Smokin' Aces Page #10

PADICHE:

-- Uh...

Another beat. The girls let him dangle. Watters, lewd sneer,

looks almost lustfully at Sykes as she says the following;

WATTERS:

Israel likes p*ssy...

Padiche, recovering, nodding, nervous.

PADICHE:

... Oh... uh-huh, yeah --

Sykes squirms under Watters lascivious gaze, but manages:

SYKES:

And we like that he likes...

Yet another beat. Padiche, wanting desperately to contribute.

PADICHE:

...P*ssy?

SYKES:

Correct.

Padiche, big nod going from one girl to the other, he-get's-

it-but-not-really.

PADICHE:

...Fabulous.

He extends his hand. WE TRACK IT ACROSS IN C.U. as it meets

with a male hand.

PULL BACK TO REVEAL

INT. HOTEL ROOM -- BLACKJACK INN -- MORNING

Dupree and Deeks shaking hands with RUPERT "RIP" REED, mid-

forties, showbiz-slash-mob attorney, low man on the totem at

the Las Vegas based legal firm of "Culpepper Brody & Reed"

REED:

Yeah, Jack, alright... hey --

(shakes Deeks' hand)

Nice t'meet you. Rip Reed.

DEEKS:

Pete.

REED:

Okay, good, good, c'mon, c'min.

Reed and Dupree shake. Reed glances out in the hall before

closing the door.

REED:

(to Dupree)

Where's your third? This was a troika,

no?

Dupree, finding a seat, almost under his breath.

DUPREE:

He's... f***in'... he's comin'...

As Elmore appears, Reed almost closes the door on him --

REED:

(extending hand)

Hey, hey how r'ya, Rip Reed.

ELMORE:

Hollis. Elmore.

They shake. Dupree shoots a look at Elmore, not pleased.

Elmore, pissy, leans against the wall, arms crossed.

Reed, wound out, worn thin, half drunk -- his bedspread is

papered with writs, summons, notaries, etc: Everything to

make Buddy Israel's return to custody legally binding. He

sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for a pack of smokes

on the nightstand, finding a half empty glass of scotch.

REED:

(to Deeks)

So Jack tells me you're both ex-cops?

DEEKS:

Yeah, that's right.

DUPREE:

They worked as swingmen for the Vegas

Vice squad --

(to Deeks)

What? Five, six years?

Reed, digging a cigarette out of his pocket.

REED:

Man the stories you guys must tell.

I grew up soft myself, private

schools, little blazers, you "Talked

it out" nobody threw punches, t'this

day, never been hit with a fist,

Imagine that, huh? Pretty much a

panty-waste, trembling little f*ggot-

fairy when I smell trouble -- and I

don't say this to be self-deprecating,

I just don't have much of an opinion

about myself, I mean, sh*t, I wish I

was a lot more like you guys,

barfighters, big swinging d*cks,

gettin' it done. Sadly.

(lifts his shirt,

exposes torso flab)

This is it. It's... disgusting.

(with a look skyward)

Thanks God, dogpile a piss-poor

physique with an small cock and

hereditary alcoholism! 'preciate it!

(beat, to Dupree)

Okay, I'm babbling, I do this when I

drink, forgive the rants, let's get

at it here. This wanted felon f***ing

prick bastard Buddy Israel and the

nearly one million dollar bail bond.

Dupree smiles, pats Reed on the shoulder, don't-sweat-this...

DUPREE:

Rip, my right hand to God, we're

gonna go in and recover this a**hole

and everybody's gonna leave the

theater grinning. Trust me.

REED:

That confidence translates bro,

seriously, it does! Out-STANDING!

Reed, white-boy high-five, excruciatingly un-hip. Deeks and

Elmore literally have to look away. Dupree can barely bear

it.

REED:

I'm a lawyer, y'know, I need to hear

these things, little boosts, helps

allay my fears, I pass that piece of

mind along to my partners.

(beat, then)

Alright, so, couple primers for you

guys, maybe things we might've looked

past that you should know about...

His hangers-on, these idiots Israel

runs with, they're all "packing heat"

"strapped" whatever the phrase is.

Point two, Israel likes hookers, so

you might run into a harem up there.

Point three:
He binges between a six-

to-seven thousand dollar a day cocaine

habit that nobody knows about, so he

and those hookers, will most likely

be high. He also drinks, self-

medicates, the whole cliche, y'know?

The strung out hasbeen jerkoff snitch

drunk. The seven-layer loser.

(beat, exhales)

I'm praying he puts up a fight,

please, please, please, rape him if

possible, I'll-pay-the-extra-whatever --

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