Burn Notice Transcripts
BURN NOTICE
1x01: Pilot
Original Airdate: 6/28/2007
Written by: Matt Nix
Directed by: Jace Alexander
Transcribed by Rahul and hosted by TVTDB.com
NOTE: The curly parentheses {} represent Michael's voiceovers.
FADE IN.
[Streets of Warri, Nigeria. Day. A jeep, with armed soldiers, drives by. In slow-motion, people go about their everyday lives.]
[Michael Westen, wearing Oliver Peoples' "Victory" red-tinted sunglasses and a grey suit, walks to the edge of a sidewalk. Quick flashes as he waits for someone there. People look at the curiously indifferent-looking white man standing there like he belongs. He stands patiently as people pass by around him. He checks his wristwatch and flaps his jacket lapels, trying to cool himself off.]
{Covert intelligence involves a lot of waiting around. Know what it's like being a spy?}
[He looks up at the sun, which beats down upon him mercilessly.]
{Like sitting in your dentist's reception area twenty-four hours a day. You read magazines, sip coffee, and every so often, someone tries to kill you.}
[He flashes a polite grin at a passer-by. A jeep pulls up, followed by a Mercedes Benz. Michael gets his game face on. A gun-toting, tough-looking Nigerian steps out of the car and motions to Michael.]
NIGERIAN HENCHMAN #1: In.
[Michael complies, flashing the thug a grin on his way inside the car. People watch as the white man enters the Merc. The car moves.]
[Inside the car, he sits squeezed between two burly Nigerian henchmen, one of whom (Henchman #2) has a handgun trained on him.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You know, Mercedes makes an SUV now. Big backseat. It's great. Surprisingly affordable, too.
NIGERIAN HENCHMAN #1: [to the Henchman #2, jerking his head at Mike] CIA.
[Michael smiles.]
{What do you say to that? "No"?}
[The Merc pulls up to the swanky Warri Grand Hotel.]
{Explain that a lot of spies don't work directly for the CIA?}
[Michael and the henchmen get out and walk up the front steps into the hotel.]
{Lot of good that'll do.}
CUT TO:
[Hotel Suite. Day. Upbeat music plays in the background. The henchmen usher him inside the suite, where other henchman stand guard over the boss. Michael walks in, smiling familiarly at the boss, who sits with a Nigerian beauty on the sofa. This is...]
BORIS
WANNABE WARLORD
[Boris smiles and gets up off the sofa and speaks to Michael.]
BORIS: Welcome. Mr. CIA.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [cheerily] No, no, no, no. I don't work for anybody directly. That's why I get to do stuff like give you $750,000 to stop blowing up oil refineries.
[Boris laughs loudly and Michael does the same. Boris claps him on the arm and moves to the couch, motioning for Michael to sit.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [to the other henchmen] Hi, hi. Hi, everybody.
[He sits on the couch opposite Boris, under the suspicious gaze of Henchman #1 and #2. The Nigerian beauty kisses Boris on the cheek and leaves. Michael moves his hand behind his jacket. Henchman #1 moves first, cocking his gun at Michael, while another has his hand on his sidearm.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Whoa, easy, guys, easy. Just getting the map.
[Boris motions for them to relax. Michael produces the map and calmly places it on the coffee-table between him and Boris. A portion of the map is circled in red.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You guarantee security for the Nembi oilfield. No fires, no explosions, nobody falls into a swamp and gets eaten by an alligator.
BORIS: You mean "crocodile."
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yes, that's what... I mean crocodile. We agreed?
BORIS: Da.
[Boris takes a small piece of paper and slides it across the coffee-table to Michael. Michael takes it. Boris prepares his laptop for the bank transfer. Michael stands.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [proclaiming] I'm now reaching into my jacket for my phone so I can get this man his money. Okay?
[He shows them the cell phone and moves away to speak privately on the phone.]
MAN: [from phone] Hello?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Yes, I have the wire-transfer information. The ABA number is 0210010175...
[The background music stops dead.]
MAN: [from phone] Stop. We got a burn notice on you. You're blacklisted.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [unsettled, into phone] Excuse me?
MAN: [from phone] I'm sorry.
[The line goes dead. Michael, his back to the gangsters, strives to stay poker-faced.]
BORIS: [standing, suspicious] Is there problem?
[Michael dials again.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, no problem. Computer mix-up. PC, Mac.
LADY: [from phone] Hello?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, low voice] Put your boss on the phone right now.
LADY: [from phone] I'm sorry. I can't help you.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, persistent] I have a wire-transfer number - 0210010...
[The line goes dead again. Michael, fully aware of the kind of danger he's in, lowers his cell phone. Closing his eyes, he steels himself. He turns around to face Boris, who looks suspiciously at him. Michael laughs, hoping Boris has a sense of humor.]
[Boris doesn't. In a short while, Michael is on the floor, in a fetal position, trying to absorb as many of the hard kicks the henchmen rain upon him. Fast-paced music plays.]
BORIS: [furiously] You CIA bastard! You think you can steal from me!
FREEZE-FRAME: [On Michael, squirming on the floor, as a henchman prepares to boot him.]
{Sometimes, the truth hurts.}
FREEZE-FRAME: [On Boris, cursing Michael.]
RESUME.
{In these situations, I recommend lying.}
MICHAEL WESTEN: [screaming out] I'm CIA! I'm C... I'm CIA! I've got the money!
BORIS: Enough, enough! Pick him up.
[The henchmen yank up a bruised and bloodied Michael up off the ground and hold him in front of Boris.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [breathing heavily] I've got the money. It's not here. I can take you to it, though. I was gonna steal... it and blame it on you guys. It's not personal, okay. That's just what I was gonna do. In twenty minutes, you'll have your money. I promise.
[He looks at Boris, hoping he falls for it. He does.]
BORIS: [placated] Take him.
[The henchmen drag him away.]
CUT TO:
[Hotel Lobby. Day. The elevator doors open and Henchmen #1 and #2 drag a hobbling Michael out into the lobby, towards the car. Michael looks sick.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [sounding hollow] I need the bathroom. I'm gonna be sick. I'm gonna...
[The henchmen ignore him.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [stops] Wait, wait!
[The henchmen stop walking, as he doubles over.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [drawling voice] I'm gonna be sick! I need the bathroom! I-I'm gonna be sick in the Mercedes, you understand?
[He spits out some blood, in the direction of Henchman #1, who recoils in disgust.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: In the Mercedes! Blood everywhere!
[The unsuspecting henchmen grab him and shove him towards the restroom.]
[Henchman #1 enters the restroom, making sure no one's inside. He goes inside to check it out, leaving Michael and Henchman #2 at the door. Michael suddenly elbows Henchman #2 in the face, making him recoil backwards. Michael pivots around and grabs him behind the neck.]
FREEZE-FRAME: [On Michael, grasping Henchman #2's neck.]
{In a fight, you have to be careful not to break the little bones in your hand on someone's face.}
RESUME.
[Michael yanks Henchman #2 and throws him hard against the opposite wall, knocking him unconscious. He sprints inside, where Henchman #1 is unaware of the fracas. He grabs hold of the turning henchman's gun and lands a hard chop into his throat, disorienting him. Then, he twists the gun away from him, snapping his arm. He grabs the now-disarmed henchman by his shirt and slams him into a mirror and then turns his attention (and Henchman #1's face) towards the urinals.]
{That's why I like bathrooms. Lots of hard surfaces.}
RESUME.
[He throws Henchman #1 into one the urinals, bouncing his head off the hard surface. Michael picks up Henchman #2's handgun and pulls back the slide, aiming it at Henchman #1.]
[Outside the restroom, two shots are heard. Michael, still looking beat up, walks unsteadily outside.]
[He walks to the hotel steps outside. Noticing a couple of Boris' henchmen talking at the foot of the steps, he walks carefully towards a guy, who's just getting off his motorcycle (more like a motocross bike). Michael pushes him off and gets on.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sorry. I'll leave it at the airport.
[He puts the helmet and his sunglasses on. The henchmen notice Michael, as he starts it, makes a U-turn and speeds away from the hotel. The henchmen scramble into the Mercedes Benz to give chase.]
HENCHMAN #3: Quick, quick!
[The car starts and drives out of the hotel courtyard.]
[Michael rides the bike through the narrow, shop-lined streets, causing people to jump out of the way. The car is right on his tail. One henchmen sticks his head (and gun) out of the car and opens fire at Michael.
{Southern Nigeria isn't my favorite place in the world.}
[The gunman misses Michael, but fortunately misses the clamoring pedestrians.]
{It's unstable, it's corrupt, and the people there eat a lot of terrible-smelling preserved fish.}
[He swerves round a few corners with the car in hot pursuit.]
{I will say this for Nigeria, though... It's the gun-running capital of Africa, and that makes it a bad place to drive a passenger sedan into a crowded market.}
[He swerves across a really tight corner (tight for a car, at least). The Merc slams into a shop and comes to a halt. The henchmen get out and start waving their weapons around, gesturing for the hawkers to get their wrecked goods out of the car's way. Suddenly, they become aware that the people outgun them ten-to-one.]
[Meanwhile, Michael drives onto the runway of the airport, where two soldiers gesture for him to stop. He gets off the bike and shows them his ticket and runs on board the flight.]
STEWARDESS: Right this way, sir.
[Grimacing in pain, he climbs the steps into the plane. Inside the small aircraft, he finds his seat and collapses into it, with a loud sigh. Weakly, he looks around, smiling feebly at someone nearby. His eyes slowly roll up.]
{If you're gonna collapse on a plane, I recommend business class. The seats are bigger if you start convulsing. Although once you pass out...
[MICHAEL'S POV: The stewardess calls the pilot, who speaks to him.]
PILOT: You okay? [waves his hand in front of Michael]
[Michael loses consciousness.]
{...it really doesn't matter.}
[The plane takes off.]
CUT TO:
[Motel. Day. Camera focuses on the exterior.]
CUT TO:
[Motel Room. Day. A lady's hand twirls Michael's driving licence. The camera pans to the bed nearby, where Michael sleeps, shirtless. The lady (quite a stunner), tired of waiting for him to awaken, starts to slowly move her foot towards him, playfully. She is...]
FIONA
THE EX-GIRLFRIEND
[She prods him with her foot. He grunts and wakes up.]
FIONA GLENANNE: [thick Irish accent] You're a lucky man. That many bruises, anyone would think you fell under a truck.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Fiona, what are you doing here?
FIONA GLENANNE: You've been out for a couple of days. The maid got curious, went through your stuff. [holding up his wallet] You still have me in your wallet as your emergency contact. [whispering] You take that out when you leave someone, you know.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'm flattered you came.
FIONA GLENANNE: Don't be. I needed to get out of New York anyway.
[He slowly and painfully pushes himself up, while she walks around.]
FIONA GLENANNE: Old associates sniffing around. And I wanted to try someplace sunny. And it sounded like you might die. I-I wanted to be there... at the end.
[She sits down near him.]
FIONA GLENANNE: To tell you what a bastard you were.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sunny? Where am I?
FIONA GLENANNE: Miami. Apparently you collapsed on the flight out of Nigeria.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Miami? Why am I here?
FIONA GLENANNE: Airline would only say they were instructed to fly you here.
MICHAEL WESTEN: "Instructed"? What does that mean?
FIONA GLENANNE: It's home, in a manner of speaking, isn't it? [mock-helpful] Oh, I called your mom.
[Michael doesn't seem to like that favor done by his bitter ex-girlfriend.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [monotone] My mother?
