We fade in on a grandiose vintage film studio logo, accompanied with a flourish of fanfare.

VAE VICTIS PRESENTS

KERRY KUROYAMA & SCOTT HUNTER

IN…

GETTIN’ SERIOUS

ANGELS WITH SHITTY PERSONALITIES

The titles go to black.

We fade in on a door, bearing the lettering, “SCOTT HUNTER & ASSOCIATES PRIVATE INVESTIGATION SERVICES”.

The slogan beneath reads, “DISCRETE, COMPLETE, AND SWEET ON OUR FEET”.

Beyond the door is Scott’s dark and dingy office apartment.

It’s clear from the state of affairs that there’s no secretary in his employ. Various old newspapers, changes of clothes, and empty Chinese food takeout containers litter the surfaces of most furnishings.

Hunter himself is seated in the swivel chair behind the desk, pouring the last few drops of Mott’s apple juice into his rock glass before dropping the bottle on top of a pile of similarly empty receptacles overflowing out of the near wastebasket.

Scott turns away from a half-opened window and holds an old voice recorder device to his lips. For some reason, soft jazz is playing, although we can’t identify the source.

Also for some reason, everything is in black and white.

“The city was buzzing with life, buzzing like flies in this red hot sticky metropolis, red like red hots, hot like red hots, sticky like red hots that fell out of your mouth and you picked them up, a metropolis like where Superman lives, Superman like Batman, Batman like… well, you get the picture. Only a man as brave as me could take on similes like these and more. There aren’t very many investigative firms that specialize in grammar. I’ll never forget the Great Adverb Massacre of 2004. It was terrible, but it worked out. It was an open and Schutt case.”

Scott nods to himself, the memories flooding back, and then going away.

“Still, business has been good. Good like a warm summer day. Warm like hot cinnamon rolls. Rolls like the rolls on Bobby Dean’s back. I already did the simile bit. That’s enough.”

A ceiling fan slowly rotates overhead, providing almost zero circulation, but its movement somehow serves as the only life in this otherwise dead room.

Scott allows a moment to savor the sweet, cidery bouquet of his drink before taking a sip, and then he swivels around to look out the window. Beyond the glass, the neon glow of Las Vegas shines back through the blinds, casting a staggered pattern of light and shadow across his face.

“Ah, Vegas. Once you’ve been down on the strip, under a million lights, accosted by every cracked-out ruffian under that electric sun, the dirt and grime stuck on the bottom of your shoe and doing all you can to not throw up from the stench, you’re never quite the same. The gamblers, the showgirls, the guy who does a bangin’ impression of Barry Manilow while people drink white Russians… Yeah, it reminded me of my childhood bedroom alright… right down to the roulette wheel that never seems to pay out…”

With another sip, he swivels back to the desk and props his feet on the table. His face disappears beneath the brim of his fedora.

A human shape appears in the fogged glass on the door. There are two knocks, and it swings open.

“Yo what’s happenin’, Wingman?,” says Kerry Kuroyama, propping an elbow on the jam to brace a cool, casual leaning posture. “Totally got the lowdown on… those… um…”

He trails off, noticing that everything’s monochrome and carrying a heavy noir vibe, and he’s standing there in a lime green Don Johnson eyesore.

“Shit, wrong decade,” he mutters. “Give me a sec…”

Kuroyama disappears. After a brief off-screen commotion, he reappears in a period-appropriate zoot suit and fedora.

“What I meant to say was, what’s cookin’?” he says while shuffling into the office. “Got the dope on the latest pair of yucks that come crawlin’ outta the funny papers.”

Hunter swipes a layer of trash clear from the desk and nods to the empty spot.

“Spill the beans, then, see…” he says, popping his collar.

Kuroyama opens his coat and pulls out a manilla folder. A pair of black and white eight-by-ten photos come out, and he slides the first across the desk.

“This one goes by the lovin’ handle of Daytona Diamonds,” says Kerry. “Fancies himself a real rhinestone cowboy, see? But word is he ain’t nothin’ more than a real lowlife. The ringleader of a whole gang of other lowlifes, too. Got a rap sheet as long as your arm, figurin’ you to be a gorilla. If it’s a crime, then this mook has done it. Abuse of the ol’ bambalacha and pixie powder… operatin’ an unregistered water recreation vehicle… wanton assault on a clinically deceased equine…”

Scott makes a sucking sound through his teeth.

“Won ton assault, eh??”

He leans forward angrily.

“NO ONE ATTACKS CHINESE DUMPLINGS IN MY TOWN!!”

