Happy Hump Day, crime humpsters! Do you know what time it is? That's right. You guessed it. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where the chicks are hot, and the action hotter, right here at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
In chapter 3 of THE HEISTERS, professional thief Kelsey Hazard calls on Ronan Kenny, the guy who brought her in on the heist. She's gotta deliver the bad news that the loot was stolen while she stepped out to get supplies, and now needs his help to come up with a plan to get the money back ...
EXT. BAY STREET - NIGHT
Kelsey walks briskly to her car.
A beat-up old Dodge Dart Swinger.
Gets in. Turns on the engine.
INT. DODGE DART SWINGER - MOVING - NIGHT
Kelsey pulls away from the curb.
Drives south on Bay Street.
Pulls out her cell phone.
We all use disposable cell phones during a job.
That way there’s nothing to trace.
None of us knew where we were holed up,
but we COULD call each other.
She fingers a number. Listens.
Ronan, it’s me --
Some fucked up shit just went down.
I need to see you.
Not on the phone --
I don’t want to take that chance.
The Venice Motor Court. On Speedway.
I’ll be there in ten.
She clicks the phone shut.
Turns left at the next intersection.
We see flashes of the beach
between the buildings as she drive.
The plan was, after the job all six us
would hole up somewhere separate
for a week or two until the heat was off.
Problem was, we did the job two days ago,
so the heat was definitely ON.
INT. VENICE MOTOR COURT HOTEL - CORRIDOR - NIGHT
Kelsey walks up to a door. Knocks softly three times.
Then stops. Then once again.
The door opens. She goes in.
INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT
Your standard, bland touristy-tacky room
brought to you by the color beige.
Big painting of a ship at sea. Cliche much?
Standing in the room is RONAN KENNY (40’s),
a big, burly block of Irish Spring.
Jet-black hair frames a face
that only a boxer could love.
Crude prison tattoos dot faded grey skin.
He CRUSHES a can of beer.
Tosses it the trash can.
I’d say it was great to see ya,
but since you’re gonna give me bad news, I dunno.
Tell me about it.
Kelsey sees a YOUNG BLONDE CHICK (20) sitting on the bed.
Who’s the frill?
This is Becky.
(gives a little wave)
Meet BECKY FINE, party girl deluxe.
Your standard former cheerleader
now on a one-way bender to hitting the skids.
Puffy, red-rimmed eyes belie a soft expanse of creamy skin.
Well, aren’t you going to introduce us?
Ronan pulls out his wallet.
Goes over. Hands her some cash.
Why don’t you go to the supermarket
and get us some more beer?
And get some chips.
Beef jerky. That kinda shit.
But the supermarket’s fifteen minutes away --
He stares at her. She stares back.
Then crumples. Gets up.
Grabs her bag.
Goes out the door.
Slams it. BANG.
Don’t tell me. Another boxing groupie --
Nah. Believe it or not,
we’ve been dating a few weeks.
Got some fucked-up daddy fixation.
(motions to the table)
Enough chit-chat. What happened?
They both sit.
Kelsey pulls out her smokes.
Lights one up.
I went for ten minutes to get supplies,
come back, and the boy-toy is dead,
and the money -- GONE.
Was it someone on the crew,
or an outside job?
I dunno --
Smells like a civilian.
The kid was fucking STABBED
with a samurai sword right through the neck.
He was fucking HARPOONED to the bed.
But then why would a burglar do that?
They just want to get in and out.
Must have been someone that knew him,
had a grudge --
Yeah. An ex-lover. A crime of passion.
And then they called the cops
so I would take the fall.
So they must have been watching us --
Makes sense. But just to make sure,
we should check out the rest of the crew,
Nah. This smells like amateur hour all the way.
If one of our crew did it,
they wouldn’t have killed the kid.
No percentage in it,
would have turned the heat up to ‘high.’
We need to gather everybody up
and work on this together.
DeLuca and Aber are shacked up together.
I’ll get them first.
You track down Garza and Jones.
(nods, then -- )
Hey. I just realized.
You counted it.
How much did we get?
A little over a million.
NICE. So we each get --
Trying to do the math in his head.
About a hundred and eighty-K each.
Shit. I could sure use a hundred and eighty-K.
You and me both, doll.
But first we have to get it back --