Blow Page #9

DIEGO:

What's the matter, George?

GEORGE:

What's the matter? We're moving three

hundred f***ing kilos and we're making

dogshit.

DIEGO:

A million dollars for our first run is

not bad, George.

GEORGE:

It is bad. It's chump change. We might

as well be hauling suitcases across the

border. We're getting screwed.

DIEGO:

I know.

GEORGE:

And what happens when these guys stop

paying? Sooner or later, these guys are

going to cut us out. Then where are we?

DIEGO:

That's my George, always thinking.

The door is yanked open to reveal Inez. She is in a rage.

Diego slams it in her face.

DIEGO (CONT'D)

This is only part of the business,

George. A very small part. Don't

worry, there is so much more to do.

Which reminds me, I need a favor from

you. I must go to Colombia.

GEORGE:

What is it, George? Because I have to

get home. I've got a parole officer

waiting for me.

DIEGO:

I need you to go to Miami.

EXT. VENETIAN KING APTS. - MIAMI - 1977 - DAY

George gets out of a taxi to find SEVERAL COLOMBIAN MEN

hanging around outside an apartment. He checks the address

and moves over to the men.

GEORGE:

I'm George. Friend of Diego's?

The Colombian men are not impressed. They grab George and

pull him inside.

INT. VENETIAN KING APTS. - CONTINUOUS

George is pinned against the wall and the Colombian men all

start screaming at him in Spanish. There seems to be a

problem. A man, ALESSANDRO, steps forward. He is the one

who speaks English.

ALESSANDRO:

QUIET! Callate! Where's Diego?

GEORGE:

I don't know. He sent me. I'm George.

ALESSANDRO:

Oh, I see. George. Well, that explains

everything. Open your mouth, George.

George's puzzled look is replaced by a gun barrel in his

face. Alessandro presses it against George's front teeth.

ALESSANDRO (CONT'D)

Now, you listen to me. Are you hearing

me?

George nods.

ALESSANDRO (CONT'D)

You see this?

He indicates two duffel bags stuffed with fifty kilos of

cocaine.

ALESSANDRO (CONT'D)

I've been holding this sh*t for him for

three weeks. You tell Diego I don't

appreciate it. You tell him I want my

money by Friday. Can you do that?

GEORGE:

Um-hmm.

INT. JUNG HOUSE - GEORGE'S ROOM - DAY

George sits on his bed, reading. Two duffel bags are tucked

away in the closet. Ermine pokes her head in.

ERMINE:

You have a phone call.

George picks up the phone.

DIEGO (O.S.)

George.

GEORGE:

Jesus Christ, Diego, where are you?

It's been eleven days and these guys

want their f***ing money.

DIEGO (O.S.)

Bad news, George. I'm in Colombia.

GEORGE:

Well, you better get here fast. I'm

sitting on...

George notices Ermine is loitering in the hallway,

eavesdropping.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

Hi, Mom.

George acknowledges her before shutting the door in her face.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

I'm sitting on fifty f***ing keys. Get

your ass up here.

INT. CARCEL DE VARONES - MEDELLIN, COLOMBIA - CONTINUOUS

It's a South American prison. Diego is on the pay phone.

DIEGO:

It's a little hard to get away right

now. I'm afraid you're on your own.

INT. FOREAL'S HOUSE - MANHATTAN BEACH - 1977 - NIGHT

George and Derek sit in the living room with MR. T, a hippie

ish looking professor. On the table sits various

paraphernalia. Scales, beakers, test tubes, and a hot box.

George and Derek watch as Mr. T scoops some of George's

cocaine and sets it onto the two-inch metal plate.

MR. T

What we're doing is measuring the

purity. Pure coke melts out a hundred

and eighty-five, a hundred and ninety

degrees. Cutting agents melt much

lower. About a hundred degrees.

Quality product starts melting at a

hundred and forty degrees. That's what

I'm hoping for.

Mr. T turns the dial. 120. 130. 140.

MR. T (CONT'D)

Good.

150. 160.

MR. T (CONT'D)

Jesus Christ.

170. 180.

MR. T (CONT'D)

Holy f***ing Mary! Jesus, f*** me

running! Where did you get this sh*t!

At one-hundred and eighty-seven degrees, the white powder

dribbles off the hotplate and melts away.

MR. T (CONT'D)

Damn! Can I do a f***ing line?!

Mr. T puts his nose in the powder. George pulls Foreal

aside.

GEORGE:

What did I tell you?

DEREK:

It's great and everything, but what am I

going to do with all this?

GEORGE:

Sell it?

DIEGO:

Jesus Christ, George, I don't see you in

two years, and you show up at my door

with a hundred and ten pounds of

cocaine?

GEORGE:

Just sell it, Derek.

DEREK:

Alright, but it's gonna take me a year.

INT. THE WHIPPING POST - MANHATTAN BEACH - 1977 - NIGHT

Money everywhere. All over the floor, the counters, the

chairs, and even in the sinks. George and Derek count the

money patiently, writing the dollar amount in yellow high

lighter on the top of each stack, before wrapping it with a

rubber band.

DIEGO:

Thirty-six hours. I can't believe it.

Everything is gone in thirty-six hours.

GEORGE:

I think it's fair to say you

underestimated the market there, Derek.

DIEGO:

Touche.

GEORGE:

But to the victor belong the spoils.

George divides the money. There's a hell of a lot.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

Half a million for you. Half a million

for me. One-point-three five for the

Colombians.

DEREK:

Nice doing business with you, George.

GEORGE:

Not bad for a weekend's work, huh?

INT. AIRPORT - MIAMI - DAY

Immaculate in his white turtleneck and sunglasses, George

walks with two aluminum cases. He is greeted by Alessandro

and his thugs.

ALESSANDRO:

Greetings, Mr. George.

GEORGE:

Where do you guys want to count?

ALESSANDRO:

On the plane.

GEORGE:

What plane? We going someplace? Where

we headed? You have your money. It's

all there. What the f*** is going on?

They usher him away.

EXT. OLAYA HERRERA AIRPORT - MEDELLIN - DAY

SUPERIMPOSE:
MEDELLIN, COLOMBIA

The lear jet lands.

EXT. DESERTED SUGAR FACTORY - LOS RIOS, COLOMBIA - DAY

The blazer pulls into a long driveway. They approach a gate

where SHIRTLESS TEENAGERS with MAC-10's stand guard. The

gate opens. YOUNG SOLDIERS open the door for George and

roughly usher him over to a Jeep within the confine. They

frisk him top to bottom. Diego is leaning against another

Jeep and waits for George to be released.

DIEGO:

George, good to see you, my brother.

GEORGE:

What the f*** is going on? When did you

get out of jail?

DIEGO:

Pablo used his influence. Now, George,

watch what you say. Everybody hears

everything. A lot of things get said

and done that, well, let's just say this

isn't America. Life is cheap here, you

know? No offense, but you know what I'm

saying?

GEORGE:

Yeah. Keep my mouth shut and let you do

the talking.

DIEGO:

Right. Now who is the person in

California? The connection?

GEORGE:

Just a friend.

DIEGO:

Who? I need to know. Ah, never mind.

We'll talk about it later.

GEORGE:

Yeah. You do the talking.

The sound of a young man, a MALETON, struggling can be heard

in the distance. From another area, PABLO ESCOBAR emerges.

He is singular in purpose. He is handed a pistol and moves

quickly over to the man and quietly speaks a few words. And

then, without emotion, he shoots the maleton in the head.

George and Diego, who is visibly shaken, watch. Escobar is

handed a towel, and he wipes the splattered blood off his

hands, as he moves back.

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