Stretch Page #4

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Okay.

You okay?

Mr. Karos?

I think I just fell asleep.

I think so, too.

That's very soft, by the way.

- You bought it.

- Is that alpaca?

I don't think so.

You look sharp.

Sit tight. Have some company joining us.

Finally.

- Yo.

- Hey, talk to me.

I have someone named Marcy from Sony

on the line who's in complete hysterics.

Oh, sh*t, yes. That's the stuff

I was telling you about.

The prop gun that Liotta

wanted me to return.

She said that she and the prop master

can't leave set because you, my friend,

have a registered firearm

that could be used to commit a crime.

Well, tell her forget it.

It's not gonna happen.

I got a client. Speaking of which,

did you find out anything?

First of all, I just want to say I'm sorry

from the bottom of my heart

he's about to be indicted

on major money laundering.

- What?

- Yeah.

I mean,

these investment pyramid schemes,

some shady Nigerian holding company

he was involved with...

Wait, where are you seeing this stuff?

On the LA Times website.

Well, what am I supposed to do about it?

Kick him the f*** out!

Kick him out... I can't kick him out.

Here they are.

I'm shameless in that I pay for p*ssy,

but this is

world class.

This is a level of appreciation

one reserves for great art,

or fine wine or...

Whatever.

Oh...

The one in the middle there,

the things she can do

with her mouth and throat,

will have you thinking one of her ancestors

f***ed a python at some point.

Yep.

Wow.

Benedict Canyon,

10,000 block, entry fee.

Jesus!

You know there's a reason

they call Karos "Captain Fisty."

All right. You...

Ew.

The Midnight Shadows Social Club

didn't have a single fixed address.

It was a horrible,

hedonistic little road show,

that would pop up at a new

and unsuspecting location each time.

Rumor had it they once desecrated

the Right Field Pavilion at Dodger Stadium,

but because it was the first inning...

nobody was there to witness it.

Midnight Shadow.

- Mr. Karos...

- No name.

Entry fee.

There you go.

It's all here.

I'm leaving now. Bye-bye.

This ought to be interesting.

There we go.

I'm not sure, but...

I think someone

just got pregnant in there.

Ovulating.

Whatever. Tell your mom I said hi.

Mr. Karos?

He had a disco ball... Mr. Karos?

- I didn't see you get out of the car.

- Nor did I.

Are you completely flipped out?

I drove Charlie Sheen for six weeks.

Who's he?

- Doesn't matter.

- Doesn't matter.

We're out of blow

and these b*tches are aardvarks.

- Okay.

- Bring back as much as you can carry.

- Okay.

- All right.

The Xavier Club, Hollywood,

you ask for Laurant.

He's a Frenchman. He has a briefcase.

You bring it back to me, no matter what.

Under no circumstances

do you fail in this endeavor,

or our entire night is null

and void, understood?

Understood.

This is on a countdown.

It's set up for 99 minutes which

is exactly how long I'll be inside.

You come back before it runs out.

Not a minute more.

There's a lot of money in this, Stretch.

Maybe $6,000.

Tell me to have fun.

Enjoy yourself over there.

There's no joy in there.

- Hey, babe.

- Hey, cockfucker.

- Naseem...

- Bring the limo back.

- You're fired.

- What? Fired? I got us Liotta.

Liotta says he wants to kill you!

You don't return a registered weapon

after he paid you to?

What the f***?

Bring the limo back or I swear to God,

the cops are sitting right in front of me,

I'm gonna tell him you stole it.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Wait, Naseem, listen,

I am with a client, Mr. Karos.

No! I told you,

this is do, or this is die,

and you're f***ing dead!

You're dead! Dead! Dead...

I gotta go.

Hello?

Motherf***er hung up on me.

Charlie!

Right there.

Hey, can I park here for a few minutes?

F***, no. Are you kidding?

- Can I park it here for a few minutes?

- Stay as long as you want.

Just long enough to pick up a briefcase.

Because I'm all in now.

Get the briefcase.

Get it.

I once auditioned

for a role on CSI: Miami,

but didn't get it because

the casting director felt I didn't,

as she put it, "Own the space."

Excuse me. Thank you.

I'm... looking for

a man named Laurant.

Not seeing that name.

Oh, there he is.

- Elevator inside.

- Thank you.

- He's up in VIP.

- Hold that.

I don't think I understood what

they meant until this very moment.

Because the truth of the matter is...

I ain't getting a sniff of that briefcase

without heeding those words.

Yeah, it's not Karos...

You can do this.

Own the space. Own the space.

- Own the space.

- Billy Big Balls,

becomes Geisha B*tch Boy.

Running errands for a mad man.

- Shut up.

- You're not getting that money.

And then Ignacio is gonna break

every part of you that can be broken.

Who, but an absolute a**hole

would bank on a $6,000 tip?

F*** you.

- "Laurent"?

- Laurant.

- La... What?

- La...

rant.

- Mr. Karos sent me.

- Mmm-hmm.

You have something for me?

I have something for Monsieur Karos.

Well, I'm here in his place.

To pick up a briefcase

and return to him in 78 minutes.

- Is he timing you?

- He is.

And why would he be timing you?

Well, you'd have to ask him.

Would I have to ask him

about my ledgers as well?

This was supposed to be an exchange.

Wasn't that explained to you?

Ledger for briefcase.

Ledger for briefcase.

- Ledger...

- Oh, so let me get this straight.

It was ledgers for briefcase?

Where is Monsieur Karos now?

I really couldn't tell you.

I'm certain you could.

Look around you.

Mon vieil ami, he has put you

into very bad spot with very bad people.

Own the space.

Yeah, all right, listen.

"Laurent."

Easy.

You want an LAPD Tactical on your ass in the next 10 seconds?

Then keep f***ing with me!

You see it?

I'll get you your ledgers,

you have my word.

But right now, you're gonna

give me that goddamn briefcase,

or I'm gonna turn this VIP room

into a goddamn pig roast

with more cops than you can count.

When the smoke clears,

and you're in LA County,

hip-deep in hardened cons

who wanna double park

their d*cks in your hind hole,

you're gonna be wishing

you had this moment back.

Wishing that you had taken

the word of a heavily decorated,

veteran police officer,

instead of trying to play tough guy

in your tennis whites.

So come on, Crayola,

you wanna color or what?

75 minutes.

I'll get you your ledgers.

You have my word,

and I'm a man of my word.

I see a lot of eyeballs.

You better put them on a f***ing dimmer

before I put cases

on all of you b*tches!

Make a lane. Make a lane.

Who the f*** was that guy?

Yay! I can't believe I just did that.

Where the f*** is Karos?

That was awesome!

- Right?

- Yeah.

Tonight, get this guy or he's gone.

I'm not gonna lie to you,

I'm pretty impressed.

Non-extradition country ghost!

Don't get cocky.

The agreement was ledgers in the hand,

him in person.

This is 10 months of undercover work,

six months of Rosetta Stone

learning f***ing French.

I hate the f***ing French!

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