jesus, kid, if only you weren't so damn ugly. he gets up and goes into the head. pulls out a glass vial. dips a coke spoon with practiced ease. sucks it up a nostril. for one moment, he catches his own eye in the mirror. flash cut to:
i don't know. he looks up at his reflection. glazed eyes, beard stubble. crows' feet around the eyes.
yeah. i guess i am. he sniffs, clearing his nose.
'morning, boys. they all grunt. one of them, name of henry, looks up at him. holds out a half-smoked doobie:
no, man. why do you think they call it dope? henry, did i do anything last night that i should know about?
no, man, i meant something bad, that i should know about.
soon, henry. one of the other players looks up, says:
'86 and '87, that was me.
thanks. what the hell, shit floats. i'll be back.
i'll be back. everyone plays cards. no one looks at him. he frowns. leaves.
ho. ray. the man looks up, annoyed.
what's with the girl? she surfaces, sputtering and screaming. ray thrusts her beneath the surface again.
too early in the morning, ray. let her go.
ray. let her go.
ray, she's gonna drown.
last chance, ray.
fine. jimmy turns, as if to walk away. instead, he spins back and launches the football. it sings, that's how hard he throws it. and when it smacks ray in the face, something breaks. it ain't the ball. the big man howls. clutching his flattened nose. the girl comes up for air. gagging and choking. jimmy is at her side instantly. pulls her out of the water.
get out of here. go. she goes. he leans over and grabs ray by the hair. the guy is bleeding. delirious. jimmy yanks until their faces are inches apart.
best arm in the national league, you son of a bitch. remember that. he lets go. ray sags, semi-conscious. the poker players come running as jimmy walks back inside.
alex the astronaut. harp raises his own glass.
i've had it, harp.
it, man. i've had it. i don't remember what i did last night. i'm an idiot, harp, i act like a complete dickhead. i don't have friends. i drink too much. i fuck anything that's warm and breathing.
i cheated on my girl friend again.
maybe so, harp. maybe so. his gaze wanders across the crowded room, fixating on --
how much for a bottle?
no thanks. nothing personal, my seventh grade teacher was killed by a drunk driver.
that's the one.
ha-ha.
for forty bucks i'd rather drink my own piss.
hi, cory. rough night?
i'll bet you have. she slaps his face. he feigns innocence. points to hallenbeck.
who's the stiff?
come back soon. i want to buy you a drink. she smiles and moves off, swishingly. jimmy watches her go. his gaze wanders across the room to hallenbeck. he frowns.
hi. you're nobody.
that's what cory said. she said you were nobody. only hallenbeck's eyes move. he looks up, regards jimmy coolly. they size each other up. hallenbeck sighs.
i see. what are you, some kind of bodyguard?
no. is cory in trouble?
she didn't mention anything to me.
maybe.
she hired you, huh? what, you in the phonebook?
where's mike?
sorry to hear it.
look, friend, i don't know who you are or what's going on. but cory is my girl friend and if she's in trouble, i want to hear about it.
tell me anyway.
i say two words to cory and you don't get paid, asshole.
you sure? i'm looking at your suit, you could use the dough.
good, 'cause you're not getting any.
what is?
you couldn't protect a cup of warm piss.
excuse me?
you know who i am?
mister.  you are now pissing me off.
i don't know, joe.  you look like a dumb wop to me.
can i hit you now?
you think you're some kind of hot shit tough guy, huh?
piss off.
yeah. thanks. i guess.
alex the pediatrician.
sure.
oh god. this is a hit this is a fucking hit!!
frantically floors the pedal of his jag, pops the clutch -- and stalls out. he roars with anger. flings open the door. leaps out and runs forward, screaming:
cory, get out of there!! too late. cory is already out of her car, yelling:
oh gooood!! and without missing a beat, the hitmen turn -- and open fire on jimmy. he takes a running start. clears the hood of his jag in a single leap. bullets dice the metal behind him.
is still huddled on the front seat in a sea of broken glass. hallenbeck walks up, leans in the window.