“Don’t go flippin’ your lid just yet, 'cause here’s his partner in crime,” said Kerry, setting the second photo beside Daytona’s grinning face. “This one’s a real genuine man of the cloth. Father Don Winters. Clean as they come, I reckon. Honest livin’, hard workin’, and God fearin’. And plenty of moxie to go with. Always there to offer an ear or a shoulder or even a good ol’ pat on the back to anyone who comes knockin’ on his door. Must not mind the bite of fleas, though, if he’s lyin’ with this Diamonds dog. Cowboys fer Christ they’re called. Like night and day, these two.”

Hunter quietly drinks and observes the pair of headshots.

“I see,” Scott says, squinting two eyes that have seen it all. “Lassos and the Lord, Gaucho and God, Bronco and the Bishop, tough to beat, standing together as one, yet differenter than a rabbit and a coyote (pronounced “KY-OAT”), Ying and Yang, Felix and Oscar, Spy vs. Spy, Baskin and Robbins, Captain and Tenille, Roe and Wade…”

Kerry concurs with a nod. “Can’t for the life of me figure how a pair of complete opposites could get on the same page.”

He pauses when he realizes what he just said, and briefly flashes the camera the standard anxious monkey puppet side-glance.

“Well, if a slice of cherry pie like me and a mean cup of black coffee like you can partner up, hunker down, and get serious,” says Scott, twisting the cap off another bottle of apple juice pulled from his desk drawer. “Suppose it’s only natural to expect these two anchor crankers can do the same. Do you know what an anchor cranker is, Ker-bear? I don’t either, but it damn sure ain’t good.”

He pours himself another drink, and fixes one for Kerry as well.

As the glass slides into his hand, Kerry’s gaze fixates on the photo of Winters.

“They got at least one thing in common, though,” he says, taking a swig and wincing from the sweetness. “Ten pounds of precious metal around their waists. Which means we’d be nothin’ but a regular pair of fat-heads if we go walkin’ into this as any ordinary gumshoe ham-and-eggers.”

Hunter thinks for a moment before coming to his feet and grabbing his trench coat off the hook.

“Grab your coat and fire up the boiler, partner,” he says. “It’s time to hit the streets.”

Though the sun is setting on the Mojave Desert, the Vegas strip never goes dark.

Kerry is behind the wheel of a vintage Caddy, with Scott in the passenger seat. The egressing road viewable through the back window is clearly the effect of a rear projection screen.

“We’re here,” says Kerry, cranking the wheel and “pulling up” to the curb.

The Wingmen step out into a street nestled in a run-down part of the city. An old, dilapidated building looms on the corner. Between the random flickers coming off a busted neon sign hanging over the entrance, the destination can be identified as “ALLAKHAZAM’S CASINO”.

“Joint’s owned by a coupla regular vaudevillians,” explains Kuroyama. “Or vaude-villains, if you’d prefer. Carlo and Gomez Amaretto. Came up through the magic revue racket before they brought their clownshow into wrasslin’. Even so, word on the street is that they’re the best local info brokers.” “Ah yes,” Scott smiles. “The Amorous Armadillos. I had something of a Classic run-in with the two of them a few years back. We must be cautious.”

Rather than go in through the front, Scott and Kerry duck into an alley that leads further into the back.

Through a winding, narrow corridor of concrete and steaming pipes, they arrive at a rear door with a slot at eye-level. Scott gives it the “shave and a haircut” knock.

After a moment, the plate covering the slot slides aside. A pair of eyes appear, but don’t seem to focus on either one of them.

“What’s the passwoyd?” asks the gravelly voice on the other side.

Kerry clears his throat and leans in close.

“‘This is a message’,” he whispers.

The plate slides back into place, followed by the sound of the door unlatching.

Then it slowly and dramatically comes open…

Slow pan up from a set of veiny legs to a pair of drooping hips to a blightful vista of sagging cleavage to a lit cigarette dangling from a cracked set of lips and finally to a set of tired, lifeless eyes that scream “I’m dead inside.”

“Name’s Suzie,” she says in salutation. “And just Suzie. Couldn’t tell youse the last name, on account of all the ex-husbands.”

Kuroyama visibly shudders.

“We’re here to see the proprietors, which I’m told means ‘person who owns a place’” says Scott, staying on the business. “They available to answer a few questions?”

Suzie says nothing. She takes a puff off her gilded cigarette holder, turns, and leads the two inside. Sparing a moment to exchange reluctant glances, Scott and Kerry follow her in.

Scott stares at Suzie as they walk, and he muses as they keep pace.

“She had the body of a sweet potato casserole, the hips of a deflated apple pie, the face of a slightly burned but still edible honey ham, and the walk of a bag full of cornbread dressing. Wait, that’s my menu for Thanksgiving.”

A beat.

“She was gross.”

They stop.

Kerry turns to his partner. “Dude, you aren’t supposed to say the voiceovers out loud.”

“Ehh, I’ve been called woyse,” says Suzie with indifference.

She looks Scott up and down, and after a moment, smiles a crooked smile, and winks.

“Good thing you’re a cutie pie.”

