RONIN Page #14

SAM:

We live in a singular world, my friend.

VINCENT:

I never really thought I was part of the

world you move in, Sam, to tell you the

truth.

(off his look)

I'm a hood, a thief. Big time in a small

time king of way. To the local police

I'm a prize, to the local hoods I'm a

legend. But to a guy like you I'm just

another two bit hired gun.

SAM:

You might be a hired gun, Vincent, but I

got a feeling you cost more than two

bits.

This conversation might have gone further, but it is

interrupted when Deirdre pokes her head up onto the roof.

DEIRDRE:

Christ, I was starting to think that the

two of you had thrown it in and walked

away.

(to Vincent)

There's someone on the phone downstairs

asking for you, and my somewhat limited

French leads me to believe that he might

have something to tell us about Gregor.

EXT. THE HIGHWAY - LATER - NIGHT

A car we haven't seen before, a CITROEN, hums up the French

highway in the night, along on the road. It's a postcard

moment, but only for a moment.

LARRY (V.O.)

I'm telling you...

INT. THE CITROEN - SAME TIME

LARRY:

(continuing)

That I could be dead and I'd drive better

than you.

Deirdre is driving, and Larry -- much to his chagrin -- is in

the passenger seat, watching her every move.

DEIRDRE:

(very curt)

Oh shut up...

IN THE BACK SEAT -

Sam and Vincent have a MAP spread out. Vincent is tracing

Gregor's route so far, and we follow his RED MAGIC MARKER as

it traces a line up the highway.

VINCENT:

He's going north.

(circles something on map)

That's Aix en Provence, where he used the

phone.

Sam runs his finger along the length of the highway on the

map. Destination: Paris.

SAM:

(making up his mind)

He's going back.

VINCENT:

Not necessarily. He could go off road at

any number of places. He might not even

be in the country anymore.

SAM:

It's Paris. The route's too indirect for

anything else. A guy like Gregor, he

doesn't waste time on this road unless he

has to be on it in the first place.

Otherwise, he'd be out of the country by

now. He's going to Paris.

(beat)

Now I just hope we can find him before he

gets there.

DEIRDRE:

If somebody else doesn't find him first.

EXT. THE TOWN OF ORANGE - DAY

Orange, pronounced "Au-Ronge", is a mid-sized town of fifty

thousand souls. It is small, charming, quaint, and it has

one particular thing that no other town in France can claim -

AN ANCIENT ROMAN THEATER that has been painstakingly

restored. We see this Roman Theater from the outside, as we

MOVE THROUGH the streets of the town, to the TOWN SQUARE.

It's packed -- every seat in every outdoor cafe is filled

with a tourist having breakfast. This normally quiet place

explodes one month out of the year, when an internationally

famous music festival is held in the Roman Theater. We come

upon -

A TABLE OF AMERICAN TOURISTS: a Family. Dad is angry at Mom.

DAD:

Opera? This is an opera festival?

MOM:

I told you that, Henry.

DAD:

I thought you meant Phantom of the Opera.

You know, Andrew Lloyd Weber, Cats, that

kind of thing.

Mom and Dad continue their discussion, but we've left them

behind, MOVING THROUGH the seats and cafes until we get to a

cafe on the outskirts of the Town Square. Here, in the most

removed table in the entire Square, we find Gregor sitting in

the shadow of the trellis. Unless you're on top of him you

can't see him, but he can see everything perfectly. His cell

phone sits on the table in front of him -- he picks it up and

starts to punch in a number.

CUT TO:

EXT. A REST STOP ON THE HIGHWAY - MEANWHILE

THE CITROEN is parked among a number of other cars. Sam is

sleeping in the back seat, while Vincent is seen on an

outdoor pay phone at the other end of the parking lot.

Deirdre and Larry sit at a nearby picnic table, eating French

fast food, which we get a good look at as we - PAN THE LENGTH

OF THE TABLE, which is covered with pasta, grilled sausages

with dijon mustard, really good fried potatoes.

In fact, everything that's on this table is so far beyond the

imagination of your average American truck driver that Larry

can't contain himself. He's stuffing himself, washing

everything down with the wine which is also sold at these

road-side rest stops. Deirdre drinks coffee.

LARRY:

(mouth full)

This...this is incredible. Is the rest

of Europe like this?

DEIRDRE:

(with a laugh)

Some places, not all. Italy, for

instance, they're serious about their

food. But try bloody Britain, anywhere

in the U.K., you don't get much fancier

than a deep-fried bar egg. Food's not

our thing, you see.

LARRY:

What is?

DEIRDRE:

(everybody knows this)

Best beer in the world known to man or

God.

LARRY:

(with a snort)

Best beer in the world? Budweiser for

me, thanks.

DEIRDRE:

(with unconcealed scorn)

Budweiser? You talk to me of beer and

you've the unbridled gall to mention

Budweiser in the same sentence? That's

not beer! Christ, it's not even a poor

excuse for rabbit piss.

LARRY:

Oh yeah? Whatta you drink, then?

DEIRDRE:

I drink what every civilized man, woman

and child in the world drinks: Guinness.

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