FADE IN:
EXT. FIRST NATIONAL BANK & TRUST - DECEMBER 2001 - DAY
A basketball spins on the outstretched fingertip of
STEPHEN HUNTER (13), strapping European features: blond
hair, blue eyes. He executes some playful basketball
tricks with style and ease, as
DIANA HUNTER (13), delicate Eurasian features: jet-black
hair, almond eyes, pug nose, reads aloud from THOREAU.
DIANA
"The violence of love is as much to be
dreaded as that of hate. When it is
durable it is serene and equable."
The spinning ball dances from one fingertip to another.
DIANA (CONT'D)
"Even its famous pains begin only with
the ebb of love, for few are indeed
lovers, though all would fain be."
The ball glides across Stephen's forearm, to be caught on
his fingertip, spins in front of Diana's nose.
DIANA (CONT'D)
"It is one proof of a man's fitness for
friendship that he is able to do without
that which is cheap and passionate."
Diana snatches the ball away from Stephen, rises to a
graceful stance, rolls it across her shoulders, down her
arm, catching it in the open pages of her book.
STEPHEN
"Friendship is love minus sex and plus
reason. Love is friendship plus sex and
minus reason."
DIANA
Mark Twain?
STEPHEN
Mason Cooley.
DIANA
Then sex and reason cannot coexist?
Diana executes a ballet dancer's plié, offering up the
ball in a port de bras.
STEPHEN
Who needs reason?
Stephen grabs the ball as a Lamborghini Diablo pulls into
a parking space.
DIANA
Father's here!
INT. LAMBORGHINI
CHARLES HUNTER (58), rugged in a tailored western style
suit, turns to NATALIE HUNTER (35), stocky and withdrawn.
NATALIE
I'll wait here. It's Stephen's trust.
CHARLES
At least come in and say hello. Carl
Winter always asks about you.
INT. FIRST NATIONAL BANK & TRUST
A massive marble and brass edifice to financial security.
Charles enters with Natalie, Stephen and Diana, hesitates
before the gates to a metal detector.
SAM, a security guard, approaches, smiling warmly.
SAM
Brought the twins today.
Stephen and Diana wave, polishing air in perfect sync.
CHARLES
New toys?
SAM
Nine-eleven, you understand. Carrying?
Charles draws a gold-plated .357 Magnum with ivory grips
from a shoulder holster, displays it to Sam. The pistol
is engraved with an intricate serpent design.
CHARLES
Never leave home without it.
Sam raises his hands, denying any involvement.
SAM
I'd let you pass, Mr. Hunter, but it'd
make a hell of a racket if I did.
Charles checks the gold Rolex on his wrist.
CHARLES
I'm already running late.
DIANA
I don't need to go in. Slip it to me on
the low-low. I'll wait out here for you.
Charles grimaces, breaks open the cylinder, empties the
cartridges into his palm, hands the pistol to Diana,
starts to pocket the cartridges.
Sam cocks his head, raises a disapproving eyebrow.
Charles drops the cartridges into Diana's palm.
CHARLES
Promise me you won't shoot anybody.
Diana wrinkles her brow, feigning hesitance.
SAM
She'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on her.
Diana holds the .357 next to Sam's .32 Police Special.
DIANA
Mine's bigger.
SAM
Mine's loaded.
Stephen tosses the ball to Diana. She catches it in one
hand, twirls it on her fingertip.
TRUST DEPARTMENT
CARL WINTER (57), perfectly coifed grey hair, three-piece
charcoal suit, lays a thick legal document on his desk.
WINTER
I must repeat my reservations.
CHARLES
Stephen's old enough to make these
decisions. Everything will be fine.
FOYER
Sam watches Diana perform acrobatic basketball tricks.
Three masked gunmen burst in, armed with assault rifles.
BEEFY GUNMAN, Liverpool accent, pistol-whips Sam, secures
his hands with zip ties, grabs his pistol. OUTSIDE SENTRY
motions Diana to sit on a lobby bench.
SLIM GUNMAN and Beefy Gunman proceed to the lobby. The
metal detector WAILS as they pass.
BEEFY GUNMAN
Hit the floor and stay down.
Slim Gunman, Cockney accent, tosses the TELLERS canvas
sacks.
SLIM GUNMAN
Cash in the sacks. Bait money's fine, but
no dye packs.
BEEFY GUNMAN
If anybody slips us a dye pack, our
friends will kill each of you, your
mothers and your dogs.
Teller #1 fills a sack with currency as customers cower.
SLIM GUNMAN
Toss your dye packs forward.