that stuff cory fed you about a weirdo hassling her. that was all bullshit, wasn't it?
none of your fucking business.
i don't know. pretty strapped, i guess.
no hooking, if that's what you mean.
the usual. waitressing. get a guy to buy you a bottle of champagne. sit in a private booth, let the poor fuck spill his troubles. used to say she'd make a great psychiatrist.
sure. even rich guys get lonely.
i don't get it.
jesus, i've had about enough of you --
she'd consider it. if she could get away with it. but she'd need hard evidence. otherwise, it's 'i never said that,' his word against hers.
i don't know. follow the guy? have him followed?
who does she hire?
except you told me that mike was a shitty surveillance man.
christ, what did the two of them stumble onto?
how you figure?
he handed it to you.  without telling you how dangerous it was? hallenbeck stares straight ahead. sighs and says:
shit. this shirt cost me eighty bucks.
do me a favor and shut up. you think i don't care that cory's dead? christ, i feel like i been rode hard and put away wet.
wow. what stunning advice. i was gonna go hiking.
you know something, joe, for a private eye, you sure don't go in for snappy comebacks.
get some sleep. a passing patrolman stops. eyes jimmy thoughtfully. frowns:
you might. some people recognize me.
no, man. i played football. jimmy dix, l.a. stallions.
forget it.
fuck you.
that son of a bitch! he's ready to clean the pimp's clock when hallenbeck grabs him, spins him bodily. propels him out the front doors. away from trouble.
he hit the chick.
guy shouldn't treat a woman like that, is all i'm saying. he just shouldn't, okay?
yeah. he's serious. hallenbeck starts to chuckle. shakes his head, lights a cigarette. laughs through the smoke. this may be the funniest thing he's ever heard. cut to:
mind if i catch a ride with you?
my car's fucked up, remember?
cut it out. look, you sorta saved my life. let me buy you a beer.
that's it. good night?
what are you gonna do?
what's the message?
you're kidding. joe gets in the car. says nothing.
you're backing off, you're not gonna do anything? i watch t.v., what the fuck kind of private eye doesn't do anything?
fuck you your job is done. we witnessed a murder, joe!
look, until this is over, i'm sticking with you.
i'm part of this. we do something, we do it together.
don't drive away, joe. joe puts it in gear. pulls away.
joe -- ! i'll tell the cops, joe. joe taps the brake. stops. leans out the window, says softly:
that mike miller was fucking your wife. only reason you're not in the cooler, tough guy, is the cops got no motive for miller's death. when they find out mikey was dickin' your old lady, seems to me you become suspect numero uno. i'm scared, and i'm coming with you, got it? joe gets out of the car and advances on jimmy.
go for it. then the cops'll really love my story. you don't start a fight in a police station, dickhead.
gosh, you're tough.
you got any hobbies?
ventriloquist, really? i hear ps and bs are the hardest.
hey, you got any tapes in here? man, what is this shit? dick haymes. who the fuck is dick haymes? jeez, you must be older than i thought. hallenbeck grimaces and shifts in his seat.
what's the matter? stomach problems?
what kind of ear problems?
baynard, huh? what's the matter, you got some kind of beef with the guy?
you wanna share with the class?
yeah? what were you, cop or something?
you're high. get outta here. really? you protected the man? holy shit, you musta got laid every night.
she had an apartment on the west side. why?
i thought you were off the case.
whoa, back up. you mean, we're gonna nail these fuckers after all? damn. i knew there was a hero lurking beneath that gruff exterior.
tell me about it. i'm paying the fucking rent.
wasn't like that. cory could've had lots of rich guys. me, she loved.
let me guess. you don't believe in love.
what, they're both diseases?
man, i don't want to meet the bitch that fucked you up.
little bitter, joe?
yes, massah.
i think someone disturbed some stuff, joe.
beat us to what?
assuming there was any. stay here a minute.
bathroom. you wanna come with me? doctor said i shouldn't lift anything heavy.
find anything?
i may have something.
later. let's get out of here.
