The Seventh Wave, Episode 36.
INT. LATE NIGHT. CAGE FIGHTERS SPORTS BAR, LITTLE HAVANA. THE MEET.
(The venue is in darkness. In a booth, RICHARD HUÉRFANO, GIAMBATTISTA PAPPALARDO a.k.a. JIMMY TWO DINNERS, GUIDO ONE, GUIDO TWO. The ORPHAN and JIMMY are dressed in expensive suits. The other two wear Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. All around them, above their heads, are TV screens, all turned off. In the shadows, at a little distance, THREE SILENT MEN in less expensive suits, standing at ease. The Orphan’s troops.)
These dark screens. A fucking tragedy. Sports is what unites us as Americans. It’s our language. Our common fucking denominator. Football, basketball, baseball, hockey. Touchdown, slam dunk, perfect game, puck. This is what we speak. These cancellations are fucking calamitous. I hate to see it. This is an un-American thing.
[He turns to the TWO GUIDOS.]
I will not be staying in this meeting for the duration. You gentlemen will converse with my good friend Signor Pappalardo here. In your conversation the topic will be a certain lady of your former acquaintance. I will not say her name. You will fill Signor Pappalardo in regarding this lady. Known addresses, family members, favorite haunts, daily routines, where she likes to go for walks, what coffee she likes, who calls her, who comes and goes. It’s like you’re painting a portrait. You do a good job, I will be grateful. A bad job, I will be fucking ungrateful. Do I make myself understood?
The TWO GUIDOS nod, dumbly. HUÉRFANO gets to his feet.