Deadwood s02e07 Episode Script

Did you know this fucking walkway connected us? Several of your patrons, in different stages of undress, have illuminated me.
What happened there? Not only was my press disabled, but my office was ransacked and feces mounded in the corner.
A message of objection to my handling of Yankton's notice on the claims.
Posting rather than publishing, huh? The camp's new schoolteacher, a lovely woman, was so traumatized by what happened that she left! Cy Tolliver.
Who didn't even trouble, when confronted, to deny it.
Why ain't you up and running again? I'm in despair.
The physical damage is repairable, but the psychic wound may be permanent.
You ever been beaten, Merrick? Once, when I thought I had the smallpox, Doc Cochran slapped me in the face.
Stop it, Al.
Are you dead? Well, I'm in pain, but no, I'm obviously not dead.
And obviously you didn't fucking die when the doc slapped you.
- No.
- So including last night, that's three fucking damage incidents that didn't kill you.
Pain or damage don't end the world, or despair or fucking beatings.
The world ends when you're dead.
Until then, you got more punishment in store.
Stand it like a man and give some back.
You use pigs too, Lee, getting rid of bodies, or some other disposal method? I don't bandy my secrets either.
Joanie.
- Thanks for the loan, Jack.
- Sure.
$100 extra is in the wrap you'll hurt my feelings not to take.
What are you fucking tipping your hat at? Like one human being to another.
Glorified fucking monkey.
Joanie Stubbs.
How is things at your place? There's just me left.
Hmm.
I see.
Could you tell me what happened to those girls? All six? I'm asking after my friend Maddie and Doris that you sent to work with us, and an outside whore pretty-looking like a doll that far as I know, when I left Wolcott there last night to come and get you, was all three still alive.
I'd be curious what happened to the other three.
They're sent away, Cy, never to return or be a problem.
As I won't be either to you or Wolcott.
And I ask after Maddie and Doris and the outside girl not making a problem, but if Wolcott killed them and there's remains, to see 'em buried.
There's no remains.
All right.
And you're there now by yourself Chez Amie.
It's no picnic, is it, honey, running pussy? Yeah, come in! Morning, Al.
Request of the widow Garret, E.
B.
, that I may be allowed to pay a call on her.
Today? Shall I tell her time is of the essence? When ain't it? - Ahh! - I'll aim for early afternoon.
Stop walking with me, E.
B! Yes, of course.
And if she pries and pokes and prods me to elicit your intentions? Tell her I wouldn't say.
And if she asks me why you wouldn't? Say you're a pain in my balls that can't desist from inquiry till told to shut his fucking mouth and act on the task he was asked to fucking do! Yes, sir.
Fine.
Thank you.
Hello.
It was bad.
There's three gone.
I know it was bad.
If you mean the three I saw off, I'm certain they're safe.
No, they're dead.
A different three? My partner and two girls.
Of what, Miss Stubbs? They'd been killed.
And she must have come here for that, 'cause she would have shot him and not been scared.
She wasn't scared of any man the first I ever met.
I see.
My mama feared my daddy and I did and my sisters too.
I never met a girl till Maddie that wasn't afraid of men.
And Maddie's dead now? And Carrie, her girl she brought, and Doris, who Cy made come with us to spy.
And the place empty of any sign that they was ever born or lived or got killed.
- And it was Cy Tolliver killed them? - No.
It was a man named Wolcott killed them that works for George Hearst.
- Why? - I don't know that.
I'm not a man.
I believe I know Wolcott to look at.
It's a secret, Charlie.
It's only between us.
I told you as a friend.
And that's how I heard it.
I'm your friend.
Don't ever walk past me.
Them Chinks ain't pulling, Mr.
T.
Even at a dime a fuck.
Well, what's been your approach? Cost, primarily.
- Inexpensiveness.
- The dime.
I would go with the strangeness, boys.
Take it head on, turn it to your fucking advantage.
Ah "Among humans, for grip, the Chinawoman's snatch has no peer.
In all of nature, the python is its only rival, though few have lived to tell the tale.
" We are dwarfs in the company of a giant.
