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Oh, Jenny was in my acting class. |
Told you you wouldn't be able to see through that gate. |
Gate's open. I had a butcher's at the house. |
Who'd you butcher at the house? |
Butcher's hook. Look. I don't much reckon those minders of his. |
Huh? |
He's brought in the heavy mob. |
What? |
Extra muscle. Bodyguards. |
Has he? |
They look a right load of wallies. Patrolling back and forth outside the gate, all ponced up like the fuckin' Household Cavalry. Watch it. |
That was one of them? |
See what I mean? Wearing bloomin' uniforms n' all. |
What's so fucking funny? |
Those aren't guards. They're valets. |
Valets. What d'ya mean valets. What is he, then, the Earl of fucking Doncaster? |
<u>Valets</u>. They park cars. He's having a party. |
Valets, eh? Aren't we all ladeda. |
I thought you just wanted to check out the house, man. |
Well, that's what we're doin', n' it. |
No one else is even here yet. |
First in, first out, that's me. |
What are we standing on? |
Faith. |
Bring the motor around. Bang out in front, right? |
You goin' back inside? |
One thing I need. |
Steady on. |
You steady on, man. What the fuck else did you do back there. |
Why didn't you just kill him, you had the chance. |
That would be too easy. |
Too easy? |
He's gotta know why. |
You think a fuckin' guy like that ever will? What more do you want, man? |
I've been wondering something. |
Again? |
Do you have any friends, man? |
Yeah, I suppose. Call 'em that, yeah. Down the boozer Saturday night. Meet some of the lads. |
Useless gits. I was gonna do the Post Office once. |
What post office? |
The lot. The whole British bloody Post Office. I had a brilliant plan all worked out work of genius, it was. Could I get anybody interested? No they're too busy pinching orange squash from the milkman. Lazy sods. Jumble sale on in Watford, they'll be up at the crack of dawn. |
Man knows what he likes. |
Lookin' good. |
That's a highend item. Total reliability. |
What'd you call that the Protector? |
Yes, sir. Won't find a better CQC on the market. |
CQ what? |
Close Quarters Combat. Keep one in my own home. |
Oh really? Where you from? |
England. Only, we saw there was a show on, thought I might pick something up for a price, type of thing. |
You came to the right place, sir. My wife's second cousin is English. Well, ScotchIrish. Can I interest you in a holster? |
Just luck, this, really. Never been to one of these before. |
You're in gun country now, my friend. |
Been to the Boat Show. |
Packs a punch, but it's compact, has accessible features makes a nice concealedcarry piece. |
I can take care of the paperwork. |
Yeah? |
No problem. If <u>you</u> don't have a problem with me reporting this gun stolen. |
You broke last time. |
Let him break he likes to break. |
Fuck you. |
I wouldn't talk. |
Huh? |
I saw your mother on the Strip last night. She went up to three guys, said she'd like 'em to stick one in each, know what I mean? |
What. |
There's been some trouble downtown. |
What kind? |
What the papers used to call a "gangland slaying." |
Our black friends? |
No, Terry. They don't work like that. Jenny Wilson's father paid a little visit, left a message. |
I thought he was in prison, in England. |
Well, either they have a very liberal workrelease program, or he's out, because he's here in L.A., looking for you. |
You should have let me do the talking. |
Why, because you're my security consultant? This cocksucker nearly burnt my house down. |
What did you tell them. |
I mean, Gordon must weigh a good four hundred pounds. |
Heavier than that now. But are there any drugs in that stomach to back up your story. |
As it happens. I didn't make that part up. |
And where is this guest? Don't they want to interview him. |
I don't know everyone here. He was so traumatized he split. Maybe he was Gordon's <u>pusher</u>. |
Where do <u>you</u> think he is, Mike. |
We'll find him. |
No. I mean. Not even your people should be involved. Right? It's too close now. |
You could use a few of my prime shitkickers up here. |
You think I'm staying? |
There's already gonna be talk about how people close to you keep falling into canyons. |
Well, can we make it one more. Nowhere the fuck near me. |
Hey. |
Come over here. |
How they goin', kid? |
Not bad. |
How'd you like to kill someone for me? |
Okay. |
Same as last time the rest after. |
Where do we go? |
When you find the guy, you'll know. |
What shit is this. I just do it. I don't prepare it. |
I'll point you in the right direction, but you'll have to take it to the end zone. He's a hitandrun gunman I figure he's not cruising the Polo Lounge. |
This is unfucking professional. |
See, a successful man like me has limitations I lose touch at a street level. So I have to depend on a smart boy like you who's closer to the nitty and the gritty than I am. |
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