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BOBBY:

Bye.

He drives off. Ricky checks his pager, still furtively

scanning the street.

EXT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - BLACKBURN - LOS ANGELES - NIGHT

Bobby pulls up in front of the quaint Spanish Colonial two-

flat. He bounds up the stairs to the upper unit.

INT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

He lets himself in, searching for his girlfriend. The

apartment is Z-Gallery, with a few accents of Bobby's

HAWAIIANA.

BOBBY:

Honey?

JESS (O.S.)

Where were you?

He finds her in the bedroom. JESSICA is a knockout. Too

pretty. The pretty that makes a woman a full-time job. What's

worse is she's decked out like a whore. She's wearing slutty

lingerie covered by a bland terry cloth bathrobe. Her

ridiculously long legs are garnished with candy-apple porn

star sky high heels. Bobby watches with cultivated patience

as she applies tasteless amounts of make-up from a Mac case

the size of a tackle box. She's in a hurry.

BOBBY:

(swallowing utter

contempt)

So, what kind of gig is this?

JESS:

Easy night. Bachelor party. Can we

give Wendy a ride?

BOBBY:

No. What kind of bachelor party?

JESS:

The easy kind. They're young and

rich and well mannered.

She turns to look at him and reacts to his horrifying

appearance.

JESS:

Oh my god. What happened?

BOBBY:

A draw. What makes you think they're

well mannered?

JESS:

Bobby, this is a plumb gig. It's a

bunch of young agents and it's at a

restaurant. It's gonna be easy and

we'll make a lot of money.

BOBBY:

I don't like you working with Wendy.

Why are you working with Wendy?

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