FIONA GLENANNE: Yeah, yeah, we had a lovely chat. She's thrilled you're home for Christmas.
[He stands slowly.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Home. I'm not home. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. I'm gonna... I'm gonna go.
FIONA GLENANNE: Leavin'?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [under his breath] Yeah.
FIONA GLENANNE: Yeah. You're good at that.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, it's just better if my mother and I aren't in the same hemisphere. Fiona, someone put a burn notice out on me.
[She seems genuinely surprised.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I gotta take care of this now. Or a few cracked ribs will be the least of my worries.
[He peers outside the window, through the blinds and sees a grey sedan, with two official-looking people inside.]
FIONA GLENANNE: Surveillance. Two-man team, FBI.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [asking nicely] Fi, why don't you go run interference for me?
[She dallies.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Please, Fi, c'mon. Make one of those scenes of yours. Bite one of them. Set the other on fire. Just do it in about ten minutes. I need to clean up.
[He goes to the bathroom.]
FIONA GLENANNE: [calling out] You'll owe me dinner.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Fine.
[She smiles.]
CUT TO:
[Beach. Day. Now cleaned up and dressed, Michael stands near a beach café. The beach teems with swimsuit-clad beach-goers.]
{Most people would be thrilled to be dumped in Miami. Sadly, I am not most people.
[Michael puts on his "Victory" sunglasses.]
{Spend a few years as a covert operative, and a sunny beach just looks like a vulnerable tactical position. No decent cover. I've never found a good way to hide a gun in a bathing suit.}
CUT TO:
[Chadwicke Hotel, Lobby/Reception. Day. Dressed in his grey suit, Michael walks up to the concierge.]
CONCIERGE: Welcome to the Chadwicke, sir.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [giving her his credit card] I need a room one, maybe two nights.
CONCIERGE: [checking her computer] We've got a tenth-floor suite with an ocean view.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Uhh, I don't want a view. Uh, facing a wall, something with no windows, if you have it. Far from the elevators, close to the exits... [smiling] if you have it.
[The concierge smiles back at him and checks her computer. The computer beeps and a message pops up on the monitor.]
CONCIERGE: Do you have another card? Uh, this one was declined.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [grinning, clenched teeth] Declined?
CUT TO:
[Bank. Day. Michael sits in front of a bank employee's desk, who looks at Michael's account information on his computer.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [staying calm] I-I don't care what the computer says. I want my money from my account.
BANK EMPLOYEE: [politely] I understand that, sir. I...
[Michael stares at him.]
BANK EMPLOYEE: Let me check with the manager.
[He gets up and walks over to his manager's desk nearby.]
{When a spy gets fired, he doesn't get a call from the lady in HR and a gold watch. They cut him off.}
[The bank employee speaks to the manager quietly. Michael glances at them and turns forward again.]
{They make sure he can never work again. They can't take away his skills or what's in his head, so they take away the resources that allow him to function. They burn him.}
[The bank employee returns and sits.]
BANK EMPLOYEE: All I know is the account is frozen.
[He types a few keys on his keyboard. On the monitor, "ACCOUNTS FROZEN Code 345G" is displayed.]
BANK EMPLOYEE: The code is government-related.
[Michael rolls his head in exasperation.]
BANK EMPLOYEE: If you care to discuss this with the police...
[He flashes a bright smile at Michael.]
CUT TO:
[Miami Sidewalk/Park. Day. Michael gets off a bus onto the sidewalk, checking his messages on his cell phone. He's frustrated that he has none. A bikini-clad girl, carrying plastic crownless summer caps, comes up to him.]
GIRL: [cheerily] Hey. Hi. Looks like you could use a free hat.
[She hands him a hat.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Uh, pay phone?
GIRL: Huh?
MICHAEL WESTEN: You put coins in, and then... [gesturing putting a coin in and picking up the receiver]
GIRL: Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Um... [looks around and sees one] Right over there.
[She points to one in the park.]
[At the payphone, Michael, wearing the cap, waits for someone to pick up. A lady answers.]
LADY: [from phone] Hello?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] I need to speak with Dan Siebels.
LADY: [from phone] I'm sorry. There's no one here by that name.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] He's my case officer. I need to speak with him.
[A kid, at a water fountain, watches him as he speaks.]
LADY: [from phone] Sir...
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, shortly] I know the protocol, I know you're just doing your job, but I don't have access to a secure line.
LADY: [from phone] I'm sorry, sir...
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, angry] This is Michael Westen. Just put Dan on the phone! He's my handler! I've worked with him for fifteen goddamn year...!
[He realizes that the kid is watching him curse.]
LADY: [from phone] Sir, there is no one here by that name.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sorry, kid. [into phone] Please, we trained together. Uh, uh, there's a Lucite plaque on his desk with a-a bullet hole in it. He drinks Sprite. He's a friend. I cannot express enough how urgent this is...
LADY: [from phone, interjecting] Sir, I can't help.
[She hangs up.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, yelling] No, no, don't hang up on... [clenched voice] me! You hung up...
[He places the receiver back. Looking at the kid, he yanks off the hat in frustration and walks off. The kid finds him funny.]
CUT TO:
[Beach. Day. Michael walks past other beach-goers.
{When you're being watched, what you need is contrast - a background that will make the surveillance stand out.}
[Shots of the Cavalier Hotel, the Cardozo Hotel, The Carlyle and Hotel Victor.]
{An FBI field office is full of guys in their forties.}
[Shot of the Avalon, where two suits come out, talking to each other.]
{At most South Beach business hotels, it would be tough to tell which middle-aged white guy was watching you.}
[The Miami Sands Motel. Teenagers in swimsuits and casuals dance and enjoy Spring Break at a motel. Michael stands outside, looking a bit too overdressed compared to the kids.]
{So you stay in the place where everyone is a jello shot away from alcohol poisoning. If you see someone who can walk a straight line, that's the fed.}
CUT TO:
[Motel Room. Day. Michael closes the curtains and sits on the bed, leafing quickly through the phone book. He dials a number. Outside, the party continues.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] In Miami. I need the address for SecuraCorp.
[He finds what he's looking for in the phone book - "Discounted Uniforms, Huge Selection". On the phone, the operator tells him the address.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Brickell Ave, South?
[He writes it down on the phone book. Suddenly, there's a loud rapping on the door. He looks up, warily.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Thanks.
[He hangs up and rips the page out of the phone book. Removing the top of the lamp and holding the stand as a weapon, he quickly opens the door. Two bikini-clad girls stand outside and laugh.]
SPRING-BREAK GIRL #1: Sorry, wrong room. C'mon.
[She starts to leave, but the other hangs back a second.
SPRING-BREAK GIRL #2: No, wait. He's kinda hot.
[But the first one pulls her away. Michael looks outside and shuts the door.]
CUT TO:
[The Miami Sands Motel. Day. He walks past the spring-breakers outside the motel. As he walks, a couple of kids on skateboards practise jumps. On the opposite side of the street is a bicycle cop. At the corner, he sees the same grey sedan he saw earlier. One of the feds is inside, while the other stands outside the car. Both watch him through their sunglasses. Michael turns to the skateboarding kids.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [beckoning] Kids, c'mere.
[The kids walk up to him.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [pointing to the bicycle cop] See that cop? I'll give you guys five bucks each if you go over and tell him that a man in that car over there [points to grey sedan] tried to make you sit on his lap. Can you do that?
[The kids looks at each other. One shakes his head. The other speaks.]
SKATEBOARD KID #1: Make it ten bucks each.
[Michael just his head forward in surprise.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [pulls out the money] Fifteen, but you split it.
[He holds out the money, The kids nod and go for it, but he yanks his arm back.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: For fifteen, I want tears.
SKATEBOARD KID #1: All right, dawg.
[They skateboard over to the cop, while Michael watches.]
[Soon, they tearfully speak to the outraged bicycle cop about the "perv" in the car. The infuriated cop strides up to the sedan, pissed.]
BICYCLE COP: [gesturing] Hey, you, come out of the car. [slapping the hood] C'mon.
[He opens the door and beckons for the fed to get out.]
BICYCLE COP: C'mon out. Get out of the car. C'mon.
[The confused fed (Agent Harris) gets out.]
AGENT HARRIS: Hey, hey, hey. Okay, Officer, uh, [looking at the cop's badge] Anderson. I'll get some ID for you.
[He puts his hand inside his suit. The cop grabs him, turns him around and pushes him up against the car.]
BICYCLE COP: Hey, no, no.
[The other fed (Agent Lane) walks up to save his partner.]
AGENT HARRIS: Come on! Whoa! Come on! Come on.
[Agent Lane explains to the cop who they are, completely unaware of Michael, who sits smilingly at the window of a bus that passes them by.]
CUT TO:
[Outside SecuraCorp building. Day. Michael looks at the building.]
CUT TO:
[SecuraCorp. Day. Michael, dressed as a delivery guy, stands in front of the security desk.]
FREEZE-FRAME: [Michael speaks to the security officer.]
{Need to go someplace you're not wanted?}
FREEZE-FRAME: [The security officer looks at him, hardly interested.]
{Any uniform store will sell you a messenger outfit.}
FREEZE-FRAME: [The security officer speaks on the phone.]
RESUME.
{And any messenger can get past a security desk.}
CUT TO:
[SecuraCorp, Office. Day. A lady sits at her chair, speaking to her secretary, Janet, on the phone. She is...]
LUCY
EX-SPY
LUCY: Show him in.
[She hangs up and resumes reading a file. Janet enters, followed by Messenger Mike, who keeps his head down, so that the cap visor blocks his face from her view. He gives Janet a thumbs up. Lucy looks up and sees Michael removing the cap and smiling familiarly at her. Calmly, she stands and speaks to Janet.]
LUCY: Janet, can you give us a minute?
[Janet leaves. Michael looks around and whistles, impressed.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Wow! What-an-office.
[Lucy walks towards the door.]
LUCY: [seriously] Michael, what are you doing here? You cannot be here.
MICHAEL WESTEN: You heard, then?
LUCY: Are you kidding? You've been flagged on every government list.
[She locks the door.]
LUCY: Why didn't you call me?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Would you have seen me if I did?
LUCY: 'Course not. Michael, you were always good at pissing people off, but this...
MICHAEL WESTEN: It's a mistake. It has to be. Just tell me what you've heard.
LUCY: I don't know the details. I just heard you were out. That's it.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [sharply] What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm just out?
LUCY: What'm I, your complaint hotline? It's what I heard.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Lucy, I'm broke. Bottom line, they trashed my credit, they froze my bank accounts. If I'm gonna figure this out, I need to put some money together.
LUCY: I don't have stacks of cash laying around, and even if I did, I...
MICHAEL WESTEN: [interrupting] Lucy.
LUCY: Michael.
[He smiles at her. She smiles, amused. He puts his arms up, hand facing downwards, like a dog begging.]
LUCY: [relenting] Michael. Okay, there may be something. I'll call Sam.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sam? Sam Axe? You still work with him?
[She sits at her desk, accessing her laptop.
LUCY: Not when I can avoid it. He's been drinking, sponging off of every rich divorcée in the greater Miami area. I throw him a job every now and then when he's between sugar mommies.
MICHAEL WESTEN: What's the job?
LUCY: Guy's an operation manager at an estate in Miami beach. Anyway, the place got robbed, and it looks like he's in some kind of trouble.
MICHAEL WESTEN: What kind of trouble?