as long as we're here, i might as well take cory's car.
yeah. i'll follow you. hallenbeck starts to turn away. jimmy gets in the car. hallenbeck stops. frowns.
yeah. this one's just sitting here until she can sell it. the color drains from hallenbeck's features.
ouch -- ! what's your problem?
oh. shit. oh. jeez. hallenbeck claps him on the back.
what are you doing? hallenbeck brandishes a pair of wire-cutters.
whoa. hold on. um, shouldn't we call the bomb squad or something?
no, man, i --
you're a fucking asshole!
great. so what now?
give up? flee? go really far away?
sure. family, huh? you got kids?
does she like you?
i like prince.
you're just gonna stick that in your trunk?
is it the cops?
the streetlights are on.
tell him it's not for sale.
leave him alone, you fuck!
christ.  i'm being beat up by the inventor of scrabble.
and then you'll let us go, right?
jesus fucking christ!
don't know yet. they crawl to their feet, inspecting for broken bones.
the dynamite?
dead guys.  don't make bad jokes, right?
so we're alive.
what?
if you thought there was dynamite in the trunk, wait'll you see this. hallenbeck reaches into the envelope and extracts a photograph: two men having lunch together on a secluded patio. both are older, distinguished-looking. joe suddenly looks very pale.
the guy on the left is connie marcon, the owner of the l.a. stallions.
sort of familiar. who is he?
let's go back to the cops. i'm scared.
not so bad. excuse me, did you just say the words not so bad? you don't understand, joe, see, if a guy vomits on the sidewalk, you don't say, 'oh, hey, it's not so bad, there's some ham in there.' it's fucking vomit, okay? this is bad. hallenbeck nervously lights a cigarette. stares straight ahead through the windshield. begins to talk:
the senator fucked your job.
cory tumbled to some sort of deal between marcon and the senator, and they had her killed. we gotta show this photo to the cops.
why should i help you?
so i get to meet your family, huh? what's your daughter like?
why couldn't she go?
hey, joe, take it easy.
you know, for fifty bucks you could get a guy to pull out her fingernails with a pair of pliers.
i think we could both use a drink. hallenbeck crosses to a cabinet, breaks out a bottle of seagrams. swigs. hands it to jimmy. as jimmy drinks, he notices a photo on the wall: hallenbeck shaking hands with george bush.
that's you?
you look like the dad on 'the brady bunch.'
so. you gonna get a divorce?
you don't like women much, do you, joe?
and now?
horseshit, he was a scumbag private eye.
he tried to get you killed.
you know what i did last night?
i went to a party and shit on a car.
i'm a complete loser. capital 'l.' all i ever wanted.  was to be somebody's hero, you know it? now i mostly sit around. watch t.v. get laid. i'm a fucking slug, throw salt on me i'd curl up. life sucks.
life doesn't suck?
yeah, and the last thing i did was cheat on her. why do people cheat, joe?
ooooooh. very deep.
it means another drink is required. he raises the bottle.
alex the accountant. he drinks. hallenbeck frowns, watching him.
no. but he could have been. alex was my son. hallenbeck stares at him.
i was married at 19. sweet young thing, looking to get out from under daddy's thumb. i didn't know she was a junkie. all during her pregnancy. shooting up. there were complications. she died. alex lived for seventeen minutes in the incubator. fell asleep. died before he woke up. he was born.  he had time for one dream.  and then he died. i wonder what his dream was about.
i think about him a lot. i mean, who was this.  guy?
this little guy who only got seventeen minutes, who was he, joe? what was he like? what would he have been?
no. he had to die, joe. don't you see?
because he came out of me. he puts aside the bottle. scowls.
i'm gonna borrow your shower. he exits. hallenbeck watches him go. says nothing.
joe, man, you don't get it --
joe, please! joe drops the vial in the water. flushes. jimmy darts forward. joe shoves him back.
you stupid bastard, do you know what you've done? that was a thousand bucks' worth of shit!
you don't understand.
