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BOBBY:

They were grabbing her f***ing ass --

ARTHUR:

Hey. I don't know, I don't want to

know. Far as I'm concerned, you're a

good kid. I got news, though, without

you here I can't keep on your friend.

I got enough people pretending to

sweep.

BOBBY:

Do me a favor, Arthur, keep him on

til I see what's happening.

ARTHUR:

Good luck.

EXT. MAX'S OFFICE - VAN NUYS - DAY

Bobby parks his car in the off street lot of Max's run-down

industrial complex. Bobby walks past the many businesses

that share the structure in tandem.

MEN working in an auto BODY SHOP go about their business,

but discreetly watch as the unfamiliar man passes. Bobby

carries himself with the proper amount of ambivalence. He

then passes a loading dock, which also has a secretive stench.

Finally, he arrives at a STEEL DOOR, above which is mounted

a video camera, several generations past its prime.

A steel sign reads simply: 'M and M Contracting'.

Bobby rings the bell and looks up to the surveillance camera.

He is buzzed in.

INT. M AND M CONSTRUCTION OFFICES - VAN NUYS - CONTINUOUS

Bobby walks into an anticlimactically mundane office. The

decor is sixties industrial gray. There is a waiting area

next to a flimsy lucite partition/reception window, behind

which is a desk. Behind the desk is AUDREY, the sixty-plus

receptionist whose hair was recently 'set' and colored by

her beautician. Security seems quite lax.

BOBBY:

Hi, uh, excuse me. I'm here to see

Mr. Reuben.

AUDREY:

You're Bobby, right?

BOBBY:

Yeah.

AUDREY:

Good afternoon, Bobby. I'll let Max

know you're here.

She fiddles with her phone. Bobby sits at the kidney shaped

coffee table. He thumbs through a copy of Redbook.

AUDREY:

He'll be a minute, hon. You want

some coffee?

BOBBY:

No thank you.

AUDREY:

You sure? I just made it.

BOBBY:

No, thank you. I'm good. Thanks.

He calms his nerves by staring at a recipe for Strawberries

Devonshire.

CUT TO:

INT. MAX'S OFFICE - VAN NUYS - DAY

Bobby walks in. He doesn't seem like he's been there before.

The first thing that hits you is all the thoroughbred racing

sh*t all over the place. Brass table top statues, pictures

of jockeys with wreaths, hand-painted(!) portraits of horses

faces. The second thing you notice is MAX REUBEN. He's an

off-the-rack East Coast Jew.

He's got deep-set eyes and Abe Vigoda brows. He wears a golf

shirt with a little penguin on it, and oversized reading

glasses are perched on his balding head. His nose was broken

in '63. He smiles broadly as Bobby enters. Bobby forces a

relaxed smile.

MAX:

(on phone)

Will ya calm down. Just calm down

for a minute, Nadeleh. The money

will be there. How do I know? I just

know... Yes. Yes, that's exactly

what I'm saying... You got my word.

He hangs up his rotary phone and looks up to Bobby, who stands

looking at the painting with his ears closed.

MAX:

You like the ponies?

BOBBY:

Sure. Yeah.

MAX:

You bet the ponies?

BOBBY:

Me? No. Not really.

MAX:

Smart. Hard as hell to handicap. You

know what I like? Hai Alai. Fast

game. You know why I like it?

BOBBY:

Why?

MAX:

It's fixed. That's the only way to

win. A sure thing. See that horse.

The blaze.

BOBBY:

This one?

MAX:

Yeah. The blaze. I bought her in

'66. Hired a trainer, stall, whatever

it was. That horse made me over a

hundred grand. In 'sixties' dollars.

You know what that is today?

BOBBY:

Pshhh...

MAX:

A million. Easy.

BOBBY:

She was fast, huh?

MAX:

Never won a race. But it got me in

with the trainer. We'd have a thing,

I don't remember, some f***ing thing.

The jockey would raise his whip, it

meant the fix was in, we'd all go

running. People get greedy. First

they bet small, they keep their mouth

shut. Within a month's time, everyone

and their brother was in on it. The

odds would drop, I mean you could

watch the goddamn board. It looked

like a f***in stopwatch, the odds

would drop so fast.

BOBBY:

That's why they call it the smart

money.

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