LUCY: He didn't want to get into it. We talked price, guy's breaking open his piggy bank. I told him the job was a little small for us, but he sounded desperate, so I told him I'd keep my eyes open.
MICHAEL WESTEN: You're all heart.
LUCY: Do you want the job or not?
[Michael nods half-heartedly.]
LUCY: I'll call Sam.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Thank you, Lucy.
[She pulls out some money and hands it to him.]
LUCY: Get yourself cleaned up. New clothes. You look terrible.
[He looks at his uniform. She smiles.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You look good.
[He leaves.]
CUT TO:
[Café. Day. A bikini-clad hottie passes by a middle-aged chubby guy, who sits near the street, drinking a beer. He checks her out, in a borderline lecherous manner. She doesn't seem to mind at all. He is...]
SAM
THE BUDDY
SAM AXE: Don't go away.
[She smiles at him.]
SAM AXE: [babylike] Mama.
[Right in front of him sits Michael.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I assume you got word of my situation?
SAM AXE: You know spies. Bunch of bitchy little girls. Good news for you, I'm a drunk and a washout already, so I can talk to whoever I want, burned or no.
MICHAEL WESTEN: You hear anything else?
SAM AXE: Nobody tells me anything. I'm not exactly security-clearance material anymore.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Oh, Sam.
[The waitress comes up with their refills.]
SAM AXE: There she is! Keep 'em coming.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Look at the bright side. They wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Florida will do you some good. I've been here a year, and I gotta tell ya, I've never been better.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, I understand your main source of income is an allowance from a lawyer's wife.
SAM AXE: Hey, don't knock it. Free clothes, ocean-view apartment, and [low voice] an endless supply of little blue pills.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Speaking of apartments, you know a safe place I can stay? I been at a motel with the girls gone wild.
SAM AXE: I might know a guy. I'll make a call. How long you around?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Just long enough to put together some cash and track down this burn notice.
SAM AXE: Hey, so, this job tomorrow. You want to do the meeting, or you need me to come along and hold your hand?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [laughing] Yeah, I'll be fine, Sam.
[Sam chuckles and takes a swig of beer.]
CUT TO:
[Mansion. Day. Michael enters through the large gates into the plush courtyard. He checks out the place as he moves towards the front door.]
{With this much money, things get complicated.}
[He notices a couple of fancy sportscars.]
{Change a light bulb in a place like this, and a week later you're on a speedboat in the Cayman Islands with someone shooting at you.}
[He enters the house and goes towards the pool. The agitated client walks by the pool, shouting out instructions to the pool cleaner. He turns to Michael. He is...]
JAVIER
THE CARETAKER
JAVIER: [holding out his hand] Mr. Westen.
[Michael shakes his hand.]
JAVIER: I spoke to Lucy. Uh, she told me you do investigations or...
MICHAEL WESTEN: I do... [smiling] a lot of things.
[Javier takes some newspaper clippings out of a manila envelope and hands them to Michael. They start walking.]
JAVIER: Last month, there was a robbery. Twenty-two million in art, jewelry and antiques. It was... it was very bad.
[The headlines on the newspaper clippings:
"Local Developer Loses Millions in Art"
"POLICE INVESTIGATE ESTATE ROBBERY"
"Pyne Estate Robbed"
]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, looks like the police are into it. Says here they're talking to persons of interest.
[Javier stops walking and looks at Michael. Michael understands.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You're a person of interest.
JAVIER: The police asked me questions. When this happened, I was at home watching TV with my kid. The security code they used for the alarm is the master code - my code.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Ohh.
JAVIER: Besides supervise the staff, I set the shifts. It looks bad.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, that looks pretty bad.
JAVIER: I told the police, I worked there fifteen years. I would never do this. Mr. Pyne talked to them, said it wasn't me. They took my passport, told me not to travel. If they arrest me, my son, he's-he's eight years old. I'm all he has.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Right, yeah. So, "I'm desperate. Please don't make my son an orphan." Just so we're clear - you want me to figure out who ran off with twenty-two million dollars in stuff, catch the bad guys, clear your name, all for... What is it? Forty-five hundred dollars?
JAVIER: [correcting] Forty-six hundred dollars.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Oh, well, that's much better.
JAVIER: I'm sorry. I have nowhere else to turn. Please.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [relenting] I'm gonna see what I can do. I need to talk to your boss. Can I do that?
JAVIER: Yeah, yeah. Come on.
[Relieved that Michael has agreed to take the case, he leads Michael inside.]
CUT TO:
[Inside mansion. Day. Michael and Javier walk down a flight of stairs, with the owner of the mansion.]
THE RICH GUY: What are you, exactly, Mr. Westen? A private detective?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Oh, no, I wish. Nothing that official. No, I'm just a friend of a friend in town for a while. I thought I'd see if I can help.
THE RICH GUY: Oh, thank you. Javier's been with me for a number of years.
[He is...]
MR. PYNE
THE RICH GUY
GRAHAM PYNE: It kills me to see what he's going through.
MICHAEL WESTEN: What was stolen?
GRAHAM PYNE: Some jewelry, some artwork. Insured, but the artwork was irreplaceable. Impressionists, mostly. I had a Sisley, a Clausen, and some other works. Houses, landscapes. I'm in real estate, so I've got this thing for houses.
[He laughs at his joke. Michael laughs condescendingly. He follows Pyne through the mansion.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: And you're confident Javier had nothing to do with it?
GRAHAM PYNE: Oh, this is Miami. Any incident, and the police blame the nearest Cuban. Or Haitian.
[He stops at a safe and presses his right index finger on the fingerprint scanner.]
GRAHAM PYNE: You should have seen the way they were all over my gardeners.
[Michael notes the fingerprint scanner. Pyne opens the safe door.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: What about the security codes?
[Pyne throws some papers he had with him into the safe.]
GRAHAM PYNE: Oh, Lord knows. The police are looking into it. Y'know, to be honest, I'm just glad nobody was hurt.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Was there anyone unknown to you around. Guests? Any new business associates that came to the house?
GRAHAM PYNE: No, not that I can think of. Y'know, I went over all this with the police. You can talk to Vince if you want to. He takes care of my security.
CUT TO:
[Mansion Security Room. Day. Michael sits in front of the security desk, speaks to a sour-faced, tough-looking guy. CCTV monitors are visible behind the guy.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I just have a few questions, see if anyone missed anything.
[The man is...]
VINCENT
SECURITY
VINCENT: [deep, husky voice] We talked to the police.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I know, I don't mean to bother you. It would be a big help. Does Mr. Pyne have any enemies?
VINCENT: Anybody worth a hundred mil has enemies.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Which is why he hired a bodyguard, I mean, a... [points to Vince] head of security. I'm specifically talking about enemies that might rob his home, though.
VINCENT: We know who did this. Mr. Pyne has a soft spot for Javier.
[He stands up, almost in an intimidating manner.]
VINCENT: I don't. As far as I'm concerned, the sooner he's arrested, the better.
[Michael stares at him a beat.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, you've been a big help.
[Michael stands and leaves.]
CUT TO:
[Behind Nightclub. Day, Michael meets with a Russian guy about a place to stay. They walk towards the place.]
LANDLORD: Place is upstairs in the back. Rent is two hundred a month, and, uh...
MICHAEL WESTEN: If anyone finds out I'm there, I say I broke in. Sam told me.
[The "landlord" is...]
OLEG
THE LANDLORD
OLEG: It's not so easy to live in this place, you know. All night, club is [gesturing] boom-boom.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Fine, it's fine.
[Oleg opens a corrugated aluminum door and enters another part of the yard, followed by Michael. They stop at a flight of stairs.]
OLEG: But I think guy next door sells drugs to my customers. Make fight with people. Try to talk, he puts a gun in my face. Now, at home, I can deal with the "guv'nor". But here, with immigration, liquor license, it's big risk for me, yeah?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I can handle that.
OLEG: Good.
[He motions to Michael to climb the stairs.]
OLEG: The real Michael Westen, yes?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah.
OLEG: Back home, your story Russian intelligence tells to scare. They say you are one name for many people. Special operations team. They think one person cannot make so much problems.
[They reach the top, which leads to a door.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Nope. Just me.
[Oleg laughs and hands him the key. Michael says something to Oleg in Russian, pleasantly.]
OLEG: [impressed] Nice to meet you, Michael.
[He starts to walk down the stairs.]
OLEG: Is new world, yes?
[He laughs. Michael looks at him.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [softly] Yes.
[Michael unlocks the door and enters. He checks out the place. Cardboard cutouts of dancers stand against a wall. A couple of mattresses stand against another one. A stack of pillows lies on a stool. Michael's cell phone rings. He answers it.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, warily] Hello?
WOMAN'S VOICE: [from phone] Michael?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, surprised] Mom?
FREEZE-FRAME: [A nonplussed expression on Michael's face.]
{My mom would have been a great NSA communications operative.}
RESUME.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] How did you get this number?
MOM'S VOICE: [from phone] That's how you greet your mother? I got it from your girlfriend, Fiona.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, interrupting] Mom, what do you want?
[He pulls down the mattresses.]
MOM'S VOICE: [from phone] Were you gonna come and see me?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] I'm not gonna be in town that long, so I can't.
MOM'S VOICE: [from phone] Come now, then. You can drive me to the doctor.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] I don't even have a car, so I...
MOM'S VOICE: [from phone] Yeah. Well, you'll figure something out.
[Michael hangs up, a resigned look on his face.]
{Drop me in the middle of the Gobi desert.}
[Michael sits on the mattresses, holding a pillow in his hands. He smiles.]
{Bury me in a goddamn cave on the moon. And somehow, she'd find a way to call me and ask me for a favor.}
[Calmly, he smoothes out the pillow, then holds it to his face, trying to muffle out his frustrated yell.]
CUT TO:
[Road. Day. Michael drives in (someone else's) car.]
{I don't like stealing cars, but sometimes it's necessary. I have rules, though. I'll keep it clean. And if I take your car on a work day, I'll have it back by five.}
[In the passenger seat sits his chain-smoking mother, who lights another one up. She is...]
MADELINE
THE MOM
MADELINE WESTEN: Things have gone to hell since you left. Thank god you're back.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'm not back.
MADELINE WESTEN: You're here for the holidays, though. I mean, you're staying for Christmas...
MICHAEL WESTEN: Mom, don't smoke in the car, please. It's not mine. Please.
[Michael notices a car in the rear-view mirror.]
FREEZE_FRAME: Michael peers into the rear-view mirror.]
{Figuring out if a car is tailing you is mostly about driving like you're an idiot. You speed up, slow down, signal one way, turn the other.}
RESUME.
[Michael stops, his right indicator flashing. He moves to the left.]
{Of course, ideally, you're doing this without your mother in the car.}
[The car follows.]
MADELINE WESTEN: Michael, where are you going? The hospital is on 20th.
MICHAEL WESTEN: This is a shortcut. Mom, please do not smoke in the car.
[He snatches the cigarette from her and chucks it outside.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Do not smoke in the car.
[The car is right on their tail.]
MADELINE WESTEN: You know, you missed your father's funeral. By eight years.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, last time I talked to him, he said, [deep voice] "I'll see you in hell, boy." so I figured we had something on the books.
MADELINE WESTEN: Michael. The two of you were so much alike. I don't know why you had to antagonize him.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Mom, we were nothing alike. Everything I did antagonized him. Being alive antagonized him. Everything I did was a reason for him to slap me around.
[He swerves round another corner.]