go ahead, tough guy. go ahead. i'm trying to survive, man. i use that stuff to get by, so fuck you.
oh, sure, dudley fucking do-right, you stand there and judge me, and, meanwhile, you never had your old lady die on you, did you, pal?? and your fucking kid?? and i said to god, 'hey, buddy, what gives? i go to church, i give to the united way, what is this dead wife and kid shit?' and he didn't say nothin', joe. he grabs a towel. scrubs savagely at his wet torso.
and then i lose my job, my fucking life, okay, and why? you know why? because i gambled. whoa, hold on, stop the presses, jimmy gambled, well shit, of course i gambled, everybody does, and the fucking league knows it! he advances on joe, trembling with anger.
why, joe? why is there an injury report in pro football, huh? nobody else has a fucking injury report, but the n.f.l. does, so the fucking gamblers will know the spread! marcon.  the commissioner .  those fucking hypocrites.  killed the last thing i could do, joe! i can't do anything.  anymore.
i couldn't save my wife.  she died screaming and i couldn't do a goddamn thing.  and my baby came out.  and he was so fuckin' small, joe.  he was too fuckin' small.  he collapses against the wall. slides down to a sitting position. huddled on the floor. hallenbeck watches him. says nothing. for a moment, he seems moved to compassion.  then his gaze hardens. he kneels next to jimmy.
you're a total bastard.
huh? there is an awkward pause. darian holds out a football card. young, smiling jimmy. the card is old. tattered.
i never shaved points, joe. i never did. joe is silent. stone-faced.
if you want my help, i'm at the casa loma apartments on ventura. he exits. shuts the door behind him. darian goes into her room, fuming. shuts the door.
who are you, and how the fuck do you know my name?
i'm growing whiskers here, guys. you got something to say, fucking say it.
who?
please, guys, don't do this.  jesus christ, i was just her boyfriend, i swear to god, please! they toss jimmy over the fence.
oh, god, my arm, my fucking arm, oh jesus christ!!! he kneels in the muddy water, rocking back and forth.
look, i'll say it again for the cheap seats: i don't know anything and i can't help you. okay? can i go now?
that's it.
how the fuck should i know? try his house.
for chrissake, i just met the guy. look, sergeant. i don't give a shit about joe hallenbeck. i just busted my throwing arm and i'm in a real pissy mood, so you got two choices: either charge me with something or let me the fuck outta here. he glares defiantly at bessalo. cut to:
hey. wake up.
i need to borrow a gun, henry.
i'm gonna crash a party out on catalina. marcon will be there. he swings a bag of gear onto the boat. starts to store it.
no, honey. not now. there's some big shots involved in this mess, and it's my word against theirs. if i blab to the cops, your mom and dad will disappear and they'll never find the bodies. i'm sorry, darian.
what i do.  is confront conrad marcon and threaten to go to the cops, unless he gives them back.
beats me, but i think it's what your dad would do.
me, too, honey. his gear stashed, he turns to darian. tries a smile.
so.  why'd you come to me, anyhow?
what?
i'll get them back, kiddo. i'll get them back. cut to:
okay, hot shit, let's do it.
goddammit, i told you to go home!
fine, whatever. just stay here. with the boat.
anything funny happens, get the fuck out of here. darian takes the keys. frowns, says:
i feel terrible.
i was. i kicked the habit.
this morning. stay here. he swings over the side, onto the dock.
thanks, kid. you're a fuckin' inspiration.
gimmee the keys, kiddo.
the senator's here, and he's leaving by the back door. i'm gonna follow him. he keys the ignition.
get off the boat.
darian, goddammit --
okay. shit. okay. easy. shit. he throttles forward. the hatteras pulls away from the dock. cut to:
goddammit, i lost him. i can't see a fucking thing.
oh, yeah, little miss know-it-all.
watch your mouth.
all we're doing is burning gas. sorry, kid, i'm turning back. the words are barely out of his mouth when he hears a throbbing noise, growing louder.  darian looks up puzzled.
holy fucking shit! rotor wash sprays in every direction. the noise is deafening.