She pinches Scott’s cheek, then turns and continues to lead them on. Kerry, again, shudders.

The passage leads down a short flight of stairs. A doorway leads into a dingy underground lounge where no more than a half dozen shifty-looking spectators sit at small, candlelit tables, smoking cigarettes and drinking cocktails while leering at the stage.

Beneath the lights, a menagerie of colorful characters appear to be engaged in a chaotic battle royal, sans the ring and ropes.

A man in a straight jacket bounces wildly from one end of the stage to the next, either trying to escape or doing his damned best to use his torso as a weapon.

Another man is juggling an assortment of fruits and melons, occasionally throwing citric projectiles at his many opponents.

A third man in a leotard tumbles and dives through a series of flaming hoops, sometimes doing flares of aggressive parkour against the other participants.

Meanwhile, an actual goddamn clown rides around on a unicycle, honking a horn and spraying various people with seltzer while laughing in hysteria.

Some sort of “fight” is taking place, although it’s clear that no one involved is doing anything of practical use. Kuroyama, naturally, scoffs at the sight of this rampant bullshittery.

“What sleazy racket is this?” he mutters in absolute repugnance. “Is this wrestling, or a circus sideshow?”

Suzie shrugs. “I don’t know nothin’ bout no rackets. I’m just paid to be the lovely assistant.”

“‘Lovely’,” echoes Kuroyama with a roll of his eyes. “Right…” Scott shrugs. “I don’t know what you don’t see in her. I find at least two of her moles to be absolutely symmetrical.”

Suddenly, slightly muffled music begins to play. Wagner’s classic, “Ride of the Valkyries”.

Everyone awkwardly stands there looking at each other, until it becomes apparent that it’s coming from Kuroyama’s pants.

“Shit… one sec,” he says, pulling out his phone and sliding out of the shot…

Kuroyama’s heart raced at the sight of the letter “Z” on his screen. After jogging a short distance away from the others, the phone came to his ear.

“What’s buzzin’, cousin?” he said excitedly.

The initial response was a brief pause, followed by a very confused, “The fuck?”

Kerry pulled the fedora off his head in a symbolic act to pull himself out of character.

“Sorry, I mean, what’s up, Zee? Tell me you got good news.”

On the other end, Zack Daymon cleared his throat.

“You realize that good news implies the existence of bad news?”

A brief pang of anxiety washed over him, driving his heart to pound even more insistently. He let out a breath and braced himself for whatever may come.

“...let’s hear it then.”

There was another pause on the line as Zack winded up for the pitch.

“Marina called yesterday.”

Kerry’s jaw tensed up.

“And…?”

“And… she sounded pretty pissed,” said Daymon. “Would very much like you to leave her family alone while Beto repairs and recovers, and all that.”

Kerry spat, the anger within him reaching its flashpoint.

“If she’s got something to say to me, then the next time, she can--”

He stopped himself.

The hell am I doing?

He reigned it in, knowing there was nothing to be gained in feeding this particular fire. While he recomposed, Daymon remained silent, allowing his cousin to come to his own conclusions.

“You were right, Zee,” said Kerry, following a sigh. “I should’ve left it alone. Is it too late to just wash our hands of this and move on?”

“Never,” replied Zack. “But now that that’s out of the way, how about some good news?”

The smile returned.

“Yeah, hit me.”

Another pause for another wind-up. Kerry could practically visualize the smirk appearing on Zack’s face.

“I think we have a place.”

Kerry thrust a fist into the air.

“Goddamnit, YES!”

Good news, indeed.

Finding a property to serve as the new school’s foundation had been a stressful venture. Weeks of studying the insane real estate market of Seattle had delivered him to one dead end after the next.

It seemed they were getting to a point where it would become necessary to explore alternative options until Zack offered to take over the search while Kerry focused on the “what have you down in Vegas”, as Daymon put it.

“Only seen photos so far,” Zack continued. “But from what I’ve seen, it has everything we’re looking for. Location, floorspace, parking, locker rooms… it’s great, man. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“Send me the link,” said Kerry. “What’s the rent like?”

When he heard the number, Kuroyama’s face twisted in confusion.

“Nah, that can’t be right,” he said with a shake of his head. “There has to be zero missing there. Trust me, Seattle property values are not that low.”

“That’s the exact number, Kay,” Zack reaffirmed. “At least, according to the owners.”

“How’d you find them?”

“Well, truth be told… they sorta found me.”

“Interesting…”

“Yeah, I thought the same. Apparently heard through the grapevine that we were in the market, so they reached out.”

“So when can I meet them?”

“I’ll have something set up by the time you get back from Vegas.”

“Perfect,” said Kerry with a nod. “I’ll leave it to you then, Zee. And… thanks. I’m glad I have you with me on this.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Zack, doing a bad job of concealing the sense of gratitude from his voice. “Like I said, man, I just want to help carry the burden. Give you a chance to focus on Winters. Enjoy Vegas in the meantime, and be safe coming home.”