Teller #2 tosses a currency bundle to Slim Gunman, who
flips through the bills to find the detonator charge.
FOYER
Diana inches open the zipper on her knapsack, looks to
Sam, hog-tied on the floor, raises a finger to her lips.
Sam's eyes widen. He motions his head, "NO."
Outside Sentry shoots her a suspicious look.
The .357 and cartridges lay in the open sack on her lap.
Diana pulls out a tissue and blows her nose.
Outside Sentry cranes his neck toward the lobby entrance.
LOBBY
The elevator PINGS. Beefy Gunman spins around.
The doors open on Charles, Stephen and Natalie.
Beefy Gunman raises his rifle.
BEEFY GUNMAN
Don't fucking move. This is a hold-up.
Charles pushes Stephen behind him. Beefy Gunman fires
A BURST of automatic fire tears into Charles and Stephen.
Slim Gunman grabs Beefy Gunman by the collar.
SLIM GUNMAN
Flaming poofter! Now it's murder one for
the lot of us.
FOYER
Outside Sentry strains to look into the lobby.
Diana fumbles with the pistol and cartridges in her
knapsack. Sentry's rifle barrel brushes her nose.
The knapsack slips off her lap. Lips trembling, she
raises her hands in surrender, holding the pistol.
A cartridge falls from the open cylinder to the floor.
Slim Gunman steps between them, shoves Sentry toward the
exit, takes the pistol, holds it to the light.
SLIM GUNMAN
Nice piece, kid, but little girls
shouldn't play with guns.
DIANA
I'm not a kid and that's not a gun. For
your information, guns have smooth bores.
SLIM GUNMAN
Young ladies shouldn't play with pistols.
Slim Gunman slips the .357 into his pocket, hurries away.
DIANA
My dad will find you ...
ELEVATOR
Shell-shocked and blood-splattered, Natalie squeezes into
the corner. Charles and Stephen lie in pools of blood.
Diana runs toward the elevator in anguished disbelief.
INT. SIMPLE SIMON KARAOKE - WAREHOUSE - PRESENT
Warehouse and office employees in jeans and T-shirts
climb twelve-foot tall shelves to count and tag cartons
and stacks of DVDs, CDs and VHS tapes.
PERKY BLONDE, on a rollaway stepladder, tugs a dusty
carton on the top shelf. It tears apart, spilling VHS
tapes onto a chunky STENOGRAPHER holding a clipboard.
PERKY BLONDE
Ooops! Sorry.
Perky Blonde tries to reassemble the torn carton. A
shower of dark pellets cascade onto the Stenographer.
PERKY BLONDE (CONT'D)
Eeeewwwe! Rat turds.
Perky Blonde scurries down the ladder, cringing with
exaggerated disgust as a pot-bellied warehouseman laughs.
RAYMOND SANTO (36), Eurasian, examines dusty tags taped
to a sagging mountain of dilapidated cartons.
He lifts a tag, finds several yellowed tags underneath.
SIMON, short, stout and swarthy, chomping a burned-out
cigar butt between yellowed teeth, waddles over.
SIMON
You don't have to count those. The
numbers are the same as last year.
Raymond looks up from the inventory tags.
RAYMOND
And the year before. You haven't sold any
for at least five years.
SIMON
Yeah, well, VHS and audio cassettes
aren't moving like they used to.
RAYMOND
These aren't moving at all. You should
scrap them and take the write-off.
SIMON
Let's see the numbers before we decide if
we can afford to take the hit.
RAYMOND
I've done the analysis. A million dollars
in obsolete inventory we can't sell.
SIMON
Just value the damn inventory and leave
the operating decisions to me.
RAYMOND
That's easy. This crap is worthless.
SIMON
Try this analysis on for size. If we
scrap them, we get two hundred thou from
the IRS, but we have to pay back eight
hundred thou to the bank. Where's the
other six hundred thou coming from?
RAYMOND
I have to sign off on the valuation. My
integrity's on the line.
Simon flings Raymond's clipboard across the floor,
narrowly missing Perky Blonde, who snaps her head.
SIMON
Get your sanctimonious ass out of my
sight. You're fired. If you won't sign
off, I'll find somebody who will.
EXT. SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS - MORNING
A mule deer BUCK stands by a stream, sniffing the air.
Well-worn hiking boots slip silently through the brush.
The buck lowers his head, laps water.
A backpack glides past an oak tree.
The buck ambles along the stream.
A girl's tanned and toned leg in khaki shorts swings over
a fallen branch, freezes in mid-air.
A Pacific rattlesnake slithers into the brush.
