| (Continued from Scenes 1-10.) 11. EXT. WHITE HOUSE - NIGHT 
A black limo drives up to the White House. Marine Guard opens the limo door. Ford, Young, and Bowie get out. 12. INT. WHITE HOUSE - HALLWAY Ford, Young, and Bowie follow SECRET SERVICE OFFICER down a corridor to the Oval Office. SECRET SERVICE OFFICER The President said to sit down and make yourselves comfortable. He’ll be with you in a minute. 
13. INT. OVAL OFFICE Ford, Young and Bowie sit in front of the presidential desk, their faces grim, their postures stiff. MAN’S VOICE (OS) Take care of yourself, y'hear? A side door opens. Enters PRESIDENT WILLIAM E. CANAL (49) -- beefy, bull-nosed, a shock of grey hair, in shirt sleeves sans tie, a huge smile on his florid face -- casually zipping up his pants. Canal seats himself behind the presidential desk, reaches for the presidential humidor, pulls out a cigar. PRESIDENT CANAL I need a fresh one. Still wearing his smile, he extends the humidor to Ford. But his hard eyes say this isn’t an act of kindness. PRESIDENT CANAL Have a see-gar, boys. With clenched jaws, Ford shakes his head. YOUNG Thank you, no, Mr. President. I don't smoke. Canal LAUGHS, but his eyes fixed on Ford aren’t laughing. PRESIDENT CANAL Go ahead. Cuba's finest. From old hairy-face Fidel himself. The Secret Service boys say they’re fit for human consumption. And I guarantee it. Ford grimly shakes his head. He still don't want no fucking see-gar. Canal LAUGHS. Raises his eyebrows, eyes still hard, clips the end off his cigar, rolls it under his nose, savors the aroma, licks the tender leaf. Looks at his three CIA chiefs. Waits. No offer to light him comes. Canal GRUNTS sourly, lights his own smoke, puts his feet up on the desk, leans back, takes another lick on the cigar, blows a huge smoke ring. Bowie reaches for the humidor. BOWIE Oh, what the hell. Canal LAUGHS. PRESIDENT CANAL Now what can I do for you boys? Y’all look mighty serious. Matt here filled me in on your story. What’s wrong with takin’ these guys down? YOUNG Mr. President, it’s been a long time now and if this doesn’t come off smoothly, a real shit storm is going to come down. Canal glares at Young, looks darkly at Bowie. PRESIDENT CANAL And what’s your problem, Bowie? BOWIE I’m with Cliff, Mr. President. These people have powerful family connections all over Latin America. Except for this, they’ve been very supportive of the United States. Canal slams his feet to the floor, stands, bellows. PRESIDENT CANAL “Except for this?” God dammit, they murdered a great man! Do what you have to do, and you damned well better not leave any loose ends. Now get the fuck outta here. 14. INT. WHITE HOUSE DRIVEWAY - LIMOUSINE Ford, Young, and Bowie, their faces grim, sit silently as the limo drives away from the White House. Then -- BOWIE What did he mean? “Do what you have to do. No loose ends.” Both these guys are married. They've got kids in college in the United States, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews all over Latin America. Does he want us to exterminate the whole family? YOUNG That's what Machiavelli advised Cesar Borgia. Kill the whole kit and caboodle, or sure as hell some snot-nosed kid is going to grow up with just one goal in life: to avenge his father by killing you. FORD For God’s sake. That was then. This is now. I don't like where this is taking us. God dammit! Unless I get a written order, signed personally by Canal, you just take out Marco and Roberto. Leave their families out of it. They want to go on with the vendetta, that’s their problem. BOWIE Right, chief. That’ll make it OK. Right? FORD Don’t be a smart ass, Bowie. And you better be damned sure you do them both at the same time. We don’t want one of them warning the other. And deep-six those damned records. We don’t want to open up that can of worms. BOWIE (aside to Young) Think we should tell him what really went down? YOUNG (aside to Bowie) Don’t waste your breath. FORD What did you say? What’s going on? YOUNG Nothing, Chief. Just a sick joke. FORD God dammit. Don’t mess with me or some wise guy is going to end up interrogating Eskimos. Maybe both of you. Canal can be dangerous. 