MADELINE WESTEN: Michael, what are you doing?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Who's driving? You or me?
[He makes another quick left turn. The tail struggles to keep up, all pretense lost. Michael drives along an alleyway, while the tail drives parallel along another path.]
{Actually, losing a tail isn't about driving fast. A high-speed pursuit is just gonna land you on the six o'clock news. So you just keep driving like an idiot until the other guy makes a mistake.}
[Michael turns right onto the street. The tail is thwarted by a chin-link fence. He skids to a halt, while Michael drives away, tail-free. The occupants of the tail car get out, looking exasperated.]
{Again, all of this is easier without a passenger yelling at you for missing a decade's worth of Thanksgivings.}
MADELINE WESTEN: [choking up] You were the one that kept the family going. After you left, everything just fell apart.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I've been sending money. What about Nate?
MADELINE WESTEN: Don't get me started. Your brother is a mess. You really should go see him, Michael.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Maaa! I don't think it's a good idea for us to see each other.
MADELINE WESTEN: Well, I can't take care of him all by myself. I am sick! You know that I'm sick.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, what I know is that you've been treated for every disease known to man. I know this because I'm paying all the bills!
MADELINE WESTEN: Just because they can't find out what's wrong with me does not mean I'm not sick.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [interrupting] Mom, please. Please!
[They pull into the hospital.]
MADELINE WESTEN: You don't know, Michael.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Mother.
MADELINE WESTEN: I don't tell you everything that goes on.
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, mo... I don't need to know everything.
MADELINE WESTEN: Well...
MICHAEL WESTEN: Stop.
MADELINE WESTEN: What?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Stop. Zip.
MADELINE WESTEN: Mike...
MICHAEL WESTEN: Just...
[He pulls up to the hospital door.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [relieved] Look, we're here.
MADELINE WESTEN: [lighting another cigarette] Are you coming in?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [holding up his cell phone] No, I have to make a phone call, mom. I'm right behind you.
MADELINE WESTEN: Fine, Michael.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Okay, mom.
[She removes her seat belt and gets out of the car. Michael dials a number and waits for a response.]
LADY'S VOICE: [from phone] Hello?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Michael Westen for Dan Siebels.
LADY'S VOICE: [from phone] I'm sorry...
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Yeah, I know, I know, he doesn't exist. You tell him - from me - if he doesn't call me back, I will be in touch with him soon.
[He hangs up. His exasperation almost reaching a boiling point, he makes a strangling gesture to where his mother sat a few moments ago.]
CUT TO:
[Outside Oleg's Nightclub. Night. A valet opens the door of a Hummer-Limo and helps out a young hottie in a really skimpy dress. She's not out of place though, as many others there are dressed to party. People queue up outside the nightclub, while bouncers keep the people behind the velvet rope. Michael, in a plain T-shirt and worn jeans, carrying a paper bag, walks towards the head of the line. A bouncer opens the rope for him to pass.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [to the partygoers] Sorry, I'm, uh... I just... I'm not...
[The partygoers give him room to pass through. He pushes the large corrugated aluminum door open and heads inside.]
CUT TO:
[Michael's Loft. Night. Michael works on something that resembles a pipe-bomb, while hip-hop music plays in the background.]
{Sleep through an aerial bombing or two and noise isn't an issue. You just need some privacy and a bed. In a pinch, you can lose the bed. But the privacy is important for projects like this one. With everyone x-raying and chemical-testing their mail these days, a box of wire and pipe and batteries sprinkled with chemical fertilizer is a great attention-getter.}
[He places the "bomb" into a cardboard box. He fills out a Bill of Lading and signs it out to "Dan Siebels, FBI, 14K Street, Washington DC".]
CUT TO:
[Miami Skyline. Night/Day. The sun rises.]
CUT TO:
[Javier's House. Day. Javier opens his door. Michael stands there, wearing his "Victory" sunglasses.]
JAVIER: [shaking his hand gratefully] Hey. Thanks for coming. Come on in. You want some coffee?
[Javier, in his enthusiasm, almost yanks Michael inside.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, no.
JAVIER: It's not a problem. I made some just fresh. Sit down, sit down.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I just wanted to talk about...
JAVIER: This is my son, David. David, say "Hi".
[Javier goes to the kitchen to get some coffee, leaving Michael alone with his ten-year-old. David looks up at Michael.]
DAVID: Hi.
[He looks back down to his coloring book. Michael extracts some toy he sat on and plops it on the coffee table. He removes his sunglasses and looks awkwardly at David.]
DAVID: Are you a soldier?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Uh... No. Sorta.
DAVID: My dad says you're here to help us.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, I might be. I just need to talk to your dad about some money first.
DAVID: Then are you gonna shoot the people that robbed Mr. Pyne?
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, no. That shouldn't be necessary.
DAVID: What if they shoot at you?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, in that case, it would be necessary, so yeah.
[Javier steps back in, carrying two small cups of coffee.]
JAVIER: Okay. David, go play.
DAVID: I can play here.
JAVIER: In your room.
DAVID: [to Michael] Want to see my room?
[Michael frowns confused.]
JAVIER: David, go.
[Reluctantly, David leaves.]
JAVIER: [to Michael] I'm sorry.
[He places the coffee on the coffee table in front of Michael.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: It's fine.
JAVIER: So, will you help?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'll need half the money up front. I don't know, twenty-three hundred doll...
[He doesn't finish his sentence. Javier pulls out a bunch of bills and holds them fanned out in front of Michael.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [holding a finger up] Okay, wait. Wait. I need you to know something. I'll follow this wherever it leads. I finish what I start. We do it my way. No questions. Got it?
[Javier smiles. He picks up Michael's hand and puts the money in it.]
JAVIER: [sincerely] Thank you.
CUT TO:
[Beach. Day. Two people water-ski. A beach volleyball game is underway. Three bikini-clad ladies run towards the water.]
CUT TO:
[Hotel, Poolside. Day. Sam reclines on a lawn chair, in his swimming trunks, taking in the sun.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Working hard?
SAM AXE: [sniggers] Tanning is an art and a science, Mike. Hey, you want something to drink? They got guys here, they'll bring you whatever you want.
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, I'm fine.
[He sits, taking off his sunglasses.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: So, what have you found out about Pyne's hired gun?
[Sam sits upright, drink in hand.]
SAM AXE: Well, he washed out of the Rangers after a couple years. Then he went to work for some private military outfit in Iraq, some kind of meathead mercenary sort of thing. Any progress with the job?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I checked the estate's security logs. Nothing there.
SAM AXE: So it's the hard way, then.
MICHAEL WESTEN: The best angle is the art. I find the buyer, I'll work my way back to who pulled off the job. [stands]
SAM AXE: Well, how you gonna do that?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I need you to set up a meeting with me and Barry.
SAM AXE: Can do.
[Michael leaves.]
CUT TO:
[Bar. Day. The bartender places two cups on the counter - one a regular-sized paper cup and the other a smaller plastic cup. Michael picks up the paper cup, smells it and drinks.]
{Whether you're a coke dealer, a thief, an arms dealer, or a spy, you need someone to clean your money. Which makes a good money launderer the closest thing you can get to a yellow pages for criminals.}
[A chubby middle-aged guy with a salt-and-pepper French beard, wearing gold earrings and a nose ring, walks up. He is...]
BARRY
THE LAUNDERER
[Barry smiles familiarly at Michael and sits next to him at the counter.]
{Even better, a money launderer will always take your phone call, burn notice or no burn notice.}
BARRY: Good to see you. I've heard about your troubles.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, well, I'm working on it. Thanks for coming, Barry.
BARRY: I'm in the service industry. That's what I do - I help. So, what you need?
MICHAEL WESTEN: An art dealer.
BARRY: No, no, no, no. Art's a bad place to park money these days. IRS is all over the place. Plus, some schmuck in New York says the wrong thing, take a bath. How about stamps? Nice and portable. Coins. Got this guy who does coins. All cash.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Has to be art. Need someone to find me a piece that's not on the regular market.
BARRY: [chuckles, understanding] Hot paintings. I might know someone. Uhhh, nobody gets hurt?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Nobody you care about.
[Barry chuckles and writes something down on a paper tissue.]
BARRY: Just remember who still helped you when you were down. Me, Barry... That's who. I gave you love. You remember?
[He passes the tissue Michael, who takes it and gets up to leave.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'll remember.
[Michael leaves.]
BARRY: [calling the bartender] Oye, Martine.
CUT TO:
[Nightclub. Night. Loud party music plays. Partygoers line up at the nightclub. Michael comes up, trying to get past.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Excuse me. I'm just...
[He walks past them and enters the other side. On the steps leading to his place, two partygoers make out. Michael clears his throat loudly, signaling his presence and annoyance.]
MALE PARTYGOER: Sorry, man, uh, we were waiting on Sugar and got carried away.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sugar?
MALE PARTYGOER: Yeah, I don't know his real name, but, uh, he usually hooks us up. We wanted to score some "E". Are you the new guy?
[He pulls out his wallet.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [coolly] Leave. Now.
[The guy knows not to argue and leads his girlfriend out.]
CUT TO:
[Miami Skyline. Day. It's a new day. The sun is up. Seagulls chirp.]
CUT TO:
[Michael's Loft. Day. The cell phone rings, waking up Michael, who drowsily answers it.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Mom, what is it?
MAN'S VOICE: [from phone, not sounding happy] This isn't your mom.
[Michael sits upright in bed quickly.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Dan. Dan, hey, hey, good to hear from you. I thought you lost my number.
INTERCUT WITH:
[FBI Headquarters, Dan's desk. Day. Just as Michael previously mentioned, there is a Lucite plaque on the desk, with a pen shoved through the bullet hole. Dan Siebels looks at the decoy bomb, while speaking to Michael through the speakerphone.]
DAN SIEBELS: Just spent three hours with the FBI, discussing your little present. They wondered why someone was sending me a pipe bomb with no explosive in it.
[He is...]
DAN
THE HANDLER
MICHAEL WESTEN: [from phone] I thought it'd get your attention. So tell me what's going on.
DAN SIEBELS: [from phone] I don't know. Burn notice is eyes-only. For what it's worth, I think it's bull, but I don't control these things.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Well, tell me who to talk to or I'm coming to DC and raising some hell.
SPLIT-SCREEN: Michael on the left, Dan on the right.
DAN SIEBELS: Don't do that, Michael. You're on all the FBI watch lists. You go anywhere, they're all over you.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone, irritated] What for?
DAN SIEBELS: All I know is that whoever did this wants you on ice. You leave Miami, you heat up fast. We're talking manhunt, police in every state. Things may change, but for now, be smart. Lay low.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Can I at least see the burn notice? If I could see who issued it, then maybe I can do something about this.
DAN SIEBELS: I risked enough just calling. Look, some of us are still on your side. You pull another stunt like this, though, and I won't be one of them.
[Dan hangs up. He inspects the "bomb". Something pops out, giving him a start. Michael hangs up and closes his eyes, trying to reduce his frustration.]
CUT TO:
[Outside Michael's Loft. Day. Michael comes outside. As he descends the stairs, he notices a handsome dude, with short platinum-blonde hair walking up to him.]
DUDE: [friendly tone] What's up, bro? You new around here?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah.
[The dude is...]
SUGAR
THE DRUG DEALER
SUGAR: Well, my name is Sugar. And I, uh, heard you messed with some of my friends last night.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I asked a few of your customers to get out of here, yeah.
SUGAR: [getting in Michael's face, hostile] What's your problem?
