The Gentlemen

Get me in ten minutes, Ray.

Boss.

- Bobby. - Boss?

I'll have a pint and a pickled egg.

Coming straight up.

If you wish to be the king of the jungle,

it's not enough to act like a king.

You must be the king.

And there can be no doubt.

Because doubt causes chaos and one's own demise.

Hello, my love.

It's date night tonight.

Nine o'clock, you and I, River Cafe.

Who's there?

Ros, who's there?

Chink, chink.

Fletcher.

Buenas tardes, Raymondo.

I should stab you with that fucking rolling pin.

Oh, don't be cunty. I was just hoping we could have a cozy little drink together.

So, I've got a meeting on Saturday at your favorite newspaper.

As the best private investigator in this smoky little town...

good evening, ladies and gentlemen...

they are ready to put 150 grand in my pocket to give them some filth.

Good for me, that, but in this case...

it's bad for you.

So Big Dave, editor extraordinaire,

has developed a terrible antipathy for your boss

and his liquorish assortment of tasty mates.

He's out to destroy him and all those that cozy up to him. Front cover. Bosh!

There will be blood and fucking feathers everywhere, my darling.

Get to it, Fletcher. I'm starting to itch.

Now, we both know that your boss has very, very deep pockets,

and I would like to invite him just to have a teeny rummage in them.

What the fuck are you talking about?

If you would be so kind

as to furnish me with 20 million British pounds,

I will give you everything...

memory cards, contact sheets, recordings, the lot,

and a modest little screenplay I wrote all by myself.

Hold on.

We just went from £150,000 to 20 million.

That's a steep rise in 30 seconds.

Yeah, but I would argue that you're lucky, because that is nothing

compared to what I could, and perhaps should, be asking.

Oh, well, thank God you're not greedy, Fletcher,

you deluded, shit-eating cunt.

I quite like it when you talk dirty to me.

I can feel myself engorging.

Come on, have a drink with me. It's really yummy.

I looked it up. App-ed it. 1500 quid?

I didn't know you could spend that much on a bottle of scotch.

I'm gonna tell you a story to demonstrate why my quote is my quote.

Will you play a game with me, Ray?

I don't wanna play a game.

- Please? - No.

I said play a fucking game with me, Ray.

Right.

Lovely.

Now, I want you to imagine a character,

a dramatic character, like in a book or a play or a film.

But not digital, not on a memory stick.

Analog. Chemical process. "Keep the grain in the picture," I say.

Old-school, 35 mill.

Now, I'm seeing this through a lens, I am,

and I'm not talking about the small screen.

It's not TV, Raymond.

As I said, old-school cinema format.

It's what we in the business called anamorphic, or ratio 2.35 to 1.

And I want you to join me on this cinematic journey,

'cause it is cinema, Ray.

It's beautiful, beautiful cinema.

Now, roll camera.

Enter our protagonist.

He's good-looking, he's gorgeous,

he's golden age, he's a proper handsome cunt.

His name is Mickey Pearson.

Unique background has our Mickey.

American born, Rhodes scholar, so he's born clever but poor.

Now, that's quite a leap from a trailer park in Americana

to the thousand-year-old university in old Angleterre,

where he studies the dark art of horticulture.

But he never finished his education, never went home, because...

he found his vocation.

A naughty vocation.

He's a bad boy.

He starts dealing the dirty wonder weed

to his rich, British, upper-class uni pals

and realizes he's rather good at it.

He's clear and objective about ambition

and he can surf the echelons of our complicated culture.

He knew how to take advantage of his advantage.

He was a hungry animal, you see.

He was powerful and ruthless, cunning and quick,

charismatic and smart, but...

he had to do some naughty things to get where he got,

to establish his position,

to show he wasn't just teeth, tits and tan.

Well, he wasn't fucking hollow, was he?

He had an engine under his hood

and a gun in his holster.

So, he's not exactly clean, our Mickey.

He has come up the hard way.

