Smokin' Aces Page #7

INT. BRIEFING ROOM -- DAY

The briefing continues.

LOCKE:

We lose our case. Twenty-four hours

from now, he's scheduled to meet

with federal prosecutors. His agent,

a man by the name of Morris Mecklen,

has guaranteed us that he'll enter

into protective custody once his

deal is approved.

CUT TO:

MORRIS MECKLEN, 60's, bloated, bad combover, agent to the

Vegas vanguard. He sits at his desk, jawing into the phone.

On the wall, framed photos; Wayne Newton, Buddy Hackett,

Carol Channing and a triple-chinned, near-the-end Elvis.

LOCKE (V.O.)

We've been monitoring Mecklen's calls

and have learned that Israel is

staying in the penthouse level of

the Nomad Hotel and Casino in Lake

Tahoe, Nevada under an assumed name.

CUT BACK TO SCENE:

INT. BRIEFING ROOM -- CONTINUOUS

CARRUTHERS:

Right there? In the high-roller suite?

MESSNER:

It's the last place they'd look.

LOCKE:

Israel's legal representation, the

firm of Culpepper, Brody and Reed,

which is currently the subject of a

joint SEC and Treasury Department

probe, were left holding the bag

after he skipped bail. Over three-

quarters of a million dollars on a

bond that's set to expire in less

than a day. Rupert Reed, one of the

firm's partners, has learned of

Israel's whereabouts and dispatched

a local bondsman by the name of Jack

Dupree to pick him up and return him

to Las Vegas... that can't happen.

(beat)

We have a Gulf Stream standing by at

Reagan International to transport

you two to Lake Tahoe.

(pause, with weight)

It's very simple gentlemen. Valacchi,

Fratiano, Gravano -- no former witness

against the mob has been as crucial

or has brought more to bear on the

potential dissolution of The La Cosa

Nostra, than Buddy Israel.

SMASH CUT TO BLACK:

MONTAGE:

Over this entire sequence WE HEAR Agent Locke speaking:

The cylinder of a .44 Magnum is popped, a speed-load dropped

in, spun and snapped shut -- Porn mags and crossword puzzle

compendiums are tossed into a carry-on. Morphine and

adrenaline syringes get spiked and capped -- A collection of

wigs, fake sideburns and moustaches get laid out, separated --

LOCKE:

...But understand that if an attempt

is made on his life...

Kevlar body armor gets stowed -- An elephant gun gets buffed

to a high shine -- Vintage Ww11 German Potato-Masher hand-

grenades are lovingly wrapped in terry cloth towels.

LOCKE:

...then it is being made by those of

the strictest professional caliber...

Torture-tools; curved cutting implements, serrated bone saws,

skull keys, a portable blowtorch, blackened with burned

blood... all packed neatly into a duffel bag --

LOCKE:

...They are cold-blooded, ruthless,

and without restraint... and they

must not succeed.

A gun is aimed, a trigger pulled... "BOOM"

SMASH CUT TO BLACK:

FADE UP ON:

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM -- MORNING

Daybreak. Sunlight streams in, soft suffusion, the color of

good scotch. PRIMO SPARAZZA, 86, lies on a hospital bed, an

O2 mask shrouding deep-set, sunken eyes, cataract-grey, gazing

out at a four-walled world. Someone enters the room, awaiting

approval to approach... Sparazza, turning, seeing the man,

summoning him over with a feeble finger wag. The man reaches

him, kneeling down, ring-kissing reverent, whispering:

MAN:

...he's here now...

Sparazza nods. The man exits. After a moment, the door opens

again... and another MAN enters, walking slowly toward

Sparazza's bedside. He sets down his luggage, a black leather

valise. The travel tags originate in Stockholm:

The Swede has arrived.

FADE TO BLACK:

FADE UP ON:

Soaring across the pristine deep blue waters of Lake Tahoe.

Rising, revealing the gaudy, mirrored glass tower of the

NOMAD HOTEL & CASINO. We slowly DISSOLVE TO:

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

BUDDY ISRAEL, bathrobe, boxers, bags under his eyes. He

absently shuffles cards, pulling aces as if by touch,

telepathy. He gazes out at the snow-packed peaks. Behind

him; post-bacchanalia... the ugly morning after. Prostitutes,

passed out cold in a tangle of crotchless panties and stiletto

heels, lying amongst smashed vodka bottles and ashtrays,

coke-covered tabletops and tipped room service trays. Israel,

sober now... contemptuous of it all. He starts walking around

them the way you would casualties on a battlefield. His

bathrobe brushes over, terrycloth catching one of the hooker's

wigs, tugging it free. Israel looks down, zooming in on her

scalp, sees dandruff and scars, gags disgust and disdain. He

steps, the wigs pulls. He stops and slips the bathrobe off,

letting it fall rather than pull her wig the rest of the way

off and ruin what illusion remains.

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