MICHAEL WESTEN: My problem right now is a pretty-boy drug dealer with a bad dye job that's standing in my way.
[Michael tries to get past him, but Sugar puts his hand on Michael's right side. Michael doubles over in pain.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Ohh!
SUGAR: [cockily] Whoa, did I hurt you, bro?
FREEZE-FRAME: [Michael grimacing in pain.]
{Doesn't matter how much training you have. A broken rib is a broken rib.}
RESUME.
[Sugar props Michael up and grips his shoulders.]
SUGAR: Don't start fights you can't finish, bro!
[Big mistake. With his right hand, Michael grabs Sugar's right hand and twists it painfully, forcing Sugar into a crouch.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [calmly] I'll break it. I don't want to, but I will if I have to.
SUGAR: All right! All right! All right! Let go! Let go! Let go!
[Releasing the hold coolly, Michael walks off. Sugar sits on the ground, nursing his arm.]
CUT TO:
[Beach. Day. Swimsuit-clad people walk or run on the beach.]
CUT TO:
[Exterior, Walter's Office. Day.]
CUT TO:
[Walter's Office. Day. A preppy-looking middle-aged man (with a pink sweater draped around his shoulders) walks inside thee office.]
PREPPY GUY: You come highly recommended, Mr. Westen. What are you interested in...
[He is...]
WALTER
THE ART DEALER
WALTER: ... specifically?
[Michael follows him inside.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: British post-impressionists. Sisley, Steer. [pointing at something off-screen] That's nice.
WALTER: We don't see much of that. Most specialty stock is out of the east these days. Iraqi antiquities, Russian icons. Although that's mostly forged garbage. I can get you some French impressionists.
[Walter sits behind his desk. Michael sits down on one of the designer seats in front of the desk.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: My collection is mostly focused on the Camden town group.
[He leans back, almost causing the chair to topple over. He steadies himself awkwardly.]
WALTER: [impressed] Very nice. I wish I had something. [remembering] Several pieces were on the market about six months ago. There was a Sisley and several Clausens. Although, it didn't sell.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Really? Do you remember who?
WALTER: Oh, I don't remember the name. One of these condo developers that are everywhere these days. But, during the impressionist bubble in the '90s, he went to all the major dealers, wanted to dump it. It was all very discreet, but... [whispering, making a "chattering" motion with his hand] people talk.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [intrigued] Really? What happened?
WALTER: Nobody was interested is what happened. Not at his price. [leans forward, quietly] I'm sorry I can't help, but...
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, no, no. You... you have been very helpful. Thank you.
[Walter smiles.]
WALTER: I do have some Greco-Roman nude wrestling statues you might like to take a look at.
[An ambiguous smile on his face, Michael laughs, humoring Walter.]
CUT TO:
[Miami Clubs. Night.]
CUT TO:
[Pyne Mansion. Night. Outside, Michael (dressed in a navy-blue shirt and jeans) steps out of the bushes, towards the mansion.]
{I never run around in the bushes in a ski mask when I'm breaking in someplace.}
[Looking at a notepad, he punches in a combination in the door keypad. He opens the now-unlocked door and goes inside.]
{Somebody catches you, what're you gonna say?}
[Inside the mansion, he walks into the kitchen.]
{You want to look like a legitimate visitor until the very last minute. If you can't look legit, confused works almost as well.}
[He opens the refrigerator and takes out a tub of yogurt.]
{Maybe get a soda from the fridge or a yogurt.}
[Eating the yogurt, he walks through the place, towards Pyne's study.]
{If you're caught, you just act confused and apologize like crazy for taking the yogurt. Nothing could be more innocent.}
[He reaches the cabinet with the safe. Placing the yogurt on the shelf above the cabinet, he kneels in front of it and opens the cabinet doors. Focusing his flashlight on the safe, he scribbles a pencil hard on the notepad and blows the graphite dust on the fingerprint scanner.]
{Cracking an old-school safe is pretty tough, but modern high-tech security makes it much easier.}
[He then extracts a plastic "thumb" from a small case and presses onto the scanner.]
{Thing is, nobody wipes off a fingerprint scanner after they use it, so what's left on the scanner nine times out of ten is a fingerprint.}
[Not lucky first time, he tries again. This time, he rubs the graphite dust onto the scanner (off the notepad page). He tries the "thumb" again and voila, three quick beeps and he's in! He opens the safe and pulls out some currency wads. Leaving them inside, he takes out only what he's interested in - a bunch of files. He peruses a few and snaps some quick pictures of their contents with his cell phone camera. Most notable are a contract and an insurance form (Western Equitable Insurance Company).]
FADE TO:
[Javier's Street/House. Day. A kid cycles past Michael on the wet road. Michael walks towards Javier's house.]
{Fighting for the little guy is for suckers. We all do it once in a while, but the trick is to get in and out quickly without getting involved.}
[He stops in front of Javier's door and hesitates before knocking.]
{That's one trick I never really mastered.}
[He knocks.]
[In Javier's kitchen, Javier delicately cuts a carrot in half, lengthwise. Michael stands nearby. David draws something in the next room.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Javier? Javier?
JAVIER: [looks at Michael] You want some cereal?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [impatiently] No.
JAVIER: All I got is the one with the little marshmallow guys, but it's good. It's David's favorite.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Don't worry about that. I just want to talk to you before you go to work.
JAVIER: [nervous] What is it? Is it something wrong?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah. Basically, your boss sold you out. He robbed his own house, probably had Vince do the actual job. Bottomline is, he collects the insurance, and you're the fall guy.
JAVIER: [in disbelief] Mr. Pyne? No, he wouldn't. He talked to the police for me.
MICHAEL WESTEN: So what? That just makes it easier for him to collect on the insurance. You're a trusted employee. He had no idea. Take a look at this.
[He hands Javier the pictures he took. Javier weakly looks at the pictures and walks around.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Half his real-estate projects are just paper. Empty lots he paid a loan officer to sign off on. He borrowed against those to finance other deals, but with the market cooling, he's bleeding money, and the art is all he has. Without the insurance payout, it all comes crashing down.
JAVIER: [resigned] What do I do?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, you could go to jail. Ten years, give or take. You could run. Statute of limitations is about twenty years. Or you could fight back.
JAVIER: Fight back?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Pyne doesn't want any of this to get out. As long as we have this information, we have leverage.
JAVIER: But what do I do? I don't know...
MICHAEL WESTEN: [reassuring] I'll handle the details. But it could get dangerous. People do bad things when this much money is on the line.
JAVIER: [shaking his head] Money...
MICHAEL WESTEN: Don't worry about the money. You want to do this or not?
[Javier nods.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You're not going to work today or ever again. I'm gonna go talk to Pyne. But be prepared. This could get sketchy.
[Gathering his jacket, he starts to walk out, passing by David in the next room. David jumps up.]
DAVID: Hey.
[He hands Michael a drawing he just did. It's a rather macabre one - of Michael spraying some unfortunate soul with a lot of bullets.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You really want me to shoot someone, don't you?
[With a smile, David nods.]
CUT TO:
[Pyne Mansion, Poolside. Day. A swimsuit-clad lady gets out of the pool. She sashays over to the table, past the imposing Vince, where Pyne and Michael sit. Collecting her towel, she kisses Pyne on the cheek and walks away. Pyne eats breakfast.]
GRAHAM PYNE: So, Mr. Westen, what can I do for you?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I just wanted to update you. Fortunately, I think we can be pretty sure that Javier had nothing to do with the robbery.
GRAHAM PYNE: Have you spoken to the police?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'm not sure you want me to do that. Take a look at this. I think this points pretty clearly to, um, some other suspects.
[He places the pictures on the table. Pyne looks at them. His calm demeanor evaporates immediately.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I think this points pretty clearly to, um, some other suspects.
GRAHAM PYNE: Where'd you get this?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I found it in the course of my investigation. Cops might find it, too, if, say, Javier was arrested. I'm guessing that's something you'd want to avoid. [gesturing to Vince and Pyne] Well, you two have a lot to talk about. I know my way out.
[As he passes Vince...]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Does that shirt come in men's?
[He leaves. Irate, Pyne slaps the pictures down on the table and looks at Vince. Vince looks just as clueless.]
[As Michael heads outside, he hears Pyne's voice booming in the background.]
GRAHAM PYNE: [vo, mad] You're head of my security! Well, it's your job, damn it!
[Michael smiles in satisfaction as he makes his way towards the gate.]
{Powerful people don't like being pushed around. You can never quite predict what they're going to do.}
[Michael looks at Vince's car as he passes it. It has an "Army Rangers" sticker on it.]
{Or have their washed-out special-forces security guys do.}
[He walks outside.]
{The point is, blackmail is a little like owning a pitbull. It might protect you, or it might bite your hand off.
CUT TO:
[Beachside. Day. Michael steps up to a cart, selling electronic goods.]
{That's why it pays to make sure you know what they're thinking, and that means eavesdropping.}
[A pretty, young, eager-to-impress girl jumps up.]
EAGER GIRL: Hi, can I help you?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, I need two of these.
[He picks up a cell phone (costing $139.95).]
MICHAEL WESTEN: And your cheapest phone. That one?
[He motions to a pink little cell phone.]
EAGER GIRL: Oh, the "Hello, Sweetheart". Is it for your little girl?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [straightaway] No.
[The girl looks a bit suspicious. Michael looks at the pink cell phone.]]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Oh, the "Hello, Sweetheart". Yeah, that's fine.
[The girl smiles and starts to bill him, though still suspicious.]
CUT TO:
[Michael's Loft. Evening. Michael sits at his work-table, soldering something.]
{To build a listening device, you need a crappy phone with a mike that picks up everything.}
[He joins the costlier phone to the pink one. He tapes all three phones together.
{But you want the battery power and circuits of a better phone. It's a trick you learn when the purchasing office won't spring for a bug.}
[He dials a number on his cell phone. The "listening device" phone beeps once and a red LED blinks.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Hello, sweetheart.
CUT TO:
[Miami Skyline. Day/Night. The sun sets.]
FADE TO:
[Chinese Restaurant. Night. Michael treats Fiona to dinner, as per their deal.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: So, Sam and I are gonna plant the bug tomorrow so we can listen in on Pyne. Fi, I wanna ask you, um...
FIONA GLENANNE: [mouth full, licking her chopsticks] Yeah?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I need someone to track him, provide a little tactical support.
FIONA GLENANNE: Sure. It'll be just like the old days. That sounds like fun.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Glad you think so. I haven't worked so hard for so little money since Afghanistan. [winces at the memory] Afghanistan. But at least there, my mother wasn't calling me thirty times a day. [annoyed] Thank you for giving her my number.
FIONA GLENANNE: You're welcome. Any thoughts as to why you're so unpopular? Why didn't they just kill ya?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I might be a lesson, a warning. Maybe somebody wants to offer me a job, but they want me desperate before they make the offer. It could be a lot of things. I don't know.
FIONA GLENANNE: It'll be good for you to stay in one place, resolve some issues.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, I travel halfway across the world to get away from those.
FIONA GLENANNE: My point exactly. Maybe if you stop running, you can maintain a normal relationship.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Listen, Fi, there's a few things I'm good at. Tactical analysis, hand-to-hand combat, I'm a decent cook. [chuckling] But relationships - they're just not my thing. They never were.
FIONA GLENANNE: Well, now you're in Miami. Get yourself a twenty-four-year-old with big, fake tits.
MICHAEL WESTEN: They bore me.
