The Limey Page #4

DEALER:

You came to the right place, sir. My

wife's second cousin is English. Well,

Scotch-Irish. Can I interest you in a

holster?

WILSON:

Just luck, this, really. Never been to

one of these before.

DEALER:

You're in gun country now, my friend.

WILSON:

(picks up another, checks it

out)

Been to the Boat Show.

DEALER:

(re Wilson's new selection)

Packs a punch, but it's compact, has

accessible features -- makes a nice

concealed-carry piece.

ED:

(playing the reluctant buyer)

He don't have a concealed weapons permit.

WILSON:

Don't have time for a lot of paperwork,

y'know. Just popped over on a quick

visit.

DEALER:

I can take care of the paperwork.

WILSON:

Yeah?

DEALER:

No problem. If you don't have a problem

with me reporting this gun stolen.

A look of understanding between them.

WILSON:

No. Not at all.

(to Ed)

Do we?

ED:

Not me, man.

WILSON:

I mean, it's already a steal, n'it -- what

you said -- four hundred for this one?

DEALERS:

Well, I'll have to add another two

hundred on top of that.

WILSON:

Oh, aye?

DEALER:

(another look)

... for the paperwork.

CUT.

INT. ED'S CAR. DAY.

Ed drives. Nervous at Wilson handling his new gun purchase

beside him.

WILSON:

Violation of my parole, this.

(a perfect pause)

-- Goin' abroad.

Ed shakes his head at Wilson's sense of humor.

ED:

You hadda show up on a weekend. This

weekend. Wouldn't've even been a gun

show... for another month.

WILSON:

F***ing out of order, that. Shouldn't be

allowed.

As he puts away a box of ammo.

ED:

Now what. You gonna take your new

arsenal, go visit Terry Valentine, just

like that? Boom bam boom.

WILSON:

It's only insurance. Can't be too

careful. This Terry Valentine, he's

probably a wonderful fella. They were

together how long?

ED:

Five years, I think. Long time.

WILSON:

Well, there you are. Jen must've liked

him.

Doesn't make Ed feel any better. Nor does the way Wilson

seems now to be studying Ed's driving techniques. Paying

attention to the way traffic lights and left-turn lanes and

cars without clutches work over here.

ED:

(remembering)

Jenny told me she met him at the beach.

Got blinded by his smile.

(beat)

You believe that sh*t? Son of a b*tch

never smiled at me. Buried her at a

"private" service. Private for who.

Him?

WILSON:

(confused)

Hang about. I thought you said he come

into the restaurant where you worked with

Jenny.

ED:

He came in with Jenny to the restaurant

where I work. That's not where they met.

WILSON:

And that's where you met Jenny.

ED:

No, no -- Jenny used to work as a

waitress. Before she met him. But

that's not where she met me. Not in my

restaurant.

WILSON:

How'd the two of you hook up, then?

ED:

Oh, Jenny was in my acting class.

CUT.

INT. RENTAL CAR. DAY.

Wilson at the wheel himself. Getting the hang of L.A.

Driving downtown. Along one of the major boulevards.

Glances at a street sign as he goes by. Picks up the map

book on the seat beside him to check his route.

EXT. BOULEVARD. DAY.

Wilson makes a sudden lane change to avoid getting fed in the

wrong direction. Gets HONKED by another driver.

EXT. A STREET DOWNTOWN. DAY.

Wilson cruises past a particular building. We don't have to

really clearly see it just yet (we saw it in the flash cuts) --

more important we see him seeing it. Casing it with the eyes

of a professional. Sniffing it out; the instinct of a

predator after prey.

INT. CAR. DAY.

Parks it. Produces the little leather travel kit we saw him

unpack at his motel. Unzips it. Under the usual assortment

of clippers, razors, etc., is a hidden layer -- storing still

more personalized items: a set of select slim

lockpicking/cutting tools.

EXT. SIDE STREET. DAY.

Wilson locks the car. Walks away. STAY with him.

AROUND THE CORNER

He walks down the block. A nice long walk. What we get out

of it besides a sense of Wilson -- cool cat; ambling along;

loner; sun beating down; not bothered; his shadow doubling

him -- is this:

The building approaching. The one he has his eye on. The

target. It's across the street. A kind of flat windowless

warehouse with adjoining loading yard. Loading yard

surrounded by a chain-link fence -- topped with barbed wire.

The actual geography of where he left his car in relation to

this building. Safely around the corner. And how he might

practically get back to it, either this same way or via a

more circuitous route round another block.

The sense you get in downtown L.A. on a lazy Saturday

afternoon that you're in a ghost town. Particularly in this

shabby kind of industrial section.

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