The Killing Floor Page #2

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I'm, uh-- I'm not even

pissed at you.

I'm pissed at me for believing

that I could count on you.

Christ.

And when you lose your job

and your best pal steals

your clients

and then makes a dash

for another agency...

- Oh, come on!

-...that's sh*t!

That's not what happened.

Okay. Tell me what happened.

Come on, I'm all ears.

You're in a slump, Garret.

A professional slump.

Slump...

Hmm.

So the book's a total mess.

Hey.

This should be my life,

my party, my place.

Sorry.

F*** you!

F*** you.

What in the f*** did you write

in that note to him?

Just what you told me to.

Did I do something wrong?

Did that look

like it went well?

Have you seen Audrey Levine?

Five-seven, brown hair,

black dress.

Her name wasn't even

on the li--

David Lamont?

Yeah.

My name is Martin Soll,

detective, N.Y.P.D.

Sorry, Mr. Lamont,

for calling at this hour.

That makes two of us.

What, uh, is this about,

detective?

There's a guy downstairs who claims

that you're squatting in his residence.

Do you have the deed

to this place?

My lawyer does.

I'll give you

his phone number.

This is his home

and his cell.

Who is he?

Uh, Jared Thurber.

Uh, his father

was the previous owner.

He claims that

when the old man died,

you moved in here illegally.

Well, I can assure you,

the transaction was entirely legit.

Well, if you say so.

Hopefully, I can get

back to some real work, and...

you can get back to all this.

Oh, I almost forgot.

In case anything comes up.

Like what?

Hey... it's New York.

The only penalty

you ought to worry about is the one

I'll impose on your ass

for wasting my time.

He's the one f***ing

wasting your time.

God f***ing damn it!

Either you're gonna do

something about it, or I am.

It's my house.

Well, we'll find

that out directly. After you.

We let 'em slide

on advances, the next thing you know,

quotes are gonna

be 80% of what they are now.

My client doesn't need

the advance.

- He'll do the work.

- Without incentives--

Hang on.

Your client

doesn't need the advance.

Well, that's mighty kind of him.

My top five clients brought

in an estimated, what?

Fifteen million dollars

worth of advances last year.

My bottom five, zero.

That's because

your clients were dictating

the terms of their deals

from a cabin in Maine,

wearing a f***ing bathrobe.

Every day is a war.

Be generals for chrissake.

No, no. I'll be done here,

uh, soon. Like 45 minutes.

Yes, we're just--

We're wrapping up.

No, no, okay.

Call somebody

at The New Yorker.

I got some renewal thing.

I have to go, bye-bye.

I shouldn't have to pay for it.

Okay. Uh, this came

for you today.

What is it?

A thank-you note

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