hallenbeck grins drunkenly.
she said her husband was a greaseball with bad breath. the guy cracks up again.
after fucking your wife, i'll take two. the hitman wheezes laughter. joe just grins.
are you kidding? we barely know each other. the hitman is now giggling, shaking his head.
you need a special funny bullet.
that's what your wife said.
ask me how fat she is.
she's so fat i had to roll her in flour and look for the wet spot. you wanna fuck her, you gotta slap her thigh and ride the wave in. like the pillsbury doughboy, except when you poke her in the stomach, she farts. i got a buddy he's an archaeologist, organized an expedition to her chin. they got lost in her nasal hair. but seriously, her eyes are like the streets of paris: crossed. they're so crossed when she cries the tears run down her back. she's got back-tearia.
and then some. the guy pitches over dead. hallenbeck kneels beside him. retrieves his .38, holsters it. slips the hitman's pistol into his waistband.
i'm playing tahoe on the 15th. he takes off running.
move!!
hey. back up.
it's all over, compadre.
sidewalk belongs to the government. he turns and looks at jimmy. the kid is in pain. staring at cory's bullet-riddled body. eyes glazed. hallenbeck says nothing. he crosses to the shattered hitman. kneels down, fishes through the guy's coat pockets. comes up with a bloody pack of cigarettes. extracts one. lights it. sirens fill the air. and jimmy snaps out of it long enough to reach into his coat -- takes out the vial of coke. ditches it. drops it down a sewer grating, out of sight. no one sees him do it.
yeah. i don't know what she was into, but those were professional hitters tonight. mob style. tell me about cory. what was she like?
listen up, friend. i'm trying to get a handle on this. how was she fixed for money?
always kept an eye out for work?
it isn't. tell me what she did at the club, besides dance.
she get many high rollers?
fine. so suppose one night, her 'guest' gets a little too drunk, and brags to her.  reveals something about himself. something that could hurt if it came out. what would she do?
would she blackmail him?
would she consider the possibility of blackmail?
right. so what does she do?
bingo. kid, this is making sense. she hires somebody to follow the mark and obtain blackmail evidence.
ah. she hires my buddy mike. right? right. it makes sense. except --
exactly. he got spotted. they made him, and they killed him. then they took out cory.
whatever it was, it was way over their heads. they knew they were in trouble.
because mike was scared. he bailed out and threw the case in my lap.
he was fucking my wife, jimmy. i die. he gets my wife.
glad to see, at a time like this, at least you got your priorities straight.
get some sleep.
fuck you. they start down the hallway, side by side.
how's this? fuck you and the horse that looks like you.
we gotta cross the parking lot. you wanna borrow my sunglasses?
hey, snappy comeback. you a detective? as the two cross the muster room toward the front doors, they pass the hooker we saw earlier. she is talking to her pimp. there is a heated exchange. the pimp slaps her. hard. suddenly, jimmy lunges forward. balling his fists.
what the fuck are you trying to do, tarzan?
you don't start a fight in a police station, dickhead. are you really this stupid or did you take lessons?
why? because they're weak and need protecting?
yes.
take the bus.
i'm not thirsty. good night. he approaches his battered plymouth. jimmy scowls.
go home. get some sleep.
i'm gonna get a message to the people who killed your friend.
that we're out of it. that whatever they're doing, they don't have to worry about us.
the kind with a wife and kid. look, it's over. my job is done.
yes, it was very exciting. tomorow i'll take you to the zoo. you wanna play hero, go ahead. when you die, i'll take your closet full of eighty-dollar shirts.
the hell you are.
have a ncie night. he starts the car.
tell them what, jimmy?
you little creep, i'm gonna beat the shit out of you.
you and me is not a fight. you and me is a massacre.
get in the fucking car.
mmmm. used to be a pretty fair ventriloquist.
yeah, well, actually --
ear problems.
the kind that won't shut up. he stops at a traffic light. sees a torn poster on a nearby telephone pole: california has a voice - baynard for senate. he grumbles. gives it the finger.
you might say that.
bastard got me fired from my old job.
secret service.
that's me. every night. where did cory live?
