Hollywood Homicide2003

Hank the Bartender:
[hands them their drinks] The doctor's in. Help is on its way.

K.C.:
Thanks, Hank. [sighs] Something wrong, Joe?

Joe:
What do ya mean, "Something wrong?"

K.C.:
You seem down.

Joe:
Down? Me?

K.C.:
Lately. Yeah.

Joe:
We've been partners for what, four months, and now you wanna be my shrink?

K.C.:
Sometimes it helps to talk. That's all I'm saying. [drinks his beer]

Joe:
All right. Let me paint you a picture. Portrait of Joe Gavilan. Seven, eight years ago, I sold off the results of my entrepreneurial efforts up to that point: Three tanning salons and two original silk-tip nail parlors in the Antelope Valley, and I started attending weekend Real Estate seminars at the Airport Hyatt. You know, "How to Make $1 Million in Real Estate with Very Little Money Down."

K.C.:
Sounds good.

Joe:
Started out with a condo in Sherman Oaks. Slapped some paint on the walls. Refaced the kitchen cabinets. Traded up to a smoke-damaged ranch in Tarzana, then a Spanish on Outpost, and a fake Mediterranean in Los Feliz. Pretty soon, I had everything I've got tied up in this... this monstrosity... on Mt. Olympus, at the corner of Hercules and, I sh*t you not, Achilles.

K.C.:
So what's the problem?

Joe:
The problem is if I don't score a big commission or get rid of this... piece of sh*t on Mt. Olympus... well, the word *Titanic* comes to mind.

K.C.:
Joe, I know a girl who works for some rich producer. Says he might sell his place. Maybe you can get the listing.

Joe:
Got a name?

K.C.:
Well, her name's like Minnie or Moma. Or something like that, I don't remember.

Joe:
Not the girl, hot rocks, the producer.

K.C.:
Oh, I don't know the producer. Way before my time, I...