Mind where you stomp your fucking feet! Are you are you addressing me? Too late to catch the one who taught you your fucking manners! Mr.
Farnum? A selection of choice humbles for the little girl.
How adorably she sniffs at the tang of freshness in the kidneys.
We've finished our meal, Mr.
Farnum.
Mrs.
Garret! Uh, here.
Mr.
Swearengen, ma'am, uh with whom your deceased husband had acquaintance, though I believe you yourself did not, requests an interview.
Tell Mr.
Swearengen I will receive him at 2:00.
Uh, a penny for your thoughts.
I'm glad to be leaving your company.
And as to the purpose of the meeting? Didn't Mr.
Swearengen confide? He hasn't been well.
That's twice you've fucking stared at me! I feel you breathing on my neck.
Should I exhale out my ass? And I believe you're doing it intentionally.
Why? You think I believe you're a fucking cunt? If we fight, it won't be a casual matter.
Oh, I see you've got your big fucking knife there.
And hid somewhere on your persons you've probably got some pussified shooting instrument.
But I am good at first impressions, and you are a fucking cunt! And I doubt you've fought many men, maybe even one! Take a beating! And know how it fucking feels to be helpless and have no one fucking stick up for you! Come on! I'll be at Swearengen's place.
Charlie! What did he do, Charlie? Personal fucking business! Bullock stepped in.
Tolliver's still headed towards us.
Yeah? the widow Garret's suite.
What do you know of the fisticuffs? Amongst who? Utter and that fella you was sitting with downstairs the other day.
Wolcott? Just now, when I was leaving the hotel, Wolcott had accidentally stepped on Utter's foot.
If Utter's got corns, that might could have touched it off.
Tolliver wants to see me.
Uh, should I bring him up? Tell him I'll come down.
Charlie Utter drove a wagon out of camp last night, and that whore that used to work for Tolliver was talking to someone hidden in the wagon-bed.
You connect that with the beating in the thoroughfare? Sooner than on Utter's corns, hmm? I will station myself downstairs as an observer.
Yeah, and I will urinate before meeting Tolliver, and I can avoid your fucking hovering, huh? Take your fucking hands off me, - and I'll take it fucking easy! - Stay put? Don't fucking order me around! I'm taking them off.
Please don't go back outside.
What happened? Cocksucker stepped on my toe.
Moving somewhat rheumatic, young man.
God, he's always dragging that fucking leg.
Early morning fucking chill.
In which our Deputy Sheriff Utter just kicked the living crap out of a citizen.
How does that impinge on men like us? Man beaten is chief geologist in the Hearst operation.
Hearst of the Comstock.
Hadn't you heard at all they were around? Wrong response no matter what the fucking provocation.
Amen, brother.
How do you suggest we proceed? Maybe convene with Bullock and Utter, discover the details.
Let it be known that's the wrong ox to gore.
I'll put together a sit-down.
What can you tell me, Doctor, of the man with whom I disagreed? Richardson who summoned me said it was Charlie Utter, used to be Wild Bill Hickok's best friend.
Oh, I see.
Several of your ribs are broken.
If you wish to occupy yourself in plaster, I can make some up.
I'll occupy myself otherwise.
My fee is $3.
Does your path cross Mr.
Utter's, Doctor? Sometimes.
You might tell him that I own a letter said to be his best friend's last.
If he would call on me, I would consider giving it to him.
If I do deliver the message will there be a renewal of the violence? Oh, I hope not, Doctor.
L I didn't do well in the original.
Al.
A new suit? No.
The ruddy health of your complexion may bring the pattern out differently.
I'll see you to the widow's chambers.
Go back.
Of course.
Room two on the left.
Hearst's man convalesces just to your right.
One thing at a time, huh? Mr.
Swearengen.
Mrs.
Garret.
How do you do? Thanks for seeing me.
Will you sit down? Late congratulations on the claim proving out.
I had urged patience on your husband before he had his mishap.
And yet I've always assumed after my husband's death you tried to buy from me through Mr.
Farnum.
May I go downstairs? Mr.
Swearengen's only come to talk, Sofia.
You read in here.
- You frighten her.
- I'll have that effect.