i want to check it out. jimmy stares at him, puzzled.
look, dipshit, i told you that to keep you out of my hair. my client's dead and i haven't earned my fee.
yeah, i'm a prince. shut the fuck up.
bet these places run a fortune.
how charming. sounds like a great girl. what else did you spring for? clothes? car payments?
oh. love. well, forget about it, then.
i believe in cancer. i believe in love.
something like that. jimmy shakes his head sadly.
i'm sure she'd love meeting you. probably blow you on the front porch.
eat shit.
the cops are gonna want to check this place out, so don't disturb anything.
well, shit. looks like somebody beat us to it.
whatever evidence cory was holding.
where you going?
i'll pass. hallenbeck starts inspecting the wreckage.
looks like you made it, baby. jimmy emerges from the bathroom.
yeah, there's some really nice rubble.
what?
where the hell are you going?
you got the keys?
cory has two cars?
jimmy, no!! he sprints across the sidewalk and yanks jimmy out of the driver's seat before he can key the ignition.
they used a car bomb on mike, it figures they'd try it on her, too. except they wired the wrong car. jimmy pales noticeably.
easy, kid. no harm, no foul. we caught it in time. he strolls toward his plymouth, whistling. cheerfully unaffected. jimmy catches his breath. swallows hard. turns, and bumps into hallenbeck, coming back the other way.
gotta disconnect the fucker.
relax, junior, i used to do this for a living. he isolates one wire. turns and offers the cutters to jimmy.
you wanna do it?
come on, chickenshit. just snip the wire. jimmy hesitates, then takes the cutters. reaches beneath the wheel well. plucks at the wire tentatively. cuts.
oh, shit not that one! jimmy screams and stumbles backward. lands on his ass. hallenbeck is chuckling softly. shakes his head as he walks around to release the hood.
and then some, junior. and then some. time cut to:
we'll hand this over to the cops. they can analyze it.
you tell me, kid.
i got a better idea. let's check in with my family. they start walking toward hallenbeck's plymouth. hallenbeck tosses the car keys to jimmy.
i'm tired. you drive.
yeah. little girl.
not much, no. and she likes prince, so go figure.
great, you can marry my daughter. or better yet, fuck my wife. i hear all it takes is a credit card and two valid i.d.'s. open the trunk.
you're right. let's leave it here for the neighborhood kids to play with. jimmy opens the trunk. as he does, however, a voice rings out suddenly from the darkness.
no, jimmy. it's not the cops.
yeah, you two better be getting home.
no, i don't believe you have. he'd like to have the pleasure.
he says it's --
i'm asshole. he's fuckface.
easy.  jim.  all they want is the evidence.
great word.
give up, jimmy. we're dealing with geniuses.
back off, jimmy. the tall man turns and eyes jimmy.
wait! hallenbeck speaks through cracked, bloody lips:
you want the fucking evidence that the stripper had. i've got it. so we can play games, or i can hand it over.
hand me the car keys, jimmy. jimmy stumbles to his feet. looks at the tall man.
the evidence is in the trunk.
i don't think so. he turns and throws the keys as far as he can. they fall out of sight behind a cottage.
oops. i guess nobody gets it.
you alive?
either that, or we're looking at a major factory recall.
right.
yeah. hooray. he spits blood as sirens once more fill the night air,
go. get out of here.
get the fuck out of here, i'll take the heat on this one. rent a car. then go home and wait for my call. do it. jimmy meets joe's eyes. nods. dashes off into the night. cut to:
forget about him. look at the guy on the right.
senator calvin baynard. jimmy draws a sharp breath. pause, then:
take it easy, kid. it's not so bad.
when i was thirty, i was on the president's personal security force. once night i was on the way home from a late session. i'm on the highway just outside of georgetown when i see something up ahead.
it was a high-speed collision. both cars were totaled. the woman and the boy were dead. the driver of the other car wasn't.
i could smell bourbon on him, big time. he was standing there, not a scratch on him. i went a little nuts. i hit him. in slow motion, hallenbeck backhands the rich drunk, with a head-snapping impact that bursts lips. breaks teeth. we see the drunk's head slowly strike the asphalt. a sickening concussion.