The hiking boot steps gingerly where the snake had lain.
An army boot stops along the path. Thick legs in
camouflage pants kneel. Deer tracks.
A second pair, partly obliterated by a hiking boot.
The camouflage trousers straighten, follow the tracks.
The buck leaves the stream, heads for the trees.
As the buck slips between the trees, DIANA HUNTER (now
17) reaches the stream, carrying a wicked assault rifle
mounted with tactical sniper scope and noise suppressor.
Diana moistens her fingertip and holds it to the breeze.
With a glance to the spot where the buck disappeared, she
moves silently downstream, keeping to the rocks.
ZACHARY (45), huge, full camouflage gear and face paint,
holding a camouflaged compound bow, kneels by the stream,
picks up a pellet of deer scat.
Crushing the pellet between thick fingers, he moves on.
Diana runs silently past tall pines.
The buck grazes on a hillock above Diana.
Diana steadies herself against a thick trunk, aims. The
rifle fires with a soft POP.
An arrow whizzes past as the buck slumps to his knees.
The arrow imbeds in the tree, inches from Diana's face.
Diana jerks away, sweeps the horizon with her scope.
Zachary comes into view, climbing to the fallen buck.
Diana slings her rifle, wriggles the arrow from the tree.
Zachary kneels to examine the buck.
DIANA
Looking for this?
The arrow imbeds next to his foot.
ZACHARY
Careful!
DIANA
You're one to lecture, shooting without a
clear view behind your target.
ZACHARY
If you hadn't stolen my buck, the arrow
would have gone exactly where I aimed it.
DIANA
Like your name's tattooed on his butt?
ZACHARY
I stalked this beaut for two days, your
tracks only showed up this morning.
DIANA
Doesn't take me two days. But take the
deer. Hate to take food from your table.
ZACHARY
Is that all you can see, a couple of
venison steaks for your next barbecue?
Look at that rack, sixteen points.
DIANA
I eat what I kill, but that doesn't
include the antlers. Bon appetit.
Diana walks away.
ZACHARY
I hunt the trophy, not the meat.
DIANA
You've got your trophy.
(sotto voce)
After you mount it, go mount yourself.
INT. FIRST NATIONAL BANK & TRUST - LOAN DEPARTMENT - DAY
Carl Winter (now 60) leafs through financial statements,
shaking his head in disapproval.
He returns the report to a marbled file folder, closes
the cover with a grim expression, carefully centers it on
the blotter of his antique mahogany desk.
His manicured fingertips drum on the folder.
Natalie Hunter (now 38) files a brightly painted nail,
looks up, surprised.
NATALIE
Oh. Ready for me to sign?
Winter scratches his forehead, purses his lips solemnly.
Natalie knots her brow, puzzled.
WINTER
I'm sorry, Miss Hunter. We cannot renew
your line of credit.
NATALIE
Don't be ridiculous. Like Charles used to
say, Hunter Firearms has banked here
since before the war ... the Civil War.
WINTER
We hope Hunter will continue to bank with
us for another century, but you are
seriously overextended.
NATALIE
Our credit has always been Triple-A.
WINTER
Hunter was always debt-free. In three
short years, you've exhausted your credit
lines, but you haven't built the
business. Where's the money gone?
Natalie stammers, hesitant.
NATALIE
We spent a lot to develop nonlethal
weapons, one of Diana's crazy schemes,
but it didn't pan out. When I learned
what was happening, I pulled the plug, so
she can't drain our resources any longer.
Intrigued, Winter takes a fountain pen, opens the folder.
WINTER
How much did you invest in new product
development?
Natalie falters.
NATALIE
I'd have to ask my bookkeeper.
Winter grimaces, closes the folder, caps his pen.
WINTER
It's not like the old days. I have new
bosses in Chicago and Philadelphia who
care about nothing but the numbers.
NATALIE
You're telling me I can't have the money?
Winter leans forward, speaks distinctly.
WINTER
Your loans are due in ten days.
NATALIE
I come here because we need two million
and you expect me to repay twelve?
Winter scowls, peeks inside the binder, presses his lips.
WINTER
It's not that serious. I'd be comfortable
with three, maybe four million ... so
you'd only need to repay eight.
NATALIE
You've seen our account ...
Winter shakes his head sadly.
WINTER
Yes, I'm afraid I have.
NATALIE
If you just give me the two million, I
know I can turn things around ...
Winter stares back, impassive, unflinching.
Natalie's composure crumbles.
WINTER
I can buy you some time, IF you bring in
a professional controller, a numbers guy. |