I think specifically it was your plotting against her life.
I'd take tea.
What do you wish to discuss? The child's tutor you recently sacked.
Miss Isringhausen? She's a Pinkerton.
I don't find that credible.
That's the way they like it.
Your husband's family chartered the agency to pin his dying on you, so when you're jailed or hanged, they can bag your gold.
How do you support this contention? Oh, she's come to me and wants to give me money to confirm what she says you confessed that you hired me to kill him.
How much have they offered? And how much do you ask of me as commission to tell the truth? I don't like the Pinkertons.
They're muscle for the bosses, as if the bosses ain't got enough edge So you'd side with me on principle? Now I'll finish my fucking sentence.
Excuse me.
I don't like the Pinkertons.
Being the Hearst Combine and their fucking ilk got their eyes on taking over here, your staying suits my purpose.
As much as you can, please minimize your obscenities.
Before "ilk.
" Anyways those are my prejudices and personal interests for siding with you.
Also if you want to match their 50, that would be between you and your God.
And what warrant would I have against repetitions of this interview? Oh, I'd have them write their offer out and their terms, and make them sign it.
Pinkerton himself, that cocksucker, I hate that bastard.
Please.
I'd make him write out their offer with their terms and sign it, and I'd turn the document over to you to use as evidence against them if they ever came against you.
Let me consider.
You'll tell that child no hard feelings, hmm? What tea do you enjoy? I like that fucking black Darjeeling.
Oh.
Have we a new Pope? She's some fuck, E.
B.
I won't fuck Chinese.
I got a mother living yet.
She the jealous type? You can't deny it is off-putting how them Chinese girls' quiffers don't run quite plum.
That's a fucking libel and a myth.
They'll never get my dime.
Another round, Tom, for the board.
You're past due on three.
There are them as do fuck squaws.
Pathfinders, I call them.
I call mine "Johnny Roger.
" You ever hear, Tom, the Chinese whore has a ancient way of milking you of your sorrow, your loneliness and that awful feeling of being forsaken.
Seems to me that'd leave you with nothing.
In the thoroughfare this morning, an event transpired which cannot be repeated.
As the apostle had it, time's past for acting like infants.
I assume Mr.
Utter was provoked, yet for the sake of us all, the man that provoked him, employed by who he is, cannot be fucking beaten.
What was the provocation? Hearst's man stepped on my foot.
Stepped on his foot.
Well maybe, Cy, Mr.
Utter would want to tell us about a wagon drive he took last night and who was in concealment at the behest of that whore used to work for you, and how the morning's shit-kicking resulted.
The background of the beating ain't the point, no more than the incident's particulars, or how offensive if I knew them I might find the details personally.
The Hearst interest requires special treatment.
And we can face up to that like men or get steamrolled by the fucking alternative.
Which is what? Which is them pissed off they ain't getting treated special, replacing us that don't with those who fucking will.
Did he condescend, Deputy, to your yelp of fucking pain? Jesus Christ.
Jesus fucking Christ! I don't care what brought it on.
Say it as murder, or more than one.
George Hearst's chief geologist don't get convicted of any crime in any court convened by humans.
They'll buy the judge, and if they can't, the jury or witnesses.
If not, they'll start into killing.
What the fuck are we talking about? Why would we want to know? Well, Cy all that geologist did was step on Utter's foot.
Are we fucking done here? 'Cause if you people ain't, I fucking am! If Hearst's geologist ain't pursuing remedies and Utter ain't, that leaves you speaking for the camp.
Adjourned.
He wants to talk to you.
Who? Wolcott.
We transacted our business.
He says he has Hickok's last letter.
If you see him, he'll give it to you.
Did I hear you say Wolcott wants to see Utter? The bald contempt of it.
Why not come out five abreast, cavorting and taunting "E.
B.
Was left out.
E.
B.
Was left out.
" Cocksuckers.
Cunt-lickers.
I'll make you filthy gestures.
Public service was never my primary career.
Two come this way.
I only hope, Sheriff, us having just come to fucking consensus, you intend no further worrying on this matter.
I don't.
Or for your own sake that you're coming here to fