Thunderheart Page #2

BLACK MAN:

Hey, look who's here.

RAY:

Louis, my man, what's happenin'?

Ray walks up to the counter. Carl lingers, fidgeting. Ray

sets his briefcase on the counter and click-clicks it open.

The Hispanic fence man looks inside, and begins pulling out

stacks of treasury checks.

FENCE MAN:

Clean ones?

RAY:

Immaculate.

Ray gestures to Carl and he nervously sets his briefcase on

the counter, fumbles with the first latch. The second. He

flips it open.

The fence man casts his eyes down at a neat cache of Grade A

Treasury. A lot of it. Then his eyes rise to Carl.

FENCE MAN:

What ya got there, seventy-five

thousand?

CARL:

A hundred and ten. Count it.

LOUIS (BLACK MAN)

Have the girl count it, we can't sit

around here countin' bonds, we got

things to do here.

The fence man pushes an intercom button and yells into a

speaker.

FENCE MAN:

SALLLLY!

Carl's eyes flit to Ray. Ray's eyes flit to Carl.

Louis crushes his newspaper down and lifts a big Colt Python

from his lap just as --

A section of sheetrock kicks open and THREE FEDERAL OFFICERS

bust out, each clutching a handgun, SHOUTING inaudibly.

LOUIS:

F.B.I.! Get your face on the f***in'

floor! MOVE!

Carl startled, does an almost effeminate dip down to one

knee, but that knee is swept out from under him, slapping

him flat onto plywood where he is instantly frisked down by

the fence man who is wielding a 9 mm handgun. But the white

collar criminal is more stunned by the fact that --

Ray is walking across the floor with his hands in his pockets

over to the Mr. Coffee. He pours one, and adds some milk.

Turns and watches the bust while opening a packet of Sweet

n'Low.

RAY:

Slam dunk.

LOUIS:

Beauty. Beauty...

Ray rests his weight against the coffee station, takes a

careful sip. Carl is yanked to his feet by the fence man and

he stands there, looking at Ray, baffled. Completely shocked.

CARL:

Jesus Christ, Larry, what the fu--

Larry. That's not even your name, is

it? What's your real name, you f***ing

scumbag?

RAY:

Don't have one, Carl. I have a number,

man. Just like the numbers on those

treasury checks. You stole from your

own country, Carl. Shame on you.

Coffee in hand, Ray walks briskly toward the door.

LOUIS:

Sugar Ray.

Ray turns. Louis takes a few steps toward him, putting his

gun back in his waistband.

LOUIS:

They want ya Home. Upstairs wants to

see ya.

Ray stands frozen, holding the door knob, and digesting what

are apparently influential words.

LOUIS:

Make sure ya spell my name right.

Ray just stares for a moment. Then hurries out the door.

Carl, being arm-gripped by two agents and photographed like

a trout, gazes bewildered at the door.

CARL:

(incredulous)

We just spent four months together...

I thought he was my friend... what

the f***, man?

(even more incredulous)

He had dinner at my mother's.

CAMERA FLASHES at him, an agent on either side, striking a

natural pose.

EXT. J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING - ESTABLISHING - DAY

The huge, imposing, mausoleum-like Hoover building, bordered

by artificial turf, hemmed by cherry trees in blossom. Turning

out to be a nice day on Pennsylvania Avenue.

INT. FBI DIRECTOR'S CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY

8x10 BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOS dealt like cards onto a table,

one on top of another.

1 -- an aerial shot of some wasteland.

2 -- a closer bird's eye of the same, what looks like a NASA

photo of Mars.

3 -- a vast expanse of the Great Plains.

ROBERT F. TULLY, Number-Two-in-Command, deals a fourth photo

onto the table. He is an understated, fatherly man, well-

manicured in cotton pencil-striped shirt, white-tab collar

and tie. The photos and maps and files a foot deep on the

huge table are neatly organized.

INTERCOM:

SA Levoi, Sir.

TULLY:

Please.

Seated, at the far end of the table, engrossed in the deep

spread of information, SA (Special Agent) FRANK COUTURE is

about to break the record for longest single ash on the end

of a cigarette and the smoke forces his eyes into tight,

concentrating, slits. "COOCH" as they call him in the Bureau

has seen thirty years in some rough "provinces". He has

survived the Hoover era and is a legend in the Sessions era

but survival has honed an edge. An edge with a touch of ironic

cop humor.

Ray enters, walks into a firm shake.

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