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Made Page #5
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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"Made" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Aug. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/made_1103>.
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