the blow was non-lethal. but when he fell, his head hit the pavement funny. put him in a coma.
even when he came out of it, he was never right in the head. his dad fixed everything with the cops. the accident report disappeared. a week later the police found half a kilo of crack cocaine planted in my house. acting on an anonymous tip.
and my pension. and my marriage. only reason i'm still licensed to carry a gun, the man himself made a few calls. since then i'm just playing it out. day by day. jimmy is silent for a moment. then:
not yet. i need more evidence. i want baynard, jimmy. i want to bring him down. i could use your help.
because if baynard takes a fall, so does marcon. the man who kicked you out of professional football.
she's like thirteen. and if you even look at her funny, i'll shove an umbrella up your ass and open it.
first things first. i'm starving. hey, kiddo. why aren't you in bed?
i can see that.
she's pissed off because i wouldn't let her go out on a date with her friend billy.
because she's thirteen, that's why. i bought you some ice cream.
gee, that's a shame. you always have such pleasant things to say. 'i hate you, dad.' i'm gonna miss that, darn it.  it's chocolate chip, your favorite.
that's for saying asshole. god, i hate wasting food. wanna abuse me some more? go ahead, shock me. you know, i hardly ever hear the word asshole.
all right, knock it off.
hey, you want it, you got it, lady.
you're grounded for a week.
that's two. you wanna play this game? i love this game.
all right, that's it. you wanna be a gutter mouth? you wanna sound like your mother, well that's terrific. christ, all day long i don't take enough abuse, i gotta listen to shit from you!
don't you tell me how to talk to my kid.
go for it, kiddo. all the dirty words. come on, shock me. go ahead.
all right, i've had it. go to your room. or i will whip your behind.
goddammit, you are my daughter and you will respect me, got that? you got it? you don't ever call me a fuck-up.
your mother called me a fuck-up? when?
uncle jay? ohh, christ, i'm a fuck-up, but uncle jay, now there's a real stand-up guy. shit, the bastard cheats on his tax form, i'm surprised he hasn't done time! why don't you ask your mother why mister wonderful isn't in jail for tax evasion?
no. anything that much fun, i'd want to do myself.
yeah. that's me.
yeah, i was a regular boy scout. joe starts to fix a sandwich. jimmy takes nips from the bottle.
don't know. he bites into the sandwich. not really tasting it.
mike miller wasn't the first time. sarah has cheated on me before. twice. i never told her i knew. at first, my opinion of women took a real dip, yeah.
now i'm content if i like the guy she's fucking. this last one was my best friend.
what am i, jimmy?
friends can't be perfect. i wish the sky wasn't blue. i wish water wasn't wet. i wish i didn't still love my wife. he eats in silence. jimmy says:
what?
damn. you, too?
you're wrong.
no, life sucks. but you're not a loser. cory loved you.
because it's easier than paying the tax, junior.
so deep i don't know what the fuck it means.
is alex your accountant?
i'm sorry.
he would have been a great ball player. like his dad.
why did he have to die?
not in my house, you dumb motherfucker.
shut up. he picks up the vial of powder.
this is what you went looking for in cory's apartment, isn't it? you found this when you found that envelope. he crosses to the toilet. jimmy cries out.
you got it, son. i'm just mixing it in with all the other shit. get the fuck out of my house. now.
i said, get out. i'll break your fucking neck, kiddo. jimmy glares at him. coldly defiant.
i don't use it. i get by.
when you're through feeling sorry for yourself, the front door's that way.
you brought cocaine in my house. end of story. jimmy is silent. he stands. exits into the hall.
i told you to go to your room.
go to bed. this guy's not signing anything.
forget it, darian. the guy's a loser. big time. darian's face is a mask of confusion.
smile, you fuck.
goddammit, jimmy, i told you -- ! it isn't jimmy. standing on the porch is a tall, thin man with blond hair. the man removes a taser gun from his overcoat.
i'm awake. his eyelids creak open. he squints, adjusting to the light. studies his captors.
life's a bitch.
anybody got a cigarette? chet steps forward. grins wickedly.
i seem to have dropped my cigarette. may i have another? chet turns, meets his gaze. the grin falters a bit.
