Ticker Page #7

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REILLY:

A what?

T.J.

IRA - instant retirement account.

GLASS:

I.R.A. device. Deadliest class of tickers in

existence. Computerized, multiple sensors,

booby traps, the works. First showed up in a

series of I.R.A. bombings in London couple

years ago. One of their boys tripped it on

himself and they went back to a less

complicated timers. The Girl, is she Irish?

REILLY:

She's not talking. But, she could be. So,

obviously, you've seen one of these devices

before?

GLASS:

Only once, at Redstone.

REILLY:

Where...?

T.J.

That's one more time than any of

the rest of us have seen it.

POOCH:

Sh*t. We're f***ed.

GLASS:

Relax, Pooch, it's just a ticker,

it's not personal.

T.J.

Let's face it, we all knew it would happen

sooner or later. The guy who can build a

mousetrap that's better than we are ...

BEV:

Stop it...

T.J.

(points to Reilly)

And what's he doing to help?

POOCH:

Shut up, T.J.!

BEV:

Be nice Pooch!

They all explode into a SHOUTING MATCH (except Glass who is

in his own world inspecting the microchip an inch from his

eyes). A moments mayhem until-

REILLY:

All of you, shut the f*** up!

They all go silent, stare at Reilly (except Glass).

REILLY (cont.)

No wonder the rest of the department doesn't

want to work with you. You're nothing but a

bunch of... punks.

Reilly walks out.

EXT. POLICE PARKING LOT - AFTERNOON

Reilly goes to his Studebaker, climbs in.

INT. STUDEBAKER

As he starts it up, the passenger door rips open. Glass

jumps in, slams the door, furious.

GLASS:

Nice performance back there. Where'd you

learn that, Mike Ditka Sensitivity Seminar?

REILLY:

Hey, look--

GLASS:

No you look, mister! First, you don't go

calling my men names. It's bad for morale.

Second, us "punks" happen to know a heck of

alot more about police work than any vice cop

ever did.

REILLY:

Oh yeah? Prove it.

GLASS:

(beat)

Drive.

Glass glares, a challenge. Glaring back, Reilly guns the

engine, screeches away.

EXT. ALLEY - AFTERNOON

The Studebaker rumbles up to the machine shop, parks in the

same haunting spot as the night before.

Glass and Reilly climb out of the car, flashlights in hand.

Reilly glances around, bad memories stirring up.

REILLY:

The place has already be combed. Forensics

pulled over a hundred sets of prints inside.

GLASS:

Then let's go see what they missed.

Pulling out a tool kit, Glass quickly picks the door lock,

yanks open the door, ducks inside. Reilly follows.

INT. MACHINE SHOP - AFTERNOON

Nearly pitch dark inside, shafts of late afternoon sunlight

glistens on the battered machines. Shadows wash over Reilly

and Glass as they retrace the path Reilly and Rice took the

night before, Glass searching intensely, Reilly getting more

and more uncomfortable.

GLASS:

So what were they doing here?

REILLY:

I don't know. You tell me?

GLASS:

An abandoned machine shop... nice place to

build devices. Low rent, too. But, you and

Rice ruined their perfect hideout.

REILLY:

You mentioned something called Redstone.

GLASS:

Redstone's the army training center in Alabama

where they send the cream of the crop to learn

about tickers.

REILLY:

Cream of the crop, huh? You?

GLASS:

(nods)

Top of my class at West Point, thank you very

much. Then off to Redstone. First half of

the course we learned how to build devices...

second half, we'd take them apart. Everything

from firecrackers to hydrogen bombs.

REILLY:

Sounds like terrorist heaven.

GLASS:

There were a few guys in my class with names

like John Smith, Bill Jones. I'd see them up

ahead in the hall, call their name, but they

wouldn't turn around. C.I.A. Funny thing,

they'd always disappear after the first half

of the course.

REILLY:

Just how easy is it to build a... device?

GLASS:

With a little training, you could go into a

house and just from stuff in the bathroom and

kitchen make something that'd finish off that

alleged car of yours. Heck, didn't you ever

watch MacGyver?

Reilly looks at Glass strangely until he realizes they've

stopped where Rice died.

GLASS (cont.)

So this is where it happened.

Reilly fights the memory... eyes well up, his hand trembles

ever so slightly as he points out...

REILLY:

Girl was here. The guy in charge was over

there with one of his men, the other one was

back there.

Glass gets down on his hands and knees, scans the floor.

Reilly talks to distract himself.

REILLY (cont.)

Bombers, what kettle of fish are

they?

GLASS:

Typical profile, usually losers, nobodies

that're afraid to confront their victims.

They like scaring people. That's why they

call in their threats. Same mentality as

obscene phone callers.

REILLY:

Except they'll blow you up if you

don't play along.

GLASS:

No, ninety-ninety percent of them are full of

baloney. They're into the power trip, not the

damage. What scares me is that this guy is so

sophisticated he could blow up whatever he

wants, then disappear. The worst of the

bunch, they love the challenge of creating the

wildest device ever... and they love the

carnage.

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