Smokin' Aces Page #9

HUGO:

I am. Yeah.

ISRAEL:

Without peer?

HUGO:

I -- uh, yeah, I guess, yeah.

Cards dance, Israel's hands moves at lightspeed, he reaches

into Hugo's shirt front and pulls a playing card out... Joker.

ISRAEL:

(showing him the card)

No. Be sure. Be resolute. You stand

alone on that summit.

The phone rings. Hugo, wobbly, what-to-do...? Buddy fires

all fifty-two cards into his face. The beast barely blinks.

ISRAEL:

Get the phone, it might be Gill,

then get out of my sight.

Hugo, furtive look to the floor, all those scattered cards,

then, back to the boss, "should I?"

ISRAEL:

No. The cards can stay there. Get

The Goddamn Phone.

CUT TO:

INT. CAR -- DAY

A cellphone being lifted, revealing Special Agent Carruthers.

CARRUTHERS:

Yes Sir. Go ahead.

(listens, checks watch)

We're three miles from The Nomad

now. We'll be awaiting word.

He clicks off. Messner occupies the passenger seat, reviewing

surveillance tape, portable headphones on, mini-DAT player

in his lap. He listens to the following excerpt:

SERNA (ON TAPE)

-- so, I'm thinkin' we jump, do this

in the next day or so, get to Israel

before the Swede can --

Messner pulls the headphones off.

MESSNER:

Anything on the Swede?

CARRUTHERS:

Only the mention made in that phone

call. There's no Swedish hitman of

any renown, much less one with a

million dollar day rate.

MESSNER:

Maybe he's that good. Never been

caught, no criminal record.

CARRUTHERS:

Maybe.

Messner, sets the gear on the floorboard, stretches. He turns

over photographs of Victor Padiche and Sidney Serna. (the

same ones that were tacked to the corkboard of the

surveillance van in the opening)

MESSNER (CONTD)

I tell you, engineering this kind of

play against Sparazza, going to the

lengths these guys are going to...

they're playing some long odds.

CARRUTHERS:

And a very bad gamble.

MESSNER:

(re; the passing neon)

Well... This is as good a place for

it as any I guess.

CUT TO:

A slot machine handle gets yanked, rolls, stops, lemon-lemon-

cherry-loser... please deposit coins.

CAMERA MOVES PAST, TRACKING THROUGH:

INT. CHOW SHACK BUFFET -- MORNING

Tahoe's "First and Finest" all seasons Buffet. THE CAMERA

FINDS:
A slicker older cat in a Guyabera shirt, mid-fifties,

spotted skin, sun damaged, pocked with pre-cancerous black.

We recognize him from the mugshots and surveillance video:

It's VICTOR PADICHE. Sykes and Watters enter FRAME. Padiche

stands, greeting them, smiling-cigarette-stained-dentures...

PADICHE:

Girls, wonderful, here, sit.

Watters scoots in right next to Sykes, gets comfy. Sykes

seems a put off by the proximity, ignores it for the moment.

PADICHE:

Okay, so... you're here, really nice

isn't it? Brisk weather, but nice.

(as WAITRESS approaches)

Coffee? Anything? I didn't want to

order for you.

WATTERS:

No, we're cool.

PADICHE:

Fabulous.

(to Waitress)

I'm fine sweetheart, thanks.

(beat, back to girls)

Okay, so... welcome to the south

shore!

(big smile, then)

So, just jumpin' right in, just in

terms of this thing, our thing. I

spoke to Lorenzo this morning, he

says y'got somethin' more or less

put together, plan'a attack and me

and my associate Mr. Serna, who I

can put on the phone hear, we'd love

t'hear it.

Watters and Sykes, non-responsive, staring...

PADICHE:

We ain't askin' ya t'take us through,

soup t'nuts or 'nuthin' like that, I

jus' like t'hear the broad strokes,

y'know, so we can get an idea --

Sykes and Watters look at one another, wordless exchange,

then;

WATTERS:

P*ssy.

Awkward beat, Padiche, head cocked, did I hear that right...?

PADICHE:

Wha'?

SYKES:

P*ssy.

PADICHE:

(leaning closer)

"Pushy?"

Watters, shaking her head, correcting him.

WATTERS:

P*ssy.

The old man blanches, doesn't quite understand the --

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