15. EXT. CABO SAN LUCAS – GIGGLING MARLIN - NIGHT Street CROWD NOISE mingles with BLARING MUSIC and SHOUTS of revelers coming from the nightclub. 16. INT. GIGGLING MARLIN “STAYING ALIVE” blasts from LOUD SPEAKERS. The tables around the small dance floor are packed. At the far end of the room, a cartoon of a huge fish holding a fishing rod stands beside a cross-beam block and tackle rig. FIRST WAITER and SECOND WAITER are hoisting a YOUNG WOMAN upside down. Young Woman SCREAMS, struggles, pulls on her skirts to cover her bottom parts. Doesn’t make it. YOUNG WOMAN Help. Please let me down. Please. Crowd’s ribald LAUGHTER drowns out her protests. THIRD WAITER rushes up, cradles Young Woman’s head on his lap. Forces her to drink a tequila banger. She chokes on the foaming liquid, abandons all modesty efforts. Crowd ROARS. 
Mona, clad in skin-tight purple shorts, white tank top and sandals, sits with two burly SPORT FISHERMEN at a table littered with beer bottles. Mona nods to the music, stares into her beer. Sport Fishermen stare at Mona’s breasts. The background MUSIC changes to a TANGO. DANCER (35), a handsome Latino, mike in hand, prances onto the floor, circles the tables. DANCER Come on, ladies, dance wi’ me. You can do eet. Come on. I show you. No problema. Dancer makes it around to Mona’s table with no takers, cries to the audience -- DANCER (continuing) Hey, look’ a’ wha’ we have here, folks. Thees pretty lady can dance, I jus’ know eet. FIRST SPORT FISHERMAN Hey, Mona. You've been telling us you used to be a professional dancer. Come on, give him a go. SECOND SPORT FISHERMAN Yeah, Mona, go for it. CROWD Go for it, Mona. Yeah, Mona. Dancer eyes Mona's lush breasts and long, tanned legs, gallantly extends his hands. DANCER Come, señorita, come dance wi’ me. Mona hesitates, shrugs, tipsily gets to her feet, trips to dance floor center spot. Dancer is close behind. The music strikes a CHORD. Dancer, pressed behind Mona, forces her arms into a cross. Dancer, looking sublimely innocent, cups her breasts with his hands. Mona indignantly tries to snatch the mischievous hands but too late. They’ve moved to her pelvis. The Crowd ROARS with LAUGHTER. The comic routine repeats. Another CHORD. Dancer again forces Mona’s arms into the cross, chucks her under her chin to force her head up. The music SWELLS. The dancers glide forward sensuously, Mona seemingly under Dancer’s total control. The music tempo INCREASES. Dancer forces Mona into ever faster and more complex steps, ending a spinning climax with Mona on the verge of collapse. Dancer escorts her back to her table. Crowd YELLS, APPLAUDS. Mona sinks into her chair, grabs a bottle, gulps the beer. FIRST SPORT FISHERMAN Hey, you really are a pro, Mona. SECOND SPORT FISHERMAN I thought you said you were a yacht skipper. It looks to me like you and this guy have been working together a long time. FIRST SPORT FISHERMAN Yeah, Mona. You tryin’ to hustle us? MONA Hey, fellas. No way. I haven't danced professionally for three, four years. This guy is really good. He was forcing me all the way. I was so tired, I liked to die. Sport Fishermen eye Mona suspiciously, look up as FRED FINGER (40), tall, powerfully built, approaches Mona. Fred whispers in her ear. Sport Fishermen bristle. Second Sport Fisherman starts to rise. Mona puts her hand on his arm. MONA (continues) Down, boy. It’s okay, guys. It’s only Fred. What's up, Fred? FRED Can we step outside, Mona? It's too noisy to talk in here. MONA Come on, Fred. I'm with friends, can't you see? SECOND SPORT FISHERMAN Yeah, Fred. Fuck off. CROWD Fuck off, Fred. Mona stands up. MONA Watch it, guys. Management is quick to call the cops. Mexican jails can really teach you the virtue of being polite. Believe me, you don't want to screw with them. So cool it. I’ll be back. FRED Thanks, guys. FIRST SPORT FISHERMAN Fuck off, asshole. 17. EXT. OUTSIDE GIGGLING MARLIN – NIGHT Mona and Fred walk along the busy sidewalk. MONA Jesus, Fred. I'm right on the edge of a score, big time. These guys are dirty. I know it. FRED Sorry, Mona. My orders come from the top. Mona and Fred approach a cast iron bench, sit. MONA CIA don't mean shit to me, Fred. I’m DEA. You know I work for a piece of the action. I’m not on a salary with full benefits like you free loaders. FRED You wish. Anyhow, we need your special talents for this job, so there's five Gs in it for you. MONA Hey. Who do I have to kill? FRED Nah, that's my line of work. (Continue to Scenes 18-36.) | 
