is this line secure?
sid and jake are dead, milo. killed in an explosion. looks like we got a new player in the game.
from available information, he appears to be a free agent. guy by the name of joe hallenbeck. milo sits and begins punching keys on a computer.
get me everything you can on this fucker, milo. i want it on my computer screen in fifteen minutes.
and then you'll be handling it personally.
careful, son. only my friends call me connie.
i'll give you one thing. you're pretty calm for a man in your position.
they're having some problems.
i'm glad you're here, joe. we got a few things to discuss.
for starters, i'm sure you're aware that professional football is changing, and not for better. used to be, you went to the local stadium come sunday, you saw heroes. guys who fought for their hometown. anymore, no one gives a shit. ever since sonny werblin paid $400,000 to joe namath back in '66, the sons of bitches just got greedier. playing only for themselves. giving nothing back to the game. pablo hands him a double bourbon.
this year, the final blow: the n.f.l. votes to decertify the players organization. eliminates the draft, reduces all athletes to free agents. reduces football, once and for all, to commerce. to greed, you follow?
do you know how many ratings points monday night football lost this year? per week? an average of two point eight.
people have stopped watching, joe! everybody's turning the channel, they're still looking for heroes, you follow? guys like you. milo here tells me you took a bullet for the president, jumped in front of a sniper rifle. hallenbeck reacts, startled. looks at milo.
how about it, joe? is it truth or hype?
there you go, that's what i'm saying. the public wants real heroes. not a bunch of football prima donnas, jumping from team to team with their fancy lawyers. in fact, joe, and this is my point, there's only one reason left nowadays to watch pro- football. can you guess? it begins to dawn on hallenbeck.
exactly. gambling. just one problem: football gambling is illegal in all but two of the fifty states. and that, joe boy, is where i come in.
-- legalizing football gambling in all fifty states. exactly.
you got it, son. the networks are happy. i'm happy. everybody's happy.
it's like this, joe: everything was going great until a couple weeks ago, and then i hit a snag: senator calvin baynard.
i offered him the bribe and he wouldn't take it. hallenbeck actually does a spit-take. sprays bourbon.
allow me to clarify: i offered him the bribe, and he turned it down because he wanted more money.
does the pope shit in the woods? he wants two million or he'll blow the lid off my whole plan. i don't feel like paying no two mil, so basically that good ole' boy's gotta die.
oh, i'm not going to kill baynard, joe.
anything goes wrong, all the heat lands on you, joe boy. my hands are clean. hallenbeck scowls.
just one. he motions to milo, who disappears through a doorway. reappears a moment later. he's got joe's wife.
sit down, joe. a moment. joe stands, smouldering. on fire. sarah speaks:
marcon. intercut:
good boy, milo. the commissioner's party starts at six. i'll put in a token appearance around six-thirty.
any problems with hallenbeck?
glad to hear it. no fuckups, milo. i want him deep-sixed.
christ, milo, how come you always have to talk like a fruit?
cows, milo. never pigs.
goddamn fruitcake. he turns, and suddenly we realize he's not alone in the room: a strange man is seated in the shadows off to one side. his face is obscured.  marcon addresses him:
so far, so good. the man in the corner nods, then speaks. as he does, we notice he has a speech impediment; it sounds like he's talking with his mouth full.
take it easy, buddy. we're covered.
absolutely. actually, i have no choice.
fuckin' hallenbeck killed the second and third teams.
you know i don't enjoy doin' this, jim. jimmy curls up in a fetal ball. marcon paces, shaking his head.
i remember how much you hated the pain.  you got hooked on demerol, didn't you? i'll make a deal with you. tell me who you talked to, and i'll give you all the painkillers you can swallow.
now, see, i'd love to believe you. but we are talking about the future of my football team.
and ain't nothin' more important than my ball club, 'cept maybe my collection of autographed footballs. got one of yours, you know. who'd you talk to, jimmy?
he's nothing, he can't hurt us. take him somewhere and kill him.
i.  i don't remember, i.  joe shoves on the gun. the barrel chokes him.
it's.  milo's film studio.
you son of a bitch, you were gonna let him kill me!
kill them, goddammit, waste 'em both!
wait. the gunmen lower their weapons.
let's humor this asshole. what are you talking about?
you called the cops? fuck it, they can't prove a thing.
he's bluffing. he's not connected to the mob, what a load of horseshit. nice try, asshole. kill them.
jesus, i don't believe it. this guy's a riot.
where is the key, jimmy?
all right. slow and easy.
hell with that, son. hand it over or i'll have you kneecapped.
pull it out of there! one of them grabs a pair of tongs -- and the shredder explodes. sprays the two hardguys. cuts them to ribbons. then, several things happen at once: everybody goes for a gun. hallenbeck lunges, scoops up a fallen pistol -- as marcon draws his gun and fires, missing -- joe returns fire, bam-bam -- ! catches marcon in the shoulder, and meanwhile --
shit, joe boy, you wasn't bluffing.  he draws his gun. blows out the glass. reaches in. opens the car door. snatches up the briefcase. cut to: