EXT. THE JUNGLES OF INDONESIA - DAY

A NATIVE slashes through thick foliage, leading a patrol of

INDONESIAN MILITARY -- shouted commands and radio chatter.

The tribesmen hack through the perimeter of the brush and the

party emerges onto the wide silt bank of a muddy river.

Suddenly WILD BOAR let out a chorus of squeals and scatter

into the brush, and there, splayed on the river bank, we find-

A BODY.

One of the soldiers approaches -- the stench is palpable --

the body already decomposing.

The soldier finds a wallet, checks the ID -- we don’t see the

identity. The Soldier speaks into his radio.

SOLDIER:

(Indonesian)

We have the body...

While from the jungle the eyes of a wild pig can be seen

peering out, waiting to resume its meal.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. DIMLY LIT ROOM - DAY

A hand tosses ice into a low ball. Realizes there’s no booze.

Into the cabinet, finds a stashed bottle. The MAN pours a

healthy measure of whiskey. KENNY WELLS (40’s), unshaven,

takes a long drink, masking his nerves. He is a about an inch

from total collapse.

WELLS:

Sure I can’t pour you one?

VOICE (O.S.)

No, thanks. I’m working.

The VOICE is calm, in control, authoritarian.

WELLS:

All the more reason.

2.

VOICE (O.S.)

Wells, sit. We’ve got a lot to cover.

WELLS:

Here I am. Fire away.

Wells raises his glass in a mock toast. He will not be rushed.

He’s got an easy smile and sparkling eyes -- but his face

tells the story of a man acquainted with his whiskey.

VOICE (O.S.)

How did you meet Michael Acosta?

WELLS:

The first time or the second time?

VOICE (O.S.)

How did you meet him, Wells?

WELLS:

You sure you don’t want a drink?

You’re making me nervous.

Wells sits and faces us. Off the silence --

WELLS (CONT’D)

April of ‘88 -- I had three properties

crap out on me in six week period.

SIERRA NEVADA RANGE... TILT DOWN to find Reno against it...

EXT. RENO, NEVADA - DAY

SUPER:
Reno, Nevada... April, 1988

-- ROULETTE WHEEL SPINNING, reveal it’s in a grocery store.

-- COWS GRAZING scrubland on the edge of town.

-- OLD CASINOS. Dusty ranches. Tourists. Migrant workers.

-- A ONE-ARMED BANDIT, with a gun “arm,” pays out nickels.

...SLOWLY TIGHTENING as if a dry wind carries us to...

EXT. THE THREE GREENHORNS BAR - MORNING

A faded watering hole from the boomtown days.

WELLS (V.O)

I was on the balls of my ass,

scrambling. Not exactly uncharted

waters, but I was in pretty deep...

A beat up ‘79 Caddy Eldorado, covered in a layer of road

grime, it’s bumper held on with wire, pulls into a spot and

dies. For this hour there are already many cars in the lot.

3.

Through a smoky haze, Wells stares out, eyes like a Bukowski

poem. He’s got one lit cigarette as he lights another. Flicks

ashes at the ashtray, misses -- a constellation of burn marks.

WELLS (V.O.)

Ten AM. And I knew the board of

directors had already convened.

INT. THE THREE GREENHORNS BAR - CONTINUOUS

Wells enters like the cock of the walk, back slapping and

waving hellos, a well-liked regular. His suit looks like it

might have been slept in... more than once.

Middle-age men in bad suits with bad hair fill the tables,

working phone lines and yellow pads. These are modern-day

“prospectors,” promoting bottom-feeder mining stocks. Pass a

couple regulars -- CONRAD “CONNIE” WRIGHT (40’s) and SCOTTIE

NEVINS (50’s) -- doing more drinking than working.

A BARMAID concentrates on scratching a lotto ticket that looks

like the slots:
Cherry... Cherry... Cherry! The winning

amount:
$5.00 -

Wells approaches one of the traders, clamping down on his

shoulders with both hands, working out the knots. This is

BOBBY BURNS (50’s), balding, pouring a shot into his coffee.

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