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CONFIDENTIAL INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY • THE SULTAN'S TABLE (DOUBLE DOWN OR DIE, DINNER SEQUENCE)
WGA WEST REGISTERED • U.S. COPYRIGHT OFFICE APPLICATION PENDING
Continued from The Hard Deck (Scenes 13–16) — picks up immediately after Binion's Horseshoe, Saturday into Sunday
EXT. BINION'S HORSESHOE – FREMONT STREET – SUNDAY, 12:05 A.M.
Neon washes the sidewalk. Fred holds the door for Rayna out of pure reflex. She steps into the warm night and breathes.
RAYNA
We must get out of this smoke, Mr. Memphis. There's a place I love, and it's where I'm staying tonight. I'll hail us a cab.
FRED
Don't worry, ma'am. I've got the cab.
He walks ten yards down the sidewalk, sets two fingers to his mouth, and whistles — a Marine's whistle that could stop traffic. Two taxis pass, both full.
Behind him, a long black car glides to the curb beside Rayna, engine already warm. A CHAUFFEUR steps out, a woman in a black uniform and white gloves. She opens the rear door without a word.
RAYNA
(calling down the sidewalk, delighted)
Oh Fred, oh Fred, let's try this black cab instead.
Fred turns and walks back. He looks at the car, the driver, the warm hood. He checks his watch.
FRED
That's not a cab.
RAYNA
It has four wheels and it's going where we're going.
FRED
I said I'd get the cab.
RAYNA
And you nearly did. It's already paid for, Mr. Memphis. Not even you can refuse a car that's already been paid for.
He glances back. Under the Horseshoe marquee, the Pit Boss stands with his cigar, watching. Tommy waits at the curb. Fred lifts one flat hand: hold. Tommy nods. Fred gets in.
[SCENE END]
★ ★ ★
INT. LIMOUSINE – MOVING – CONTINUOUS
The interior is cool, silent, and smells of expensive leather and orange blossom. A soft amber map light glows against the mahogany grain.
Rayna slides into the plush leather seat, settling with the practiced grace of royalty taking a throne.
Fred gets in beside her, his wide frame filling his half of the cabin. The heavy door snaps shut, sealing out the raw roar of Fremont Street. The limousine pulls smoothly into the neon midnight traffic.
Rayna reaches toward a built-in mahogany bar cabinet, pulls a crystal decanter, and uncorks it. Beside it sits a small silver dish of dates, already waiting.
RAYNA
Cognac? Or is a decorated Marine strict about his operating hours?
FRED
I'm off the clock, ma'am. But I stick to water when the stakes are still on the table.
RAYNA
(smiling, pouring a half-finger for herself)
The stakes are always on the table, Mr. Memphis. That is the only reason to sit down.
She takes a tiny sip, watching him over the rim of the glass. Her dark eyes reflect the passing lights of the Strip.
RAYNA (CONT'D)
You resemble a man who does not fight for money. You seem like you're fighting for more time.
FRED
Time's the only currency that doesn't print more of itself.
RAYNA
You are a real Jean-Paul Sartre in a trench coat. How rare for Las Vegas... Most men here are really trying to buy back their yesterdays.
FRED
I'm not looking back. I've got somewhere to be by Monday morning, and Monday doesn't wait for anybody.
RAYNA
Ah. A man with an appointment.
FRED
You make it your business to read everybody, Miss Pulcher?
RAYNA
Only the men who whistle for cabs like they're calling air strikes.
(lifting the silver dish)
And the ones who haven't eaten since Friday. Have a date.
FRED
Ma'am, I'm married.
RAYNA
It's a fruit, Mr. Memphis.
Fred looks at the dish. His stomach answers for him. He takes one.
RAYNA (CONT'D)
(quietly)
The first yes I've had from you all night.
She leans back, looking out the tinted window as the glittering facade of the Dunes appears in the distance, its towering fiberglass Sultan glowing under a halo of amber neon.
RAYNA (CONT'D)
Tonight, we leave Monday morning in Memphis. Tonight, we dine like rulers who have just signed a treaty.
FRED
Where are we going?
RAYNA
The Sultan's Table.
FRED
(a dry chuckle)
The Dunes? Rayna... look at this place. A fiberglass sultan out front, gold leaf on drywall, plastic palms.
RAYNA
You Americans built an empire out of plaster and cardboard, and you call it magic.
FRED
(takes a breath, unfazed)
Well, hell... we should've gone to Caesars Palace then! At least there they got plastic gladiators to guard the salad bar.
Rayna breaks into a genuine laugh, rich and musical.
RAYNA
Oh, Mr. Memphis... “If music be the food of love, play on.”
FRED
That Shakespeare?
RAYNA
Twelfth Night. The Sultan's Table keeps violins for exactly that reason.
FRED
Ma'am, I'd settle for the food.
RAYNA
(a private smile)
Patience. In my experience, appetite improves with waiting.