oh, wow. we're fucked. he guns the engine. spins the wheel, banks to port.
shit. i don't believe it.
keep the wheel like this! don't let it move! she grabs the wheel. jimmy bends down. opens a compart- ment. takes out the boat's anchor. metal hook, attached to seventy yards of chain. he hefts it like a grappling hook.
third and long, baby, lets' go.
got any ideas?
what?
what the fuck? they're peeling off. why? a pause.  then it hits joe like a thunderbolt:
port?
shit fuck piss! they almost make it. as it is, they avoid a head-on. instead, they hit broadside. a sickening crunch -- ! jimmy and joe are thrown from their feet. a momentary glimpse of faces rushing past -- horrified tourists -- and then the ferry is behind them. jimmy gets up. staggers to the controls. pushes the throttle. the boat lurches forward -- then sputters. fizzles. he swears violently.
we're on half power, we lost an engine!
swears again. bangs his fist.
we're sitting ducks. they got sonar. they can find us.
fuck me. the two men watch, helpless, as the helicopter descends, the co-pilot taking aim with a laws rocket.
that's baynard's boat!
what is it?
holy fucking shit!!
your prints are all over that boat. what happens when they find the bodies inside?
oh, i forgot to tell you. the police want you for killing mike miller. hallenbeck shoots him a withering look. cut to:
are you crazy? that's a cop! you don't punch cops!
the trigger's the little black thing.
what are you gonna use?
nobody knows. just.  just me.  and hallenbeck.
nobody.  marcon raises the poker. brings it down on jimmy's broken arm.
hurts like hell. marcon finishes writing. hallenbeck snatches up the address. stows it in his pocket.
yeah.  i think so -- joe, behind you! too late. a revolver is cocked a foot from joe's head.
shit. this is the drunk guy you slugged, look what you did to his face! marcon, meanwhile, is positively livid. he snaps at baynard:
she wasn't a hooker, dickhead.
we'd rather watch yours. it's goofy-lookin'. marcon has had enough. he pounds his fist on the desk.
any bright ideas, joe?
excuse me, could you give him a minute? he's trying to think of a way out of this.
i don't think it's working, joe. try another one.
fuck you, joe, i'm not just gonna stand here and die. mr. marcon, he's lying. we do have the money, but it's not in a car, it's in a storage locker. i have the key on me. i'l hand it over if you let me go. hallenbeck stares in disbelief. the kid's actually trying something.
it's stashed in my shorts.
sure. slow and easy. jimmy reaches inside his jeans. slowly, cautiously pulls something out, concealed in his fist. we see, but marcon doesn't: it's a shredder shell. he holds it in his fist.
promise you'll let me go.
oh, yeah? well, that's too bad. see, it's one of those new plastic keys. the kind that melt? and, with that, he hurls it into the fire. so fast that nobody can see just what he threw.
i guess nobody gets the money. the two hardguys rush to the fireplace.
hey. short notice, best i could do.
learned it from a pro. come on.
son of a bitch!
i'm new at this, joe. how do we do it?
where do you want me to go?
yes, massah. he moves off into the parking lot. hallenbeck says to sarah.
i don't fucking believe it. he swerves over to the side and meanwhile
the car's over on the other side. c'mere, i want to show you something.
somebody broke in and swiped the suitcase from the back seat. had to be marcon, right? there is a pause. they both stare at the car. two million. down the drain. except, after a beat.  they begin to laugh. first chuckling, then chortling.  now it's go-for-broke. jimmy hoots. joe howls. jimmy pulls out a key and opens the trunk -- you can guess what's inside.
son of a bitch got the wrong one! cut to:
so.
you gonna keep it? hallenbeck nods.
how much? hallenbeck frowns. opens the case. reaches in -- and plucks out two crisp $100 bills. stuffs them in a pocket. jimmy stares at him.
shit, joe.  i got all the money i need. he shoves it back into the center. joe nods.
i maybe could handle that. for awhile. he pours a drink. raises his glass on high:
alex the detective.
why?
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