RocknRolla Page #4

ever to have escorted.

Got the night off from the Russians...

...and they have been greased down

just for the Bobski.

- Okay, well, I see that cheered you up.

- It's not that I'm not grateful, it's just...

What? It's just what?

You wouldn't understand.

Come on, Bobby boy, that's not fair.

I'd understand anything

coming from you.

Would you?

Bob, you're my best mate.

You see, I don't want the strippers,

One Two.

Okay.

I want you.

Dirty bastard.

You dirty bastard.

Bob, I know all your girlfriends,

all of them.

I told you, you wouldn't understand.

What, I wouldn't understand

that you're a f***ing homo?

You're Handsome Bob.

You're Handsome Bob,

the f***ing lady-killer, that's who you are.

Do you hear me, Bob?

I mean, I've had showers with you, man.

You've seen my f***ing cock.

I should have just kept my mouth shut.

Right, you should have kept

your mouth shut.

We should've just gone

and done the strippers...

...like Handsome Bob would've done.

You should drown the cat

instead of letting it out.

No, no, not you. Not fag Bob.

I am so sorry.

Well, I'm sorry.

No, I'm sorry.

- No, I'm sorry.

- No, no, I'm sorry.

No, I'm f***ing sorry, Bob, all right?

I went over the top a bit.

And it was a bit

of a f***ing surprise, Bob.

It was a bit of a broadside.

It's fine. It's fine.

Five years, you know.

I don't know if I can handle it.

I don't know what I was thinking, Bob.

I mean, there's nothing wrong

with being a poof or being a gay...

...or whatever it is you call it,

I don't know.

I mean, there's gonna be plenty

of your lot in there.

You'll probably love it.

Oh, God.

What...?

What exactly is it that you?

That you wanna do to me, then, Bob?

Tank, come in.

You want a drink?

No, thanks, Archy.

Not till the sun's past the yard hour.

Ooh. Nice office Lenny's got here, isn't it?

Like that,

Scandinavian pine posing as English oak.

Nice touch, that.

Ooh.

- Whistler.

- Come again?

Nineteenth century,

Beaufort Hunt, master of hounds.

Is that right?

You know a man's cultured

when he's got a Whistler on the wall.

Go on.

Now, you know why they call me Tank,

don't you, Archy?

It's because you're a dirty,

big black bastard.

Think tank, Arch.

Nothing gets past the old think tank.

Nothing.

So I thought I'd fire a few questions

into the right direction.

Thought I'd come see you because it looks

like I got news about your painting.

- Oh, yeah?

- Yeah.

Right, let me tell you how this works.

You're going in the drink,

and I'm gonna have a cup of tea.

Beneath your feet

is the famous river Thames.

I just hope for your sakes

you can hold your breath...

...for as long as it takes

my kettle to boil.

After that, I'm gonna ask you a question,

just one question.

You're gonna give me a name.

And if it's the right name...

...I'm gonna send you home warm and dry

in a fresh set of clothes.

If it's the wrong name,

you'll be fed to the crayfish.

They're American, these crayfish.

Big, hungry bastards.

And like most things American,

they've eaten the natives...

...but they've still got room for more.

Show him one, Charlie.

All right, see you, enjoy.

No, no, no. They got money.

They stole the f***ing money.

I swear, I wouldn't f***ing lie to you,

please.

No, no, no.

Oh, stop, stop.

No, don't.

The American crayfish

was introduced in the '20s.

A guest, if you like.

And like most guests having a good time,

they didn't wanna leave.

Next 50 years...

...they consumed all the local crayfish,

wiped them out.

And then, they started eating each other.

That's the thing about greed, Arch.

It's blind.

And it doesn't know when to stop.

That's why I'm here.

To keep order.

Danny, hose him down.

Right, who's got that painting?

One name.

Johnny.

Johnny Quid.

The singer from the group,

the Quid Lickers.

This hasn't worked, has it?

- How can a dead man sell you a painting?

- No, he's not dead.

He's not dead, he just tried selling us

that painting and he changed his mind.

- He's got, like, an obsession with it.

- Oh, for f***'s sake.

Archy, put him back in

before I shoot him.

No, please, I know who he is.

We went to school together.

I wouldn't lie to you.

I don't lie.

I've never lied in my life.

Now, please just let me go.

I don't wanna get...

Len, can I have a word?

I really wouldn't lie to you.

- Your boy ain't dead, is he?

- Don't you dare call him my boy.

Oh, you know what I mean.

Your ex's boy, your stepson.

He had a set of keys to the house,

didn't he?

He just won't f***ing die,

that cockroach.

That junkie's seen more funerals

than a f***ing undertaker, he's poison.

I tell you, the next world war

will have his name written all over it.

Look, you go see...

...if you can find them two flash idiots

that used to be his manager.

What are they called?

Greek and Minnie?

- Roman and Mickey.

- Yeah, whatever.

Because if anybody can find

that smoking crack pipe, they can.

No, you're not listening to what I'm saying.

That's exactly what I do.

The dry ice, Mickey.

I need the f***ing dry ice.

My show just doesn't work without it.

Hold on a second.

If you would've asked me yesterday

for dry ice...

...I would've got the driest ice

the world could find...

...but you didn't ask me.

You asked me for two cases

of Johnnie Walker Black Label...

...and four ladies of the pole,

and I got them for you, didn't I?

Yes.

Yes, you did, I do confess.

But, Mickey, you are the manager,

I'm the rocker.

You got on the hat.

Why don't you just pull something out of it?

My hat is deep and full of magic.

I got rabbits, handkerchiefs

and ladies of the pole drinking Black Label.

I got smoke machines,

bubble machines...

...I even got love marines,

and still the hat goes deeper.

All right?

But there ain't no motherfucking dry ice.

Okay.

You made your point.

But tomorrow,

might be quite nice to have some dry ice.

- You read this?

- What?

"Singer extraordinaire, Johnny Quid

fell off a boat," they said.

"Missing, assumed dead," they say.

Our Johnny?

How many rock stars by the name Johnny

Quid do you think there are in the universe?

Only thing he fell off is his junkie spoon.

He's no deader

than them shoes you got on.

He'll be gearing himself up,

happy as a clam in a fisherman's net.

June, how dead is Johnny?

If he's dead,

that's the third time this year.

Rockers like that never die.

They just wither and give me pain.

Now, listen to me, boy. Listen.

I never did like you,

neither did your real dad.

You're a reject.

A wrong and a f***ing fairy in the mirror

that I inherited from your mom.

But she ain't with us no more,

so it's just you and me.

Now, next week,

you're going back to school.

The most expensive f***ing school

in this country, I might add.

And then you'll be gone

for a whole term.

In the meantime, show some gratitude

and keep the f***ing music down.

Go on, John.

Jog it on.

I can't, Pete.

The painting's got me.

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