EXT. LOS ANGELES CITY SCAPE -- NIGHT

                The City of Dreams invites... a shiny, jewel encrusted
                crown whispering to be taken.  

                Various SHOTS of the city -- HOLLYWOOD, the BEACHES,
                DOWNTOWN -- all busy, active with the fast hordes of
                night dwellers and party people.



                EXT. THE BEVERLEY CENTER -- NIGHT

                Suburbia. Late evening. The mall is



                INT. COSMETICS COUNTER 

                thin with people. Dr. PHILIP DARDICK, 57, curly white
                hair and goatee stands next to his wife, SUSAN, 43. A
                bored look on Dardick's face, Susan samples cosmetics
                provided by the female CLERK.

                                      DARDICK
                          I'll be right back. 

                Susan doesn't even look up as Dardick heads off to the 



                INT. BATHROOM  

                with five urinals, all in a row. The farthest has a
                misspelled sign: "Out of ORDEER". Next to it is a urinal
                continuously running water. Dardick heads to the farthest
                working unit.

                He stands, starts to do his business when, from nowhere,
                a WHITE VESTED MAN is on his left, much too close.
                Dardick notices the man has a red rose in his lapel.
                Realizing he's staring, he turns his head away quickly to
                the other side. 

                And there stands a BLACK VESTED MAN, also with a red rose
                in his lapel. 

                Dardick turns to White Vested Man with every intention of
                pointing out this strange coincidence, only to find the
                White Vested Man pointing a silenced, small caliber
                pistol at Dardick's head.

                Shocked, he turns the other way to find that the Black
                Vested Man holds an identical small caliber and silenced
                gun pointed at his stomach. 

                Dardick doesn't hear either of the guns FIRE.



                INT. COSMETICS COUNTER 

                Susan continues shopping. Oblivious.



                INT. BATHROOM 

                Dardick lies on the tile, blood pooling around his body.
                His left arm is stuck in the ever cycling urinal. It
                OVERFLOWS, causing a crimson river to roll down and out
                the floor drain. 

                                      QUINN (V.O.)
                          If you don't mind taking it as it turns
                          out, it's a fine life... 



                INT. RAGE -- NIGHT

                LOUD PULSATING MUSIC. Endless sea of dancing BOYS, all
                clad in identical club wear. Everyone MOVES to the
                relentless pounding of trance music.

                                      QUINN (V.O.)
                          ...Mine, that is. It's one full of fun
                          people, interesting places, and grand
                          events. See, I'm a private detective and
                          it all goes with the job.

                One by one, the nearly identical patrons slide past,
                until QUINN PARIS comes into view. He's 27, looks years
                younger with an angelic face, jade eyes, and a ball cap
                pulled over his CINNAMON locks. Tight, tight clothes live
                on his body. Another perfect guy in a perfect crowd.

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          You're laughing. Me? How could I possibly
                          be a private dick in this sea of public
                          ones?

                DEVON, late 30's, fashionable scruffy, day old beard,
                slightly out of place, whispers into Quinn's ears. 

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          How could I possibly be anything but?

                Quinn laughs. He's dragged off to the bar by Devon.
                Devon's hands rest firmly on Quinn's ass. 

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          The best part of it isn't the playing,
                          the come-ons, the getting them to trust
                          you.

                Devon's hands' keep trying to run the bases on Quinn's
                body.

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          Nor is it the reveal...

                Quinn whispers into Devon's EAR. Devon's face goes ashen. 

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          When you let the mark know the gig is up,
                          that his cheating, lies, and deceptions
                          are over and you've got the goods to
                          prove it. 

                Quinn pulls out a super slim, deck of cards size Sony DCR
                IP7BT super slim VIDEO CAMERA. He flips open the view
                screen. Presses play.

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          It's not when they get angry and think
                          they can destroy the only evidence you
                          have.

                Devon slaps the camera away. It SHATTERS when it hits the
                bar.

                Quinn smiles.

                Devon throws A PUNCH.

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          It's not even when they get stupid and a
                          throw a punch and you get to remind them
                          who the bitch really is. 

                Quinn steps to the side, then uses Devon's punch for the
                momentum needed to send the man SAILING OVER THE BAR. 

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          No, the best part of this is getting
                          paid, very well, for having so much fun.  

                PATRONS scramble toward the bar trying to see what
                happened. In the confusion, Quinn walks out, still
                smiling.

                                      QUINN (V.O.) (cont'd)
                          It's a fine, fine life.

                SOUND FX -- Motorcycle engine open full throttle.

                                                                 CUT TO:



                EXT. STREET - NIGHT

                The ice blue motorcycle screeches out of the night.
                Quinn, in jet BLACK racing attire, rides the Suzuki GSX
                1300R Hayabusa (hi-ah-boo-sah "Falcon") in a
                freewheeling, care free flight. 

                At a LIGHT, he slides up next to a Porsche 968s, fire
                engine red, with polished chrome wheels. A QUIET MOMENT,
                then a silent challenge is extended between the two. Then
                the 968s shifts and accelerates, racing ahead of Quinn.  

                Quinn waits a moment then throttles up an ANSWERING CALL
                as the liquid cooled, 172 horse power engine LAUNCHES him
                down the



                STREET

                The red Porsche is ALONE -- until victory is killed
                soundly as the Hayabusa screams past. 



                EXT. PIERCE'S HIGH RISE -- WILSHIRE CANYONS -- NIGHT

                FRANKIE, 36, pulls a pack of MARLBORO from his doorman's
                uniform, flips open his lighter and raises the flame to
                his CIGARETTE. 

                The sound DESCENDS around him. Quinn and the Hayabusa
                streak towards him on a collision course. Frankie finds
                that he just can't move... 

                The cycle comes to a HALT just a few inches from Frankie.
                His  cigarette is now firmly TOASTED by the lighter's
                flame.

                Recovering quickly:

                                      FRANKIE
                          You fucking son of a bitch! You could
                          have killed me! You moron! If I wasn't
                          working I'd--

                Quinn unclasps the top of his racing jacket. Pulls the
                helmet from his head. He runs his HANDS though his RED
                HAIR. He fixes his JADE EYES on the doorman. 

                                      QUINN
                                (softly)
                          Do you mind if I keep my bike right here.
                          It's rather valuable, and I'd like to
                          entrust it to your care.

                Transfixed by the eyes, sensing something dangerous or
                through some combination of the two, Frankie reaches out
                for the keys.

                                      FRANKIE
                          Yeah-yeah. Sure-sure. 

                Quinn leaves the racing jacket behind and enters the
                building in a wrinkled, white dress shirt. 

                                      QUINN
                          Party is in the penthouse, right?

                                      FRANKIE
                          Yeah.

                                      QUINN
                          You are very kind.

                Frankie stands there holding Quinn's helmet as the door
                to the building swings shut.