Thunderheart

RAY:

You're my hero, Carl.

CARL:

Heroes ain't supposed to shake. I'm

shakin', man, look at me.

RAY:

Breathe, Carl. Four, nice, deep ones.

They stop at the door of a service elevator and Carl breathes.

Expanding his chest, exhaling. Ray adjusts Carl's tie for

him, his collar. He speaks quietly. Quickly.

RAY:

Anyone stops us going in, we're with

the Bowen-Hamilton Textile Company.

We have rug samples.

CARL:

Rug samples.

RAY:

We are one-dimensional, boring

peddlers of fine carpet, Carl.

Carl nods. Ray hesitates, adjusts his own collar and enters

the service elevator. Carl follows. Door closes.

BEGIN CREDITS END.

INT. GRAY BUILDING - FENCING OPERATION

Carl follows Ray into the big sparse room of unfinished

sheetrock walls. There is nothing in here but cardboard boxes,

and two people; a bearded HISPANIC MAN standing behind a

counter, writing on a clipboard. The other is a middle-aged

BLACK MAN in a purple silk shirt sitting in a chair with a

newspaper held open. He barely looks over the top of the

Wall Street Journal.

BLACK MAN:

Hey, look who's here.

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