Smokin' Aces Page #26

Israel, a card slipping from his sleeve, into his throwing

hand... Ace Of Spades. He keeps it cupped.

SIR IVY:

Oh you ain't done a damn thing can't

be undone Playa. The dye ain't even

close t'cast. Y'wanna make some sh*t

real? No stage, no and lemme say

this one time...

CUT TO:

INT. LEARJET -- DAY

Locke, inbound to Tahoe with a detachment of D.C. Agents

accompanying him. He's examining contents from the

confidential package he received earlier: PHOTOS of a post-

op Primo Sparazza, plastic surgery shrink-wrapped, his face

swollen and deformed, dozens of photos, dozens of dates.

SIR IVY (V.O.)

...If you think old man Primo could

twist your sh*t up...

He scans the surgical reports, specific sentences and words

pop:
"MALIOFACIAL DISORDER" "DEGENERATIVE BONE DISEASE"

"BULLET FRAGMENTS" He keeps reading...

SIR IVY:

...It ain't nothin' compared to what

I 'bout to do here. Believe that.

ACOSTA/BILL (V.O.)

I don't believe this.

CUT TO:

INT. ELEVATOR CAR -- SAME

"Bill" aka Pasquale Acosta, hitting a walkie-talkie against

his leg, checking for a signal -- faking the whole affair.

ACOSTA/BILL

Battery's completely dead.

Carruthers, behind him in the elevator, checking his cellphone --

ACOSTA/BILL

Forget it, you won't get a signal in

here. Have to wait.

Carruthers, annoyed, stowing his cellphone.

CARRUTHERS:

(re:
wall phone)

Can't you use the line in here to

contact your people.

ACOSTA/BILL

(not missing a beat)

No, these phones are hardwired

directly to maintenance. Once we

reach the penthouse, I can call down

and have the system taken off-line.

Carruthers, absent nods, anxious. Acosta/Bill, back to futzing

with his walkie-talkie -- going so far as to remove the

battery--

-- And that's when Carruthers sees it... Bill's fingers,

flesh mottled at the tips, horribly scarred over --

-- something clicks -- memories fire -- photostrobic...

FLASH CUT TO:

The briefing in D.C., Supervisor Locke --

LOCKE:

Pasquale Acosta -- Mercenary -- "El

Estrago" -- "The Plague"

CUT BACK TO SCENE:

Carruthers' expression goes black...

LOCKE:

When he was caught by the SAS in

Northern Ireland and imprisoned, he

chewed off his fingertips to the

bone before he could be printed and

ID'd by Interpol.

Carruthers stares at those fingers, backs against the wall,

hand moving slowly toward his waist -- suspicions pique.

CARRUTHERS:

Can't maintenance do that?

ACOSTA/BILL

Do what?

Carruthers unclips his belt holster.

CARRUTHERS:

Shut the elevators down.

Acosta... sensing it... keeping his back turned.

ACOSTA/BILL

An emergency shut down of our entire

elevated lift system? No sir. That

has to be handled by my staff.

Carruthers gets a hand on the stock of the .45 on his hip.

CARRUTHERS:

How long have you worked here?

(beat)

Bill.

A long, drawn silence... then, static emits from Bill/Acosta's

belt -- his walkie-talkie was working all along. Jig's up.

Acosta spins back -- spring-loaded blade firing from his

sleeve -- Carruthers clears his holster -- Acosta closes the

gap -- blade flashing, passing through Carruthers' hand,

slashing tendons, shearing bone, hot butter --

Carruthers screams -- grip gone, gun tumbling -- instinct

kicks -- his good left hand hauls the .45 out of mid-air,

clutches, squeezes -- BLAM! Acosta's abdomen eats the blast,

burps blood -- Carruthers, a severed hand tucked under his

chin, held in place -- he extends, pulls, fires again --

Ricochets clip overhead fluorescents, fixtures catch strays --

shatter -- glass filament explodes -- razor slivers rain

down.

Acosta, struck, slumping -- a silver automatic appearing

from his other sleeve, trigger finding finger just as the

last of the lights flicker and die -- A beat sustained --

just hard breathing and fluid hitting the floor -- Everything

goes stiff --

-- the two take silent aim in the pitch black and fire

simultaneously, blazing away -- emptying their weapons into

each other from inside three feet -- Gunblasts illuminate

ghoulish features, muted screams covered in gore...

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