Ticker Page #5

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EARRING (cont.)

Last chance. You know, even the smallest

choices in life could change everything.

KNOCKOUT:

F*** off, pal.

Earring grins and shrugs an `oh well'. He slides off the

stool, steps back, and exits... leaving the briefcase behind.

EXT. BAR - DAY

Earring walks out and strolls off. He checks his watch,

picks up the pace. He disappears around a corner.

Cars pass. People stroll by. Nothing happens.

An ordinary scene on an ordinary day. The silence is

screaming.

Suddenly - the bar EXPLODES. A FIREBALL BURSTS OUT the front

window, showering the street with wood and BROKEN GLASS.

EXT. BAR - DAY - LATER

Chaotic aftermath of the bombing... sirens, flashing red

lights. Police hold back onlookers, Firemen clean up,

Paramedics carry corpses and moaning Victims out of the

charred, smoking ruins, into waiting ambulances.

A black-and-white tears up. Capt. Winters leaps out, pushes

through to a dirt-covered FIRE CHIEF.

FIRE CHIEF:

Eight dead, so far.

Winters looks grim.

AT THE BARRICADE

Reilly SCREECHES up in his Studebaker, jumps out, pushes

through, flashes his badge, enters the police zone.

He stops as he sees a bloody FEMALE VICTIM being loaded into

an ambulance. Suddenly a voice snaps him out of it.

PLUCHINSKY:

What're you doing here?

Reilly faces him.

PLUCHINSKY (cont.)

You're offsides. Beat it.

Reilly ignores them, starts towards the ruins. Pluchinsky

shoves him back.

PLUCHINSKY (cont.)

I said get the f*** outta here.

REILLY:

You touch me again and--

PLUCHINSKY:

And what, you'll shoot me? Hey, don't mistake

me for one of your partners, I'd like to make

retirement in one piece.

Pluchinsky starts to laugh as Reilly pops him once hard in

the face. Pluchinsky staggers backwards, grasping his

bleeding nose. Reilly is ready for more as Pluchinsky starts

at him. They exchange a few body shots before several cops

swarm in and pull them apart.

Winters hustles over.

WINTERS:

What the hell's going on?

PLUCHINSKY:

Son-of-a-b*tch... my nose... This f***-up is

interfering with-

WINTERS:

Reilly, what're you doing here?

REILLY:

Sir...

WINTERS:

I thought I told you--

GLASS (O.C.)

He's with us.

They all turn.

Glass and T.J. stand there, soot-smeared, wearing utility

belts.

GLASS (cont.)

We asked him to come.

T.J.

Yeah, he's helping us work up a profile on

this thing.

GLASS:

Hope you don't mind, Captain, might help us

catch these guys that much sooner.

(to Reilly)

Coming?

Reilly looks at the Captain awkwardly.

WINTERS:

Go ahead, kid.

Reilly marches after Glass and T.J., leaving Pluchinsky

fuming, holding closed his bloody nose.

PLUCHINSKY:

I'm filing charges against that mother-

WINTERS:

Can it, Pluchinsky. And shove some cotton up

your nose.

ANGLE - ON THE BOMB SQUAD

Reilly follows Glass and T.J., bewildered.

REILLY:

What was-? Why...?

GLASS:

That cop who bought it... you didn't

tell us he was your partner.

T.J.

We've lost brothers too, we know

what that's like.

GLASS:

Let's get something straight. We're doing you

a favor. You're not exactly a guy we want

around explosives.

REILLY:

What?

GLASS:

This isn't bumper cars, it's brain surgery.

You wanna work with us, you do it our way,

understand?

REILLY:

Now wait just a f***ing-

GLASS:

Be cool around my men, they don't trust

strangers. And try not to swear so much, it's

unattractive.

Reilly glares, tongue-tied, as they walk past the Bomb Squad

van and Glass' Harley, enter the wreckage.

INT. PUB - DAY

Smoky hell. Two Firemen drag out a fire hose. Glass, T.J.

and Reilly approach a taped-off area where Pooch is on his

hands and knees, wet and dirty as he searchs for clues.

Schnoz sits nearby, red ball in his mouth.

GLASS:

By the way, I'm Glass. This is T.J., and

Pooch.

REILLY:

Mike Reilly.

T.J.

(offering dirty hand)

Uh-huh...

Reilly avoids the hand.

POOCH:

That there's Schnoz, mascot and ace bomb

sniffer. Say hi, Schnozzie.

Schnoz ignores them, sniffing a charred beam in a corner.

T.J. points out burn patterns to Glass.

T.J.

Flame racer, partial P.C.L. See this wave

pattern? Definitely self-contained.

Pooch sniffs dirt, tastes it.

POOCH:

Nitro, dash of Semtrex, vegetable

oil ...

REILLY:

What kind of bomb was it?

T.J.

Device.

REILLY:

Huh?

GLASS:

We don't use the b-word. Bad luck.

REILLY:

So you're the "Device Squad"... and you defuse

"devices"?

GLASS:

Treat. We treat devices.

REILLY:

(amused)

Anything else I should know?

GLASS:

Don't push it, slick.

Schnoz whines and paws at something under the beam. They

scramble over.

T.J.

Pooch, can you move it?

POOCH:

I don't know...

Pooch positions himself like a weight-lifter preparing to

dead-lift. He growls as he strains to lift the beam out of

the way. Glass and T.J. jump in and go to work with

toothbrushes and tweezers.

As Reilly watches, fascinated, they uncover a scorched

fragment of a briefcase handle.

T.J.

Yes, baby, yes ...

Pooch throws Schnoz the red ball.

POOCH:

Good boy, Schnoz. Daddy loves you.

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