“I appreciate it. See you when I’m back in Seattle then.”

Kerry hung up, and dropped the phone back into his pocket…

…and he comes sliding right back into the black and white world of noir mystery.

“Sorry about that,” he quickly apologizes. “Where were we?”

Suzie ashes her cigarette and nods in the direction of a curtained-off doorway leading further into the building. “Follow me…”

She pulls the curtain aside granting them access, but doesn’t follow as Kerry and Scott pass through the threshold.

Beyond, they enter the managers’ office. The room is crammed with what appear to be props from a magic act.

Nobody is there to greet them, save for two empty plush chairs sitting behind a pair of matching oak desks.

“If I didn’t know any better, partner,” says Kerry. “I’d say we’re bein’ bamboozled right now.”

Then, a light explosion goes off behind them. They twirl in time to see a plume of purple smoke suddenly rise from the floor.

When the smoke clears, a mustachioed man in a luxurious top hat and tuxedo has materialized from thin air, greeting them with a serpent’s smile.

“AVANTI, Monsieur Hunter!” exclaims Carlo Amaretto

Another explosion. Another plume of smoke. Another man in a tuxedo suddenly appearing, with the exact same face and smile.

“And AVANTI, Monsieur Kuroyama!” proclaims Gomez Amaretto.

Ever the showmen, the Amaretto twins spin, do-si-do, and break into matching poses, looking like mirror images of one another.

“Welcome to the humble abode of the AMAZING AMARETTOS!” Carlo exalted.

“What manner of MAGIC brings you to our fine, professional establishment?” inquired his twin, Gomez. Scott leans toward Kerry and whispers. “I like their capes.” Kerry ignores him.

“Enough of the gobbledygook and get serious here, you garish goons,” Kuroyama impatiently snaps at the twin magicians, pulling the folder from his coat and flashing the photos. “We’re here for some dirt on this pair of palookas you see here. Don Winters and Daytona Diamonds. Whaddya know about ‘em?”

The Amaretto brothers look between the photographs before looking at one another. Their smiles only seem to widen.

“Ah, so a MYSTERY is afoot!” says one.

“There is but only one reliable way to seek out the answer!” says the other.

Kerry seethes. “I swear to God, if either one of you says m--”

“MAGIQUE!!” they announce in unison.

Kerry spasms, suppressing the urge to slug one of them in the face. Probably because he can’t immediately decide which one to go for, since they’re nearly identical.

Carlo Amaretto’s hands shuffle with hypnotic movements. When they stop, he fans out a deck of cards with the faces held down toward Scott. Scott gets a great big goofy grin on his face.

“Pick a card!” he says. “ANY card!”

Scott takes a moment to ponder his pick before pulling one out seemingly at random, and flipping it over.

“The King of Diamonds!” says Carlo. “Strongest of his suit, yet for all his wrath, his lone eye leaves him blind to half the world around him!”

Scott mulls over this riddle while the other Amaretto approaches his Wingman.

“Now…” begins Gomez, before suddenly holding up a perfectly arranged chessboard toward Kerry. “Pick a piece! ANY piece!”

Kuroyama groans before reluctantly pointing at the diagonal menace in white, standing beside the King piece.

“The Ivory Bishop!” says Gomez. “Though his reach is long and far, he is powerless to control that which lies ahead, behind, and at his flanks!”

Kerry sneers his best sour milk face.

“We come down here to this creep joint gunnin’ for dope, and you two give us nothin’ but hogwash,” he says. “I oughta paste the both of you for wastin’ our time, but lucky for you, those knuckle sandwiches are already bought and paid for.” Scott points at them threateningly. “And they’re footlongs!!”

“Let’s dust, partner,” says Kerry, giving Scott a nudge. “Looks like the trail’s run cold.”

They turn for the door from whence they came, leaving the Amarettos to bristle and grouse.

“Thick-skulled ruffians!” shouts Carlo. “Our divining services aren’t free, you know!”

“You’re dealing with professionals here!” adds Gomez. “You can expect the bill in the mail!”

Kerry waves them off as they pass through the curtained doorway and back into the lounge. On the stage, the chaos continues, with the camisole-wearing geek apparently gaining an edge over the others, somehow without the use of his arms.

“Mumblin’ morons,” grumbles Kerry. “One-eyed kings and bushwhacked bishops… can you make any sense of that mumbo-jumbo?”

Scott silently shrugs, but continues to ponder on the words left to them by the bedazzling brothers.

On their way out, they pass by Suzie, reclining against the bar and smoking down another cigarette. Hunter flips her a quarter.

“Keep the change, doll,” he says. “Get yourself some blush.”

She winks.

“Call me, stud.”