Cut Bank Page #3

You want me workin' for your daddy

the rest of our lives?

No way.

You know I'll take care of you.

And do whatever it takes.

Yeah.

- I'm proud of you.

- I know.

Me and Miss Cut Bank, chasin' it.

You know my lot out there by the fill bins?

The old junk heap I keep for spare parts?

- Yes, sir.

- I'm sellin' it off to Marty Corcoran.

If I may, sir,

that place is a gold mine.

Neither me or you or Match or none

of us has been out there in years

for it to be worth the taxes I cough up.

Marty's priced it at a mean dollar.

Way more than it oughta get.

So I'm promoting you out there to forage

for the parts that we can clean up

and use it to shop till the deal's done.

So where the hell was Match today?

You know how unreliable Match is.

Well, you gotta learn to take responsibility

for your colleagues.

It's the first lesson of leadership.

What in f***in' hell are you up to here?

Dwayne! I just had a heart attack.

- I thought you were the God-forbid.

- I am the God-forbid.

Big Stan's turning his head

to make a dollar off the lot.

He's gonna be passin' by

with Marty Corcoran.

And here you are off in the land of nod

with the jazzy playin'

and beer cans all about.

You gotta be the most fat-headed ass.

Whitefish Marty Corcoran? Huge prick.

What the f*** you doin'

loading live rounds?

Protection.

Could you please not point

my own goddamn hand cannon at me?

I have heart problems, Dwayne.

Big Stan's got me foragin'

for parts in the mean.

Well, that's consolation.

We can play us off okay.

That ain't any consolation, Georgie.

That's a f***in' monkey wrench

grabbin' ahold of my innards.

You gotta be on point.

Lock the damn gate. Stick to the plan.

Can we take a breath here? Just relax.

My plan, my rules.

You're not gonna f*** this up, Georgie.

Fair enough.

Did you see Mrs. Margaret?

- Yeah.

- And?

- Postal inspector should be here any day.

- That's good.

That gives us a week, tops.

I need you to relax.

Match did not torch the mail.

It's... I know.

It's still in the garage.

I can't do it. I need to be seen workin'.

That's on you, mailman. You're dead.

But you're alive,

and I can't afford to be seen

not dead. So you do it.

God to honest, Georgie.

You keep this place tidy.

No beer cans. No lights.

Am I still the only one

with the number to your prepaid?

Great.

I'll call you if whatever.

Hello. They got me in from Shelby

runnin' the routes.

Sure you ain't got a parcel for me?

Yep. Nothin'.

Good mornin', Mimi.

Give me five bills on Tom's Creek

within the spread.

And tell me how Lester's kid's

been pitching.

There's a postal inspector

from the capital here to visit with you.

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