He's earned his position, shall we say.

Well, that was the early days,

and he cracked on with his New World pioneer spirit.

What's he worth today? 100, 200, 500 million?

But now the plot begins to thicken.

He has reached a crossroads in his life.

The middle class and the middle age, they've got to him.

They've corrupted his appetite for the horrors. He's gone soft.

He wanted to cash in his chips and get out of the game,

and he seems to have found the perfect customer.

Smash cut, please...

to interior, a gala dinner.

Just a few words to say thank you to Michael Pearson

for his limitless generosity and time.

Now, Mickey has been cultivating a special relationship

with the erudite, learned and broad-minded Matthew Berger.

Yes, Raymond, I do know about the Jewish billionaire cowboy,

another slice of Americana creating drama in Angleterre.

And finally to Matthew Berger blindsiding us with his donation

to build the entire cognitive behavioral therapy unit.

So these two have met before. Fuck knows where.

Presumably at the annual international drug dealers convention in Las Vegas.

And they've done some small deals together,

but now they're ready for the big one.

Well, that was unexpected, Matthew.

Now I understand why you're seated at the head of the table.

Snuck that one right by me, didn't you, you naughty little girl?

Making a splash with the gentry.

Oh, I like to make a splash whenever possible.

Well, you also seem to understand the significance of a proper attire.

Indeed I do.

I believe a sense of ownership

is vital in every aspect of life,

perhaps never more so than when it comes to wardrobe.

For every look there is a season, and for every season a strategy.

Now starts the alpha dance.

They're not really talking about clothes, Raymond.

Oh, fucking no.

They're like a pair of old doggies

sniffing round one another's intellectual assholes.

It's a good old-fashioned cock-off, Raymond.

Michael, I'm looking forward to doing business together.

- May we excuse ourselves? - Yes, please.

We should say good night to our host.

So what do you think?

I'm not sure.

Your Grace.

He's a fox,

and foxes have a predictable nature.

Trust this Jew about that Jew.

If you let him in the henhouse,

you can expect blood and feathers everywhere.

Fresh from a farmyard pheasant shoot,

these two are starting to like each other.

It's looking good, Ray. It's looking fucking good.

I'm impressed with what you've done with your enterprise.

You see, try as I might, I can't work out how you do it,

and bush is my game.

How does anyone grow 50 tons of super skunk

without letting anyone else know how they do it?

I'm flattered to hear that from you, Matthew.

I imagine that big brain of yours is sweating a stream of tears

just trying to figure it out.

Brilliance should be acknowledged.

Run the numbers by me again.

200 million gross p.a., 100 million net.

But your people know this already.

They've swept the numbers for months now.

The bottom line is I'll sell it to you for 400 million.

But you knew that already. Hop in.

Now, I can't be specific about the heroes and zeros,

but there was a lot of money hanging in the balance.

Question: What would it be worth to have the power

to be able to pull the plug on an operation like that?

Answer: A greedy man would want half the sale price,

but a smart man would know that 20 million pounds

was just about uncomfortable enough to make everyone feel comfortable.

You're a cunning and creative toad, aren't you, Fletcher,

coming up with a plan like this?

Yeah, but I didn't really come up with it, did I?

It was Big Dave.

He commissioned me to do a job on Mickey,

you know, sniff about, keep an eye on him,

go through his bins, reveal his sins.

Mickey Pearson, the odious Yankee gangster. We're gonna bury him.

Because it seems he's got himself a new friend. Lord Pressfield.

Question: Is that the Lord Pressfield?

His Grace, the duke?

Yeah. Once fourth in line to the throne.

Apparently Mickey Pearson has squeaked his way

into the crack of his fat, posh ass.

This is yours, Fletcher. I need a man with your creativity, with your nose.

Now, you know you're my favorite bloodhound.

I just think it's really important to remember

who you're talking to, Dave.

Of course I remember, Fletcher.

So just make absolutely sure the check doesn't disappoint this time.