[He looks at her. She notices the look.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: If it makes you feel any better. You were the closest... I ever got. It-it just wasn't close enough, I guess.
FIONA GLENANNE: Things could have worked out with us, Michael.
MICHAEL WESTEN: You were robbing banks for the IRA.
FIONA GLENANNE: A spy... is just a criminal... with a government paycheck. You're the one with two FBI agents watching him eat.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Three. [motions to the right with his eyes] One.
[Fiona looks carefully to her left and sees a grey-haired man at a table.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [looking to the right, a little father] Two.
[She looks at a tough-looking guy at a table.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Behind me at the bar.
[She sees a lady standing at the bar.]
FIONA GLENANNE: Bravo. [almost meaning it] Shall we shoot them?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I've got enough problems.
FIONA GLENANNE: [holding up a bottle] Oh well, more saké, then?
[He unscrews the lid off the bottle and starts pouring the saké into Michael's glass, as he holds it up. She keeps pouring it, looking at Michael to "just say when".]
MICHAEL WESTEN: When.
[She keeps pouring, causing the liquor to spill on his hand.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: When, Fi. When. When.
FIONA GLENANNE: [innocently] What? What?
CUT TO:
[Outside Michael's Loft. Night. Michael and Fiona enter, past the aluminum door. The tough Irishwoman is surprisingly wasted.]
FIONA GLENANNE: [drawling] I can't shag a man who works in a bank.
[Michael shuts the aluminum door.]
FIONA GLENANNE: The end.
MICHAEL WESTEN: He was rich, he's handsome, and you broke up with him.
[She lets her hair loose.]
FIONA GLENANNE: He had no tactical awareness.
[She kisses him.]
FIONA GLENANNE: He didn't know how to shoot. [half-kisses him] He didn't know how many exits were in a building. [grabbing him in an embrace] Oh, God! You spoil me, Michael.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I thought it was my winning smile.
[They start to kiss. The sound of a gun being cocked breaks the moment.]
THUG: Don't move.
[A brawny thug holds a gun at them, gangsta-style (ninety degree angle). Fiona's back is to him.]
THUG: Sugar wants you out.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [re: Fiona] She has nothing to do with this.
THUG: Shut up.
FIONA GLENANNE: He's right. [covering Michael's mouth] Michael, shut up.
[Smiling, she turns to the thug.]
FIONA GLENANNE: I can handle meself.
[Licking her lips, she draws close to the thug. The unsuspecting thug smiles in anticipation. Then, WHAM! Twisting away his weapon arm, she head-butts him in the jaw hard. With a pained grunt, the thug drops to his knees. Wrenching the firearm from his grasp, she slugs him in the face with it, rendering him unconscious. Michael, who didn't even flinch previously, is now genuinely nervous of a drunk and armed Fiona.]
FIONA GLENANNE: You really ought to do something about your neighbors.
[She hands him the gun calmly.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I know, I know.
[She starts climbing the stairs to Michael's digs.]
FIONA GLENANNE: Fun.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah.
FIONA GLENANNE: [starting to ascend the stairs] Shall we?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yo, Fi, Fi.
[She stops, her smile fading.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [reluctantly] Violence is foreplay for you. It's not for me. [gesturing at the unconscious thug] I gotta take care of this, and then I gotta go to bed.
[Upset, Fiona slowly comes down, not looking at him.]
FIONA GLENANNE: 'Night. See you tomorrow.
[She walks towards the door.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [calling after her] Fi, you know, I could...
[Wordlessly, she slams the door after her.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [nods wryly] That went well.
CUT TO:
[Miami Street. Day. Michael walks on the street, speaking to Sam on his cell phone.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Yeah, Sam.
SAM AXE: [from phone] You'll like this. I found out Vince is calling all his army buddies, trying to figure out who you are.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [chuckles, into phone] Yeah, good luck with that. I don't even know.
SAM AXE: [from phone] I'll have them feed him something, hold him off.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Well, stay on it. I have a little home-improvement project I have to do.
[Hanging up, he enters a store named Ellis Hardware (Ferreteria).]
CUT TO:
[Ellis Hardware. Day. Michael starts shopping for the "home-improvement project". He picks a wallboard saw, a pair of utility gloves, a 2-function wall scanner, duct tape, a bag and a packet of elastic bandage.]
{Once somebody sends a guy with a gun after you, things are only going to get worse.}
[He steps out of the store, carrying a large paper bag, filled with his purchases.]
{But like it or not, you've got work to do.}
[He walks away.]
CUT TO:
[Outside Sugar's Place. Day. Sugar's place is below Michael's. Michael walks up to it and checks out the door.]
{For a job like getting rid of the drug dealer next door, I'll take a hardware store over a gun any day.}
[He extracts the wall scanner from the bag and puts the scanner to the wall near the door. He moves it slowly along the wall, till it beeps. He then duct-tapes that part of the wall (to mark it).
{Guns make you stupid. Better to fight your wars with duct tape. Duct tape makes you smart.}
[Collecting his gear, he leaves. He walks around the building to the other side, wearing the utility gloves. Using an electric screwdriver, he extracts the screws holding the corrugated aluminum walls together. He places the extracted wall aside and, using a blade, he cuts a hole in the plaster.]
[Done, he returns to Sugar's door and knocks.]
{Every decent punk has a bulletproof door.}
[Stepping aside, he takes the thug's gun out from the bag and cocks it.]
SUGAR: [brusquely] Who's there?
[Brandishing the gun and a metal canister, he moves to the marked wall.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [pleasantly] Hi. It's your neighbor.
{But people forget walls are just plaster.}
[Putting the gun into the metal canister, he fires downwards into the wall (near the door). A muffled report and a hole in the plaster are the result.]
{Hopefully, you get him with the first shot.}
[He fires again.]
{Or the second.}
[Paydirt! Sugar starts screaming loudly inside.]
SUGAR: Aargh! My knee! Aaaarrgh!
[Michael packs the gun and walks away from the door.]
[Inside Sugar's place, fast-paced music plays as Sugar sits on the ground, a bullet wound in the right knee. Enraged despite the agony, he holds his gun at the door, waiting for Michael to enter.]
SUGAR: Come on inside!
{Now he's down and waiting for you to come through the front door.}
SUGAR: C'mon, mother...!
[Michael goes to the place he worked on, on the other side.]
{So, you... don't come through the front door.}
[With a hammer, he punches through the plaster and enters Sugar's place. Moving quickly, he goes towards the sound of Sugar cursing. He reaches Sugar (who still holds his gun trained on the front door). Pulling his gun out, he aims it at Sugar's head.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Don't move! Easy, Vanilla Ice.
[He disarms Sugar, who grimaces in pain.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Now, you got twenty minutes to clear out. Do you understand? [forcefully] Do you understand?
SUGAR: [loudly, in pain] Yes! Yes!
MICHAEL WESTEN: The wound is not that bad. [holding up a bottle of iodine] You disinfect it, [holding up the elastic bandage] you wrap it in this, and you get to a hospital and you won't walk with a limp. [getting up, aiming the gun at Sugar's head] You're still here in twenty minutes, a limp will be the least of your problems. D'you understand me?
SUGAR: [hoarsely] Yes.
[Michael walks out quickly. Sugar slams the door closed with his left (uninjured) leg and yells out in pain, nursing his right.]
CUT TO:
[Park. Day. In between bites of his lunch, Sam speaks to Michael, who is more interested in watching Pyne's car (guarded by Vince), across the road from them, in front of Pyne's office building.]
SAM AXE: [mouth full] Look, point is, you getting burned wouldn't have happened back then. I mean, in the eighties, the rules were the rules. They had their guys, we had our guys. Wasn't so goddamn complicated. You could get your head around it. Now, today, it's all about... religion... oil. 'S no fun anymore. I gotta tell you, I'm glad I got out when I did.
[He pours some gin from a small bottle into a can of tomato juice.]
SAM AXE: Good morning, Bloody Mary. Hey, you want some?
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, I'm fine.
[Michael's cell phone rings. Michael checks the caller ID.]
SAM AXE: Hey, is that your mom again?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [hanging up] Yep.
[Across the street, Fiona (dressed stylishly in a pant-suit ensemble) descends the stairs of Pyne's office building.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: All right, there she is. Pyne's coming out soon.
[Sam gets off the bench and comes over to Michael to see.]
SAM AXE: Uhh.
[Fiona stands at the bottom of the stairs and, looking towards Michael, puts on her large sunglasses and smiles.]
SAM AXE: You sure this is a good idea, you hooking up with her again?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [arguing] Okay, I'm not hooking up with her. That's not what's happening. I need her for tactical support.
SAM AXE: [chuckling] Is that what they're calling it these days? Tactical support?
[Sam starts to climb down the stairs towards Pyne's building.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, what about your cab driver? Is he gonna let me down?
[Michael points at a jolly Jamaican cab driver, who lifts his hat to Michael.]
SAM AXE: Pierre? Don't worry about him. I told him I'd give him fifty bucks to punch me in the face. That's all he had to hear.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, I'd do it for twenty.
[Sam goes to his car. Michael watches.]
[Shortly, Pyne (accompanied by his attorney) comes out and moves to his car. In front of them, Pierre's cab cuts off Sam's car. Sam horns and yells out. At Pyne's car, Vince opens the door for Pyne to enter.]
GRAHAM PYNE: I don't want any excuses. Now, you're my damn attorney. I want to know what I can do about this situation.
[The attorney nods. Behind them, Sam and Pierre get into their act. Sam stands outside his car, yelling at Pierre.]
SAM AXE: Hey, what the hell was that?!
PIERRE: What is that? There are two lanes!
[Pierre comes menacingly up towards Sam. Both of them are converging towards Pyne's car.]
SAM AXE: Yeah, you cut me off!
PIERRE: No, no, no, no, no! There are two lanes! What?!
[They get in each other's face at Pyne's car (in front of the open door). Vince goes to "keep the peace".]
PIERRE: You got a problem?
[Sam pushes Pierre away.]
SAM AXE: Yeah, I got a problem.
[Vince tries to intervene, but Pierre clocks Sam in the face. Sam falls deliberately inside Pyne's car, through the open door. Michael watches as Vince drags and pushes Pierre away. In the car, Sam surreptitiously places the "listening device" phone under the seat.]
PIERRE: [as he moves away] Okay, okay!
[Vince pulls Sam out of the car.]
SAM AXE: [shouting to Pierre] Hey, I'm not through with you, man! I'm calling...!
[Vince throws Sam down on the hood of his car. Pyne gets into his car. Sam wipes his jaw and chuckles at the success of the mission.]
SAM AXE: I got your number! Huh?!
[Satisfied, Michael moves behind a wall, out of sight.]
CUT TO:
[Sam's Apartment. Day. Sam and Michael sit at the table, busy eavesdropping on Pyne's conversations in his car. Sam records the conversations, while Michael writes stuff down.]
GRAHAM PYNE: [from phone, shouting] The bastard just comes out of nowhere, breaks into my house, into my safe. You can't tell me a damn thing about him?
VINCENT: [from phone, clipped voice] I'm trying.
[Sam and Michael smile.]
SAM AXE: Here you go, Mike. Less than a week in Miami, you're already making friends.
MICHAEL WESTEN: It doesn't sound like he's gonna roll over that easy.
SAM AXE: Yeah, well, these rich guys bite when you got them by the tail.
[Michael gets up to leave.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Call me if he makes any moves. We'll get about twenty-four hours out of that battery. It's voice-activated, so you'll hear a beep.