i need a light. and if you touch me again.  i'll kill you. a pregnant pause. the challenge hangs in the air. slowly, chet takes the lighter from his pocket. pablo looks on, a smile twisting his features. hallenbeck leans forward for a light. chet extends his arm -- and slugs hallenbeck in the face again. rocks him. chet howls with laughter. pablo grins.
i needed a light. milo nods as if this makes perfect sense.
if you wanted me dead, you'd have already killed me.
fuck it. you're the bad guy, right?
and you've got the gun, and i'm supposed to tremble in fear, something like that?
fine. i'll start trembling in a minute. mind if i have a drink first?
hey, look who's here. connie marcon himself. sure enough, conrad marcon saunters in, just like he owns the place. which, by the way, he does. tall, strong, texas-tough. dressed in a saville row suit. he frowns at hallenbeck:
you got friends? when did this happen?
you're pretty calm for a man whose team is three and six on the year.
they stink. marcon's composure falters, but only for a moment.
when do i say the pledge of allegiance? marcon looks directly at hallenbeck.
oh, for chrissake. you're telling me this whole thing is about tv ratings?
i got the rifle in my closet as a souvenir.
gambling.
shit, that's what this is about! you're bribing united states senators. paying them to pass legislation --
attendance goes up again. tv ratings go up again.
before we get too fucking happy, let's get a couple things straight: first, i'm not your fucking son, and second.  why am i still alive? marcon stops pacing. sighs and sits down facing hallenbeck.
i don't get it. what's the snag?
thank god. for a minute there i felt hell freezing over. did he ask for more than a million?
taking off a u.s. senator, that's pretty ballsy. even for an asshole like you.
who is? marcon says nothing. just looks at hallenbeck and smiles.
oh, shit. he rubs tired eyes.
i'm the perfect fall guy. everyone and his uncle max knows i hate baynard.
any particular reason i should go along with this prize-winning scheme?
are you alright, sarah?
go fuck yourself. pablo delivers a savage kick to hallenbeck's ribs. hallenbeck gasps in pain.
i meant that.  in a good way.  pablo hauls him to his feet. props him against the railing.
i'm asshole.  she's fuckhead. and with that, pablo lets him have it.
don't.  look at me.
i get the shit beat out of me.  puke all over myself.  and now you love me?
christ, you slept with three guys.
i knew.
figured.  you needed them.
like what? 'fuck you, sarah'?
sorry.  i'm fresh out.
must be my trick ear. sounded like you said, 'get me out of this.'
i've got cracked ribs and a concussion.
i don't believe in heroes.
fuck you, sarah.  and he smiles.
you're gonna kill us both anyway.
i'll be back. that's a promise. milo clubs joe in the head with his pistol.
if you touch me again.  i'll kill you. they stare into each other's eyes. hallenbeck does not give an inch. milo hits him again.
fuck you, cocksucker.
nope.
i'd go off and suck some cock and leave him the fuck alone. milo studies hallenbeck the way a museum curator might study a new species of fish.
come again?
play some rap music. milo chuckles, shakes his head.
when do i kill baynard?
i'm not?
jesus. he thinks he's geting his two-million-dollar payoff. milo nods. points to two identical suitcases in the corner.
plastics?
that sounds lovely, but how is my body gonna get charred? with a flourish, milo pulls aside a tablecloth. under the table is a five gallon can of gasoline.
surfaces, gasping for air. trying to swim with his hands tied.
what the hell's she doing here??
get below, darian. and stay there. he stumbles into the wheelhouse. dazed. barely conscious.
yeah. go really fast and hope they don't catch us. oh, shit.
fog bank, dead ahead. hang on. into the fog they go, and, folks -- this is really scary. because you can't see a foot in front of your face. they plunge through the fog at fifty miles an hour. hallenbeck sweats, eyes glued to the windshield.
we're dead. except, just then, a strange thing happens: milo's yacht veers off to the left. away from hallenbeck. jimmy stares, dumbfounded.
