Smokin' Aces Page #16

Sykes, embarrassed, nudging Watters, knock-it-off...

WATTERS:

B*tches like that make me weep for

what could be -- if we could all,

sisters everywhere, black, white,

yellow and brown, put our sh*t down

one time, unified front, the force

of the female race, mobilized, moving

as one...

The woman, smile severely strained, the pro-feminist diatribe

falling on decidedly deaf ears. An awkward beat, then;

SYKES:

I'm gonna need a mini-bar key too.

CUT TO:

A mini-bar being opened. A hand reaching in, extracting two

small bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey and a bottle of seltzer.

INT. NOMAD HOTEL ROOM -- LOWER FLOOR

The figure crosses the room, pouring the seltzer onto a towel.

He kneels down, dabbing a spot on the carpet, fresh spill,

deep red, indelible. The seltzer doesn't bring it up. The

stain remains, smeared now but unmistakable... blood.

The figure stands. In the bathroom behind him, we see a body,

male, late-50's, trussed up, hung by his feet over the tub

and bled out. The figure walks in, takes a Polaroid, turns

it upside down near the man's face and fires off a photo.

He crosses back into the bedroom. The resulting photo is

tucked into the corner of a dresser mirror as it develops.

As the figure sits, WE PAN OVER TO REVEAL:

LAZLO SOOT:
world class assassin slash master of disguise.

The slowly developing polaroid depicts the same face that we

now see in the mirror. Soot touches up the putty and plastic

appliances on his face, smoothing, sealing...

He takes up a small micro-cassette recorder, rewinds, pushes

play. A butler's uniform, steamed and pressed, hangs on the

door. He takes it down and begins changing into it.

LAZLO SOOT (ON RECORDER)

-- Keep calm.

He glances over at the bed. The dead man's voice crackles

back over the recorder.

DEAD MAN (ON RECORDER)

I am an employee, I -- I don't know

wh-- they don't let me speak to h--

LAZLO SOOT (ON RECORDER)

-- Say your name. Then say "How can

I be of assistance."

Soot, back to the mirror, buttoning his collar, straightening

his cuffs, smoothing out the creases.

DEAD MAN (ON RECORDER)

I don't understand.

LAZLO SOOT (ON RECORDER)

I didn't ask for your understanding.

I asked you to say your name, followed

by the phrase "How can I be of

assistance."

Beat. Soot looks down at the Silencer-fitted 9mm pistol lying

on the vanity.

LAZLO SOOT:

Last chance.

A pause, then:

DEAD MAN (ON RECORDER)

My name is Vitoli. How can I be of

assistance.

LAZLO SOOT (ON RECORDER)

Thank you.

A muffled gunshot sounds. The recorder abruptly shuts off.

Soot, gazing at his reflection now, rewinds the recorder,

replays, listens, gauging the man's vocal patterns-- rough

Baltic accent, throaty warble, excessive smoke & booze

exposure, tracheal damage. Tough to match. He rehearses one.

SOOT:

My name is Vitoli. How can I be of

assistance.

He grimaces, grabs cigarettes off the bureau, lights, wails

smokestack, puffing three at once, bellows-like lungfuls --

He grabs an aerosol can from the same bureau, strafes the

back of his throat, pops the tops on the bottles of Jack,

kills them both, gags, sputters, recovers, adjusts himself.

Suddenly, the phone begins to ring. Soot stops, stares.

After another ring, he lifts the receiver,

SOOT:

(into phone, cautious)

This is Vitoli. How can I be of

assistance.

Hugo Croop's voice booms from the earpiece.

HUGO:

Answer your f***ing pages! I've been

calling for fifteen minutes, we need

you up here to clean NOW!

ISRAEL (V.O.)

That's right! RIGHT NOW!

CUT TO:

INT. PENTHOUSE SUITE -- NOMAD HOTEL & CASINO -- MORNING

Israel, sequestered to his bedroom, lying on a baby-grand

piano, its legs inexplicably sawed off during the previous

night's hedonism. In his hands, the de riguer deck of cards,

restlessly shuffled and reshuffled... Cocaine has been

lovingly cut and arranged in neat, snortable rows atop the

piano.

In the b.g. we see HUGO on the phone to Vitoli/Soot.

ISRAEL:

They're gonna give on this in the

next ten seconds or the deal's off!

MECKLEN (O.S.)

I dunno what to say to you sweetheart,

it is what it is.

ISRAEL:

Bullshit it is. I said, about as

loud as I could say it, "no jail

time for my guys."

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