SAM AXE: [gesturing with his arm] Yeah, I know the drill, Mike. You do your thing.
[Michael leaves.]
CUT TO:
[Outside Madeline's House. Day. Michael, carrying a paper bag, walks off the road, past the driveway and up to the porch.]
{People with happy families don't become spies. A bad childhood is the perfect background for covert ops.}
[He hesitates at the porch. Taking a deep breath, he moves slowly towards the door.]
{You don't trust anyone, you're used to getting smacked around, and you never get homesick.}
[Inside Madeline's House. Day. Madeline sits at the dining table, reading through a medical textbook (or something like that), and taps her finger on a picture.]
MADELINE WESTEN: I think I've got a parasite.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [pulling a medication bottle out of the paper bag] You don't have a parasite.
[He slaps the bottle in front of her.]
MADELINE WESTEN: Pills don't work. Soon as it reaches your liver... [makes a slicing gesture under her throat]
MICHAEL WESTEN: The pills are for you not to think you're sick all the time.
MADELINE WESTEN: You're right. You and the doctor, you think I'm crazy. I think he's letting me die of a parasite 'cause I can't pay his bill!
MICHAEL WESTEN: [restrained] Oh, for now, can we just try these pills?
[He stands away, arms folder, exhaling heavily. She looks at him and smiles.]
MADELINE WESTEN: I put up the tree.
MICHAEL WESTEN: I can see that.
[He moves into the next room, to look at the Christmas tree.]
MADELINE WESTEN: Did you go see your brother yet? [getting up and moving towards him] 'Cause, um... I thought we could all be, you know, together for Christmas. But he's not returning my calls.
[Michael looks at a framed picture of him and his brother, Nate, when they were kids.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: The last time I saw him, [chuckles humorlessly] he threw a telephone book at my head. So what makes you think I can make him come home?
MADELINE WESTEN: Well, remember when you were six and-and-and daddy locked you in your room, wouldn't let you see the Star Wars movie? Well, you just pulled up the floor and sneaked out through the-the heating vent. I mean, since when was there ever anything that you wanted to do that you couldn't do? Please, Michael. For me.
[She comes up close to him, looking at him pleadingly. Suddenly, she breaks down and weeps, dropping her head into Michael's chest.]
{Thirty years of karate. Combat experience on five continents. A rating with every weapon that shoots a bullet or holds an edge. Still haven't found any defense against mom crying into my shirt.}
[Michael puts his arms around her in a conciliatory manner. He pats her back encouragingly.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Mom, I, uh, I-I can't, 'cause I'm gonna...
[His cell phone rings.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'm sorry, hold on.
[He moves away and answers the phone.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Yeah?
SAM AXE: [from phone] We got trouble, Mike.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Well, what is it?
INTERCUT WITH:
[Sam's Apartment. Day. Sam speaks to Michael on the phone.]
SAM AXE: [into phone] Looks like Pyne is trying to get some leverage of his own. Listen.
[He presses "Play" on his tape recorder and holds it up to the receiver. Pyne's voice is heard.]
GRAHAM PYNE: [vo, from recorder] Vincent, you're gonna have to go over and take the kid. I don't know what the hell else to do. Maybe then we can talk some sense into Javier.
[Michael listens to the recording with a growing sense of dread.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Jesus, the kid.
SAM AXE: [from phone] Pyne got Javier out of the house. He had his lawyer call with some legal thing. Now the kid is home alone, and your boy Vince is on his way over there.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] How long ago?
SAM AXE: [from phone] I called as soon as I heard, brother.
[Michael hangs up and turns to Madeline.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Mom, where's your tool box?
[Michael runs into the garage and looks around, hurriedly. He opens an old tool chest. He rifles through the contents and picks out a star-headed screwdriver. He takes an old rag and as many plastic cable ties as he can pick up. Putting the items into a small bag, he runs outside.]
[He runs out on the road, standing in the middle. An SUV passes him by, honking angrily. He looks around, looking for a particular kind of car. Finally, he settles on a muscle car coming towards him, it's powerful V8 engine rumbling. He walks slowly towards it, waving for it to stop. It slows to a halt and he goes to the driver's side. The driver is Sean, a black guy.]
SEAN: You about to get ran over.
[Michael yanks his gun out and aims it at Sean.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Move over.
[Sean, scared at the sight of a white guy holding a gun on him, complies.]
SEAN: Damn, man, please don't jack me!
MICHAEL WESTEN: [repeating] Move over.
SEAN: [moving to the passenger seat] Alright, alright.
[Michael gets in.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: This is not a carjacking. [repeats over Sean's protests] This is not a carjacking. I'm not gonna hurt you. I just need a big car with no airbags.
SEAN: You need a what?
[Michael guns the engine. Tires (and Sean) squealing, the car races forward.]
SEAN: Where the hell are you taking me, man?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Just gotta go to Little Havana for a bit.
SEAN: Little Havana?! Y'now what? Just let me out. I'll get out. I'll forget I ever seen you. Amnesia runs in my fami...
MICHAEL WESTEN: [interrupting] I don't have time to drop you off right now.
[He swerves round a corner. An SUV just about misses them.]
SEAN: Hey, watch out for that car! [squeals]
[Michael is having trouble with the car's sun visor, which keeps slipping back down everytime he pushes it up.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You gotta get this fixed. This is really annoying.
[In Javier's neighborhood, Vince pulls up in his car (with the "Army Rangers" sticker). He checks the address. Unbeknownst to him, Michael (in Sean's car) drives right past him.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I just need to do something real quick.
SEAN: What do you need to do?
[While Vince keeps looking around for Javier's house, still in his car, Michael starts to circle round a small park. Vince drives forward. Meanwhile, Sean is freaking out as Michael accelerates even more.]
SEAN: Alright, alright, man. Slow down, slow down, alright? Slow down.
MICHAEL WESTEN: It's almost over, okay?
SEAN: What does "almost over" mean?
[Michael doesn't answer.]
SEAN: There's a lot of cops around this area, dude.
[Vince slows down close to Javier's house. On the adjacent street, Michael drives fast towards the intersection.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sean, hold on really tight.
SEAN: [uh-oh] Why do I have to hold on tight?!
[Vince starts to move, heading for the intersection.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Because...
SEAN: [repeating] Because...?
MICHAEL WESTEN: ... of... this.
[As Sean cries out, Michael swerves round the bend and...]
[WHAM!!]
[Michael slams hard into Vince's car, completely totaling both cars' bumpers and hoods. Michael jumps out of the car, gun and bag in hand. Jumping over the mangled hoods of the cars, he goes over to the driver side of Vince's car. Vince sits disoriented in his car, slumped against the airbag. Michael tries to open the door - it's locked. He rummages through bag. Sean gets out and surveys the damage in disbelief.]
SEAN: Look what you did to my car!
[Covering his eyes, Michael stabs at Vince's driver side glass with the star-headed screwdriver, smashing the glass. With his gloved hand, he pulls out the broken glass.]
SEAN: Damn, look at my car!
[Michael punctures the airbag with the screwdriver.]
FREEZE-FRAME: [Michael letting the air out of the airbag.]
{Air bags save a lot of lives.}
RESUME.
[Pushing Vince's head back, he quickly cable-ties Vince's right arm to the steering wheel.]
{But they also put you out long enough to get your hands cable-tied to the steering wheel.
[Sean cries on his car's hood. Michael pulls Vince's gold watch off his wrist.]
SEAN: I just had this fixed! Who's gonna pay for my car, man?
[Michael holds Vince's wallet and watch.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sean, there's cash in his wallet. The Rolex should take care of the rest. The cops will be here soon. I'd be someplace else.
[Handing the watch and wallet over to Sean, he walks towards Javier's house. Sean, still unsure of what just happened, looks at the compensation.]
SEAN: [complaining] But how I'm-a get home?!
[Michael raps on Javier's door urgently. David answers. He has a black right eye.]
DAVID: What's up?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [breathless] Uhh...
CUT TO:
[Michael's Loft. Day. Michael speaks to Javier on the phone, while David looks around at the nightclub paraphernalia and cut-outs.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [into phone] Yeah, he's fine. Do you have a place to stay? [listens] Great. You'll come get him? [listens] Good.
MICHAEL WESTEN: David, your dad will be here soon. You two are gonna stay with your aunt for a while.
DAVID: You live here?
MICHAEL WESTEN: I usually stay at four-star hotels. I mean, I don't really have a lot of... stuff. If you're hungry, there's a blueberry yogurt in the fridge.
[David shakes his head, uninterested. He looks around. He picks up a multimeter and fiddles with it. Michael resists from asking him not to play with it. He notices the black eye.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: That black eye. How'd you get it?
DAVID: Kids at school.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, why?
DAVID: I don't know. They don't need a reason, mostly. Last time, they took my new shoes. The time before, it was just [shrugs] "'cuz".
MICHAEL WESTEN: How many were there? Is it a group or an individual? It matters... tactically.
DAVID: [irritably] It's a group. They get up in my face, and they start pounding me, okay?
[He keeps his back to Michael. Michael hears him sniffle.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [uncomfortably] Are you crying?
[David shakes his head.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You're not crying? Looks like you're crying. Don't, okay?
[David doesn't comply.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: All right, don't cry. All right, stop, all right?
[He walks over to David and pats him on the back.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: You have to lose some fights so you can learn to win. I mean, look at this.
[Michael lifts up his T-shirt, exposing his bruised ribs.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I got the crap beat out of me. I have two black belts, and they kicked my ass. So you got nothing to be ashamed of with me, okay? I'm the champ of getting beaten up. But I'm also very good at winning. You want it to stop?
DAVID: Yeah.
MICHAEL WESTEN: The key to fighting a group is taking out its leader. Take out its leader, they'll all leave you alone. It's bully psychology. Works with third-world military units, as well. When I was in Afghanistan... [stops himself] Never mind that. Um, who's the leader?
DAVID: His name's Jake.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Jake.
[And Operation Take-Out-The-Leader-Bully begins. Michael stands in front of David (who's just half his size.).]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'm gonna push you. When I do that, you drop down into a ball like you're scared.
[Michael pushes David. David drops to the ground.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Protect yourself. Tight up like a ball.
[Sitting on the ground, David pulls his legs close and wraps his arms around them, keeping his head between his knees.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Good. Now, he's gonna move in to make fun of you. [pushing David's elbows inside] Keep those elbows tight. [pretend-kicks David's sides] He tries to kick you. Protect that spleen, protect that liver. [leaning over David] I want you to stand up quick and get your head right up underneath my chin. Okay? Go!
[Michael keeps his hand underneath his chin. David jumps up and hits his head against into Michael's hand. Michael lets out a fake grunt.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I'm a little dazed. Make your fist. [counts as he and David clenches his fingers] One, two, three, four, five. Now box him.
[David sends his fist as hard as he can into Michael's palm. He tries it out three more times. Michael holds his fist and chuckles.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Very good.
CUT TO:
[Miami Sidewalk/Café. Day. Sam walks on the sidewalk, past a large store window. After he passes it, Michael's reflection appears in it. Michael shadows Sam, a newspaper in his hand. Sam enters a café. He goes to a table and shakes hands with the same two Feds - Agents Harris and Lane. He sits at the table with them,]
SAM AXE: Guys, it's like I told you. There's nothing else. We did the one job, and that's it.
AGENT HARRIS: How about the threatening package? You may not take that seriously, but the terror task force...
SAM AXE: Oh, come on, guys. He was just making a point.
