The Twenty-Nine by John Schneider Tries it again. Still goes off. He reaches into his back pocket. Shit. Business card case. Metal. Silhouette of a sitting dog there on the front. Sheepishly takes it out. CAREY (CONT’D) Sorry. Forgot. Security Guard could give a shit. Into that little dog dish looking tray. Gets waved through. No buzzer. All clear. His cell rings on the other side of the detector. Sci-fi tone. Grabs it from the tray while putting his shit back on. Becker. CAREY (CONT’D) INT. HOME OFFICE - MORNING Official looking. Sterile. Many starched white shirts and cheap ties. Women in pants. This guy is SAMUEL RICHARDS. Forties. Soft around the middle. Looks like he may have scratched the hair off the top of his head worrying ‘cause that’s what he’s doing right now. Scratching and worrying. SAMUEL You have everything? Everything’s all set? Carey gets a kick out of this guy. Yin to Samuel’s Yang. CAREY I have everything. I can handle it. Anything happens to me lock the door behind you. You’re screwed. On go the shoes. Grabs his bag. Walks off. Listening. SAMUEL Don’t shit around with me, Carey. This is important. Antsy, that’s all. Lot riding on this deal. INT. CONCOURSE B - MORNING A few scattered people there in the concourse but not what you would expect on a weekday. Carey and Samuel still chatting. CAREY Wait... It’s Wednesday, right? Today, I mean. Another page tomorrow
Posted on: Fri, 25 Jul 2014 15:45:39 +0000
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