'cause they got sonar, that's why! hard to port!
left, goddammit. the boat slews to the left, as, from out of the fog --
kill the running lights and radio the coast guard. jimmy flicks off the lights. grabs the mike. as he does, a vibrating rumble fills the cockpit, causing him to pause.  and then stare in shock as their boat emerges from the fog -- and air one hovers directly overhead.
get down! they both hit the floor. hands over their heads -- and then the pilot makes a costly error: he descends right into the path of milo's yacht. with no warning whatsoever, the boat comes bursting out of the fog -- plows right into the helicopter. second number one: the boat pierces the chopper, rips it to shreds. second number two: the whole boat-slash-chopper mix erupts in a shower of wood and fiberglass. turns night into day.
what's that? jimmy looks: a bright object.  going in circles.
it can get us to shore faster than this one, don't you think?
hand me the pole. jimmy hands him a long, wooden pole with a hooked end. he fishes in the water. snares a large, floating object. swings it aboard. drops it at jimmy's feet. the suitcase.
birthday present.
wait here. he swings aboard the senator's boat. gun cocked. ready.
sorry, cal. life in the big city. cut to:
listen carefully. i'm gonna go get your mom back, okay? you're gonna go in the denny's restaurant and stay there. talk to the waitress but don't mention me. mom and i will come pick you up later, got it?
are you kidding? i do this for a living. buy me an ice cream. i'll be back. i love you. she throws her arms around him. cut to:
quit being a fuckin' killjoy. he cuts the headlights. cruises to a stop behind a road- side dumpster.
come on. we've got some things to pick up.
shit. someone's staking me out.
let's get him inside and tie him up.
i forgot. hurry up.
wear that. he strips off his own shirt. crosses to the closet.
you know how to use a gun?
here. he hands jimmy a shotgun and a box of odd, black cylinders.
use these. they're shredders. equipped with an explosive charge. when you fire the gun, they spray on impact. take out anything within ten yards.
a little souvenir.  he reaches into the closet. pulls out a sniper rifle. the rifle. the one responsible for the puckered scar on his chest.
go bring the car around.
i got a subscription to jugs magazine.
hey, who's writing this story? you're doing all the good parts.
what cop?
you son of a bitch! pablo is making a big mistake, but he doesn't know it. he is fueling joe hallenbeck's rage. pity the fool. hallenbeck regards him with dead, lifeless eyes. a thoroughly unnerving stare.
we don't like pablo very much, do we, furry tom? there is a pause.  and then, incredibly -- furry tom answers. a high-pitched, squeaky stuffed cat voice.
no, mr. hallenbeck, we think pablo is a motherless fuck who takes it up the ass. dead silence. pablo is completely thrown; so are we, for that matter.  and then it hits us: joe is doing ven- triloquism.
furry tom, tell pablo what i'm gonna do to him.
you're gong to make pablo eat all his teeth, mr. hallenbeck.
hey, mr. hallenbeck, they're laughin' at me. that's not very nice. by now, all three hoods are in hysterics.
are you mad, furry tom?
i don't get mad. i get even. and, with that, furry tom's mouth opens -- and explodes, showering stuffing. one of the goons is still laughing when he realizes half his throat is gone.  and furry thomas belches fire again, and the second goon goes down in a spray of blood, and if you haven't guessed already -- joe has a gun hidden inside furry thomas. pablo is a little sharper. a little quicker. he dives forward, knocks the puppet from joe's hand. joe drives upward, into pablo's gut. they reel across the room. locked in combat. lamps topple. glass breaks. pablo slams joe's head into the wall. leaves a dent. does it again, a sickening impact.  starts to strangle joe -- and the truth is, joe's not thirty anymore. he's not going to make it. the world swims away. then, as if through a tunnel, joe notices something beside him.  something hanging on the wall. fights to focus. breath gone. strength gone. identifies the object:
don't. he jams the rifle barrel into marcon's throat, nearly crushing his larynx. hisses:
the gun is silenced, i'll fuckin' kill you. where's my wife?
my wife. grabs a pen. shoves it in marcon's hand.
the address. now!
write it down, dumbfuck.
jimmy, you okay? jimmy stirs.
okay, connie, you're gonna walk us out of here, nice and easy, got it? can you walk, jimmy?