AGENT LANE: We're not here for our health, Sam.
[Michael walks up casually and sits at the table, near Sam.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Hi, guys. Talking about me? [to a passing waitress] Can I get a coffee? [pats Sam on the back] Sam.
SAM AXE: [caught, sullen] Hey, Mike.
MICHAEL WESTEN: You don't want to introduce me to your FBI buddies?
AGENT HARRIS: FBI? You got the wrong idea, pal.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Ford outside has G-series plates. You got fast-draw holsters, off-the-rack suits, and cheap loafers. No, you guys are Feds. They're Feds!
SAM AXE: Michael, look, they came to me. I was just trying to help.
[The waitress brings him his coffee.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: 'S not like I didn't know, Sam. I've got two known associates in Miami - you and Lucy - and amazingly, you're both willing to help me? I mean, I know how the game is played, Sam. I was on the other side, remember? [to the Feds] So. I'm Michael Westen. You are...
[Lane and Harris exchange a glance.]
AGENT HARRIS: Agent Harris. [jerks his head towards his partner] This is Agent Lane.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Do you even know why you're following me? 'Cause this whole thing...
AGENT HARRIS: Don't know, don't care. Higher up the food chain.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Great. Let's call your boss. Maybe he can tell me.
AGENT HARRIS: Those aren't our orders. Our orders are to keep tabs on you.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Then you give him a message. You tell him...
AGENT HARRIS: Sorry.
[He and Agent Lane stand.]
AGENT LANE: I do have a message for you, though. Don't go thinking you got nothing to lose. You got friends. You got family.
[Michael stands.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Is that a threat, Agent Harris?
AGENT HARRIS: It's the truth. [smiles sweetly, pulls out some money] Coffee's on me.
[Putting the money on the table, he and Lane leave. Michael looks at a guilty-looking Sam.]
SAM AXE: Mike, they got my pension tied up.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [sitting, comforting] Sam, Sam.
SAM AXE: Look, they said it would be better for you. You can do anything you want, basically, as long as you stay where they can see ya and you don't cause any trouble.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Sam, don't sprinkle sugar on this bull and call it candy.
SAM AXE: [looking down] I'm sorry, Mike. I-I don't know what to say.
MICHAEL WESTEN: If I couldn't handle my friends informing on me, I wouldn't be in the business. The way I see it, better a friend than someone I don't know.
[Sam looks up at him, intrigued.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: [leaning forward] The way I see it, a friend would tell them just enough to make them happy but keep them out of my business.
SAM AXE: [relieved] Hell, yeah, Mike, absolutely.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Good. Good. I gotta go. I gotta go take care of Pyne.
SAM AXE: You want me to come along? It's the least I can do.
MICHAEL WESTEN: [chortles] No, I can handle it.
[Michael starts to walk out.]
SAM AXE: Good luck, Mike.
[Michael leaves. Sam's relieved he just dodged a bullet.]
CUT TO:
[Javier's House. Day. Michael goes to work, prepping the place for unwelcome visitors. He puts on the lights, opens the window blinds, moves furniture in the living room to free up space.]
{When you work solo, it's about prepping the ground. Home-court advantage counts for a lot.}
[He pulls a .357 Magnum (Sugar's gun) and a flare out of a bag. He takes some bullets out of a box.]
{You never know what's going to happen. You prepare for everything.}
[He loads the bullets into the .357. Then, he tapes the flare and a cell phone to the gun and wires it. He checks his watch.]
{Most bad guys expect you to just sit there and wait for them like those are the rules or something.}
[He puts the rigged .357 carefully behind a wall. In the bedroom, he yanks the sheets off the mattress. He props the mattress against a window. He removes mirrors from different rooms and puts on the mattress. Adjusting the blinds of a window, he focuses the sunlight on the mirrors.]
[A little later, the phone rings. The call has been forwarded to Javier (who's at his sister's place). Michael goes to the window and peers outside through the blinds.]
[Outside, Pyne and Vince pull up in Pyne's car. Vince is on the phone. Javier picks up.]
JAVIER: [from phone] Hello? Who's this?
[Vince hangs up.]
VINCENT: [to Pyne] He's there.
[Pyne nods. They get out of the car and make their way to Javier's house. Vince extracts a gun from his holster. He kicks the door in.]
[Inside, he looks around, gun at the ready. Pyne follows.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Hi, there.
[They whip their heads to the side, seeing Michael calmly leaning against the wall. Vince aims his gun at Michael.]
VINCENT: Where is he?
MICHAEL WESTEN: Uh, Javier? He's not here. Listen, we need to talk.
[Vince menacingly strides up to Michael, his gun aimed at Michael's head.]
VINCENT: I'm not screwing around. Where the hell is he?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [slowly to Vince can understand] He's... not... here. Anything you need to say to him, you can say to me.
GRAHAM PYNE: I'm done talking, Mr. Westen. I don't know how in the hell you got in my safe, but I want to make it clear. I will not be intimidated.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, neither will I. [whispers to Vince] By the way, Vince, you're gonna have a hard time blowing my brains out with the safety on.
[That's where the washed-out Army Ranger screws up big time. He looks at the gun, away from Michael, who takes full advantage of the lapse. Grabbing Vince's gun arm, he slams it against the wall, making him drop the weapon, and swats Vince a couple of times on the face. Vince grunts in pain. Michael pushes him up against the wall and looks at the gun on the floor.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Whoa, hey, the safety was off! What do you know. My mistake!
[Vince punches Michael twice in the stomach. Michael recovers fast enough and grabbing Vince, drags the big guy into the next room, out of an anxious Pyne's field of vision. Suddenly, a series of gunshots are heard. Pyne drops to the floor, shielding himself from stray rounds. He crawls over to Vince's gun and picks it up. The gunfire stops. Pyne shakily holds the gun up.]
GRAHAM PYNE: [shouting] Vince, what the hell?!
[Behind Pyne, a large silhouette appears, darkened against the light reflected off the mirrors (on the mattress). Pyne turns in fright, his vision obscured by the blinding light. He fires at the silhouette. The bullet finds its mark. Pyne frowns trying to see who he hit. To his horror, he realizes he shot Vince in the gut. Vince looks at his wound in shock. Michael, who has been behind Vince, holding him up, shoves Vince towards Pyne. Pyne's eyes go wide seeing his Head of Security bearing down on him. They collide violent and fall to the floor, both of them unconscious.]
[Later, Pyne sits tied up to a chair, while Vince squirms and whines in agony on the sofa. Michael holds Vince's gun in his rubber-gloved hands. He takes it apart and crouches to the side of Pyne.]
{If you're going to put prints on a gun, sticking it into somebody's hand isn't going to do it. Any decent lawyer can explain prints on a gun.}
[Grabbing Pyne's fingers, he presses them on the innards of the dismantled weapon. Pyne yelps out in pain.]
{But try explaining prints on the inside of the trigger assembly.}
[Done, Michael stands and starts to reassemble the gun.]
GRAHAM PYNE: [thoroughly confused] Who...?
MICHAEL WESTEN: [finishes the question] Who was doing all the shooting? We have a special guest.
[Michael goes and retrieves the rigged .357.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: This bad boy! Ta-da! .357 Magnum loaded with blanks, duct-taped to a flare. Sounded like the real thing, didn't it?
[Pyne shakes his head in wonder.]
VINCENT: [groaning] I need a hospital.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Yeah, in a sec. We're talking. [to Pyne] You shot your buddy here, Mr. Pyne. And this... [holds up Vince's gun] Oho, this... this here is a crime lab's wet dream. Hmm...
[He puts it into a plastic bag and caresses it lovingly.]
GRAHAM PYNE: What do you want?
MICHAEL WESTEN: In a second. I'm not done with my show-and-tell.
[Michael sets down the bagged gun and picks up Sam's tape recorder. He presses "Play".]
GRAHAM PYNE: [from recorder] Vincent, you're gonna have to go over and take the kid. I don't know what the hell else to do.
[Pyne knows he's screwed. Michael stops the playback.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: That is you plotting a kidnapping. That's hard time - federal time. At your age, that's the rest of your life.
GRAHAM PYNE: [impatiently] Tell me what you want.
MICHAEL WESTEN: Vince here confesses to the robbery, Javier gets severance pay - five years, with benefits and dental. That's very important. And never sees your mug again. And you know what, for Christmas, throw in a college fund for David. How does that sound?
[Pyne nods immediately.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Well, let's get you out of here. [holding up the bagged gun] This'll be a murder weapon in twenty minutes if Vince doesn't get to the hospital.
GRAHAM PYNE: And-and the documents? The financial information?
MICHAEL WESTEN: We'll see how good of a boy you are. 'Cause I'll be watching.
[He smiles.]
CUT TO:
[Miami Skyline. Evening. The sun's on its way down. Seagulls fly overhead.]
CUT TO:
[Beach. Evening. Michael speaks to Javier on the beach.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: I cleaned up your place pretty well, but you're gonna have to replace the carpet. But no one's gonna bother you or your family again. You can go home.
[Javier looks at him, with no small amount of gratitude in his eyes.]
JAVIER: Thank you. I don't, I don't know how to say it, but...
[Michael turns to him.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Don't worry about it.
[He shakes Javier's hand and leaves.]
CUT TO:
[In front of David's school. Evening. Michael stands across the playground, drinking a coffee to-go. He watches David and Jake fight, surrounded by a bunch of howling kids. At the moment, they're only pushing each other. Michael strains to watch. Seeing his FBI tail nearby, he goes over to the car. He knocks on the passenger-side window. After exchanging a look with Agent Harris, Agent Lane lowers the glass.]
AGENT LANE: Yeah?
[Michael crouches in front of the window.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Can I borrow your binoculars?
[Harris turns away, with a scowl.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: No, I know you got some in there, and you're not using them because you need them to see me, and I'm right here. So... [chuckles]
[He looks behind and sees Jake's buddy push David from behind.]
MICHAEL WESTEN: Please?
[Lane looks to Harris. Harris gives him a noncommittal shrug. Lane hands Michael the binoculars. Michael eagerly takes it and gives Lane his empty coffee cup. Michael focuses the binoculars on the fight.]
KIDS: Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!
{As a spy, it doesn't matter if you're helping rebel forces fight off a dictator or giving combat tips to a third-grader.}
[He's just in time to see David jump up from his balled-up position and strike his head into Jake's chin. He follows it up with a hard punch to the face, knocking down the bully. Michael lowers the binoculars, a proud smile on his face.]
{There's nothing like helping the little guy kick some bully's ass.}
[Smiling happily, he watches as David continues to beat Jake up.]
CUT TO:
[Michael's Loft. Evening. Michael ascends the stairs to his digs. When he reaches the door, he notices that the door is open.]
{There's nothing worse for a spook than knowing you're being played. Someone is pulling strings.}
[Carefully, he opens the door. He looks down and sees photographs strewn all over the floor. Surveillance photos of him in Miami.]
{Who? Not some intelligence-agency bureaucrat in a cubicle. This is someone with more style.}
[He sees a picture of him, speaking to the Feds at their car, and another of him, looking through their binoculars.]
{Not FBI, either. They're not this creative, and they don't do surveillance on their own guys.}
[He picks up a travel guide, on which is written - "WELCOME TO MIAMI".]
{This is someone who knows what he's doing, someone who wants to send a message. "Welcome to Miami".}
[Michael has a troubled look on his face.]
FLASH TO WHITE.
CUT TO:
[Closing credits.]
FADE TO BLACK.