The limousine glides beneath the grand porte-cochère of the Dunes. Before it stops, the door is opened from outside by NADIA (20s, strikingly beautiful, ivory suit, a leather portfolio under one arm), Rayna's assistant, who travels with her and has gone ahead. Her composure is thin.
[SCENE END]
★ ★ ★
EXT. THE DUNES HOTEL – CONTINUOUS
Fred steps out first, offering a hand to Rayna. She takes it, her grip surprisingly firm, cool, and precise.
NADIA
(low, urgent)
Madame. The kitchen is closed. I've spoken to the maître d', but he says the chefs have gone off the line and—
RAYNA
(unhurried)
Closed to guests, darling. The chefs are still scrubbing down. They'll be here another hour.
NADIA
(a beat)
How did you...?
RAYNA
A kitchen that's being cleaned is a kitchen that's still lit. Tell Anton the Madame has arrived.
Nadia goes. Rayna turns back to Fred.
RAYNA (CONT'D)
Shall we see if your cardboard empire can roast a proper Dover sole?
FRED
Lead the way, Queen of Saturday Night. Just remember who's paying the tip.
[SCENE END]
★ ★ ★
INT. THE DUNES – THE SULTAN'S TABLE ENTRANCE – 12:40 A.M.
Moonbeam lighting, a waterfall behind glass. An almost empty room. The MAÎTRE D' (60s, Parisian accent) stands rigid, apologetic.
MAÎTRE D'
Madame Pulcher, we are so terribly sorry. The kitchen has closed. The chefs, they have—
RAYNA
(stepping past him, not unkind)
Oh Jean, oh Jean Bertranou, it's your favorite Egyptian here to stay. Bonsoir. Nous avons réservé au nom de Miss Pulcher.
Behind the kitchen doors, lights that had been dimming flicker back to full. A BELL rings sharply. The Maître D' freezes.
MAÎTRE D'
(barely audible)
Madame... how did you...?
RAYNA
A chef like Jean never truly leaves his kitchen. There is always one more thing to taste, one more sauce to finish. I have known him since Alexandria.
The kitchen doors swing open. JEAN BERTRANOU (65), the Executive Chef, emerges in his whites, his hair still damp from the back line. He sees Rayna and his entire face changes.
JEAN BERTRANOU
(in French-accented English, genuine delight)
Madame Pulcher! Mon Dieu! In Las Vegas!
RAYNA
(embracing him, one hand on each shoulder)
In Las Vegas, and starving, and with a man who needs to eat like he needs to breathe.
JEAN BERTRANOU
(to Fred, a bow)
Then we cook. Come.
[SCENE END]
★ ★ ★
INT. THE DUNES – THE SULTAN'S TABLE DINING ROOM – 1:05 A.M.
A lone VIOLINIST drifts between tables. Rayna sets her menu down, unopened.
RAYNA
May I order for us? Jean is like family to me. He'll cook better if no one reads him a menu.
FRED
(a beat, then a nod)
Yes, ma'am. Just nothing with a face I'd recognize.
Rayna laughs and lifts two fingers toward the kitchen. The staff move with purpose now. A WAITER brings a platter: a whole grilled fish, glistening. ANTON fillets it in silence, swift and clean. He lays two fillets on gold-bordered china and glides away.
Fred eats fast, with precision. Rayna eats slowly. Her attention is on him.
RAYNA
You eat like a man who's been told the table is about to be taken away.
FRED
Marines eat like the chow line's closing.
RAYNA
And your philosophy, Mr. Memphis? For a week like this one.
FRED
(swallowing)
There's a man in a book. He rolls a boulder up a hill. Gets to the top, it rolls back down. He walks down and does it again.
RAYNA
Sisyphus.
FRED
The book says you have to imagine him happy.
RAYNA
And do you?
FRED
I don't know about happy. I know he doesn't quit. That'll do.
RAYNA
(softly)
Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux.
FRED
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
RAYNA
Oh, Jean-Paul.
Fred sets down his fork.
FRED
Camus, my dear. You may call me Mr. Camus instead of Mr. Memphis.
Rayna's smile widens. She has been waiting for that.
RAYNA
Mr. Camus, then. Where does a Marine meet Camus?
FRED
Vietnam. Somebody left a paperback in a footlocker, between a Bible and a girlie magazine. I read what I had.
RAYNA
(turning her glass)
So tell me about your boulder, Mr. Camus. The one that flies.
Fred's eyes narrow. The violin fades.
FRED
I never said it flew.
RAYNA
You said overnight, Fred. But that's not a casino gambler's watch on your wrist — two crowns, and a blue hand for a second time zone. Nobody buys that to time a card game. Nothing moves overnight on wheels, darling. You fly.
FRED
(a long beat)
That's sharp.
RAYNA
Only when someone is worth the edge.
She sets down her fork and waits.
FRED
Fourteen airplanes. And a Monday. That's the boulder.
Rayna doesn't blink. Behind them, the violin finds its note again.
[SCENE END]
★ ★ ★
[END OF EXCERPT]
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