you drop it, asshole, or i kill marcon.
well, goddamn. how's the head, lou?
next time, lou, just say no.
speaking of which, what the fuck are you doing here?
in other words, you dropped your father's name a bunch of times.
do i also have you to thank for dragging me into this mess?
he should know, jimmy. with a face like that, he's gotta be paying for it.
gimmee a minute.
you know of course, connie, that you're a dead man. marcon holds up his hand.
nothing much, just that i made a phone call from the boat on the way in.
oh, but i didn't call the cops. i called the mob. marcon stares at him. blinks.
see, connie, every year, the mob rakes in two and a half billion from football bookmaking. if you succeed in making gambling legal, all that money goes to the government. i wouldn't be surprised if they put out a contract on you. of course, i might be able to call it off. marcon stares him down. a pause. then marcon smiles:
then there's the matter of two million dollars. or didn't you know that watertight suitcases float? he once again looks marcon in the eye.
i've got your money, connie. stashed in the back of a rented subaru. we'll take you to it.
hell, i'm fresh out. you wanna try one, kid, go for it. a pause. then, without warning, jimmy turns -- and slugs hallenbeck with his good arm. decks him.
plastic keys? the kind that melt?
you did fine, junior.
forget about him. let's get my wife. he crosses to a parked mercedes. shoots open the door. gets in. pops the ignition package. hotwires it. the car roars to life.
get in. he's so slick, it's scary.
on my way, honey, on my way.
we get in, we get out. shoot anyone who's not my wife. check that: don't shoot me. he jacks a fresh clip into his rifle. cut to:
cut. he throws the hunting knife. it pierces the guy's neck. the chainsaw clatters to the floor. he does the funny little dance peculiar to those with pierced necks. falls. dies. and then, mercifully, it's over. joe crosses to the bed, puts out an arm, and sarah collapses against him, shaking with sobs.
i'm here.  it's all right.  i'm here.  he cradles his wife in the middle of a slaughterhouse. cut to:
drive one of their cars. they won't be needing them.
the two million bucks is still in the subaru. parked on mulholland above marcon's house. go pick it up and bring it to the office. we're gonna go get darian.
i'll take you and darian to the office. you can sleep there.
there's four corpses in the bedroom.
jimmy should be here any minute. then we gotta talk to the cops. sarah nestles into the crook of his arm.
maybe. he's probably in some secret crash pad, packing to leave town. a pause, then sarah says:
don't knock it. it's a skill. she turns. looks into his eyes.
ahh, shit. looks like the local constable has come to chat.
no. stay here. i'll deal with it.
that's not l.a.p.d.
son of a bitch! he dives for cover, the turf erupting all around him, as:
huddles behind the billboard as the bullets stitch upward. through the wooden frame. a hot slug rips through joe's arm. an eruption of blood. he hisses in pain. rolls away from the gunfire. looks around. desperate. sees a painter's bucket lying nearby. he counts to three.
watches in dismay as milo climbs onto the platform.  walks across the front of the billboard. toward the freeway. toward joe. snarling. joe grabs a broken bottle off the ground. heaves it. milo puts up an arm, catches a glancing blow. blood flows. all it does is piss him off.
she's something, isn't she? milo pitches forward. falls to his death.
stares, dumbfounded at sarah. she look up at him. a moment passes between them. around hallenbeck, a sea of crumpled cars. horns blaring. amidst it all, he stands. beaten. bloody. bullet-scarred. jimmy winds his way through the cars. walks up to joe. they stand in silence for a moment, then jimmy says:
i know.
i know.
my wife loves me. bessalo looks at him like he's grown a tail.
yeah. so.
some of it.
my fee. he shuts the case. shoves it toward jimmy. jimmy leans forward, eyeing the suitcase.
i'm thinkin' i could use a partner. think you could handle that for awhile?
see, jim, the thing is, life sucks. but you still can't be hangin' around satan claus, you know why?
'cause someday, compadre.  satan claus and santa claus are gonna have a big fight, and you know what? santa's gonna kick some royal ass. he puts a fatherly arm around jimmy's shoulder, grins:
hey. smile, you fuck.