The Limey Page #3

Could be talking about the girl. Wilson doesn't move. But

touch him, he'll explode. Out the window lights are passing,

but no landmarks. He might as well be on the moon.

ED:

You should talk to Elaine. That was her

best friend.

WILSON:

She didn't write to me, did she.

ED:

She didn't know what to say.

(shrugs)

I thought someone should say something.

To someone. With me it was, I don't know

-- Jenny liked me for some reason. I

felt like I owed her.

WILSON:

Who'd Jenny get it off of -- this grass

or whatever?

ED:

(self-conscious again)

Not me, man. I'm no drug dealer, what

you think.

WILSON:

(re Ed's tattoos)

I think you didn't get that lot in the

Navy, doing your National Service.

ED:

I already told you, man. Corcoran. Know

what that is? State prison.

WILSON:

Nick's a nick, n' it? No matter what

state you're in. State of remorse, most

likely -- for gettin' caught.

ED:

But that's not me anymore. That's when I

was into the gang lifestyle. That's not

who I am now. Five years in the joint --

that's it for me, man.

Now Wilson drops the clanger.

WILSON:

Just got out meself, didn't I.

And Ed turns. Looks at Wilson. Fellow ex-con.

CUT.

EXT. WILSON'S MOTEL. NIGHT.

Wilson out of the car, shuts the passenger door. Ed on the

other side, looks over the roof at him.

ED:

Go home, man.

(plane taking off in

background)

Get on a plane.

Wilson has other plans.

WILSON:

I'll be needing a shooter.

Makes his fingers like a gun. And a clicking sound.

ED:

(comes quickly over)

You're kiddin' me, right?

WILSON:

What do I do, then, look in the bleedin'

Yellow Pages?

ED:

(an urgent whisper)

These are not guys you can just go run a

number on, man.

WILSON:

(looking around)

Thought perhaps there'd be dispensing

machines, you know. Bung in your coins,

come out with a .44 Magnum, fully-loaded.

Ed throws up his hands, walks back to his driver's side door.

ED:

Are you a resident of California?

You gonna fill out forms, man? Do the

background check? Go through a three-day

waiting period?

WILSON:

Sod that. Gotta get back before my

probation officer wonders where I've

skived off to.

ED:

Probation? Man, you crazy. They

shouldn't've let you outta your country,

much less prison.

WILSON:

Travelling on a dodgy passport, n' all.

Walks round to come face to face with Ed once more.

WILSON:

Which is why I thought, save some time,

get what I need under the table, like.

ED:

As if resigned and mulling the problem over:

ED:

Under the table?

CUT.

INT. GUN SHOW. DAY.

Hundreds of tables. Under bright lights. Displaying every

kind of firearm. Handguns, rifles, shotguns, parts to make

machine guns. A weapons bazaar.

WILSON AND ED:

Walking around. Even a cool customer like Wilson can't help

but be impressed by America's loving embrace of senseless

mayhem.

DEALERS:

Touting their wares.

VISITORS:

Trying out pistol grips -- or pushing baby carriages. Guys

in fatigue jackets with toddlers on their shoulders. Women

in stretch pants looking for a little something in personal

protection.

WILSON:

Doesn't know where to look. At the booth featuring "Classic

Cowboy Collectibles" -- or the most OBESE COUPLE he's ever

seen who just walked by.

PA SYSTEM:

Attention:
the long-range vermin-

shooting panel is due to commence in two

minutes in the blue room at the rear of

the Convention Center.

... and other anomalous oddball ANNOUNCEMENTS in the

background as long as we're here.

DEMONSTRATION:

At a booth selling laser attachments.

BEAM SALESMAN:

BeamSight II is easily mountable on any

shotgun, rifle, or sidearm and will

project a small, bright red dot directly

onto the point where your weapon is

aimed...

For purposes of display, a smiling YOUNG WOMAN is the

"target."

WILSON:

Walking past, almost subliminally noting the Young Woman with

the symbol of death on her.

TABLE:

A .45 passed from a DEALER's hand to Wilson's.

DEALER:

Man knows what he likes.

ED:

(he'll talk if Wilson won't)

Lookin' good.

DEALER:

(while Wilson checks)

That's a high-end item. Total

reliability.

ED:

What'd you call that -- the Protector?

DEALER:

Yes, sir. Won't find a better CQC on the

market.

Wilson's eyes glance up -- but Ed asks the question.

ED:

CQ what?

DEALER:

Close Quarters Combat. Keep one in my

own home.

WILSON:

Trouble is, I'm not at home, see.

Fancied a bit of target shooting, y'know,

while I'm here -- with me mate.

Nods at Ed.

DEALER:

Oh really? Where you from?

WILSON:

England.

(sighting the weapon)

Only, we saw there was a show on, thought

I might pick something up for a price,

type of thing.

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