hey, bob.
hiya. roy nods hello, none-too-pleased, then resumes his stare at frank: get him out of here.
sure, bob. i'll be over at the bar.
nice meeting you. frechette retreats, curiosity piqued. frank sits back down.
hardly. just a forty-two footer i take out on weekends. you sail?
where you off to?
that bad, huh?
what are we doing? roy removes a manila envelope from his jacket, just as he did at cheetah's, but reaches it under the table to frechette. frechette peeks inside: thin stacks of hundred pound notes.
how much is it?
whose is it?
why not keep the money yourself?
five grand american. roy checks, pockets frechette's money.
-- five hundred sixty-seven dollars. i looked it up on the internet.
neither can i. but my daughter's a wiz at the thing. roy goes off-book.
two. fifteen and twelve.
it's a riot, huh? training bras hanging from your shower rod.
summer's the worst.
lemme ask you something, arden: how much could you do this for? hypothetically.
that's eighty thousand? it looks like less than i thought.
sorry. had to check.
go ahead. do your worst.
land that i love. roy salutes him with his soda, and frank and frechette raise their scotches to toast --
hope she isn't on my flight. speaking of which: it's about that time. who goes first?
simple is safe. roy nods to his wisdom, then pushes the briefcase at his feet across to frechette. frechette picks it up, bids frank and roy farewell --
guys. let's do it again some time.
hello, roy. hiya, sunshine. roy freezes. considers the variables: the open door behind him, angela before him.
close the door. close it. roy considers frechette's gun, does as he says. angela trembles halfway between them.
let her stay. she's in this as much as you are.
what do you think? we haven't met, sweetie. my name's chuck. it's angela, right? your mug shot doesn't do you justice. you wanna sit down?
don't play tough, roy. i'm in your home. i know where your kid lives. you're a very clever girl. tell me, can you spell 'shakedown'?
i didn't. i found her. in black and white. roy doesn't understand.
airport security cameras, roy. they got a nice look at her. that was sloppy.
no. but there were in the gift shop. and suddenly it dawns on roy, and his eyes drop down to the coffee table, to the "i love la" ashtray atop it. angela's gift. frechette extinguishes his cigarette in it.
in my business you need a few friends on the force. your little girl's in their books. and your ex-wife doesn't know well enough not to give out your home address. well, once i found you, sniffing out your buddy frank wasn't such a big deal. frechette indicates the corner of the room. there, frank sits huddled, eyes puffed and blackening, nose bloodied, the crap kicked out of him.
we only hurt the ones we love, huh? angela gasps. frank meets roy's stare with helpless, horrified eyes. roy blanches.
you look white as a ghost, roy. i don't want you to pass out before you make your first payment. but first things first. let's have back the money you took from me.
then let's start with what you do have. again roy eyes the gun, his daughter.
where?
no. let her get it.
next: i'm in for half of what you make from now on. otherwise, i call those cop friends of mine, your little girl goes to juvie 'til she's eighteen.
you're not done, roy. you barely got your feet wet. frank's not done -- are you, frank? frank doesn't say a word. his eyes are fixed on something. frechette follows his stare to -- angela, standing by the horse, roy's .38 in her hands leveled at him. everyone freezes, including roy.
you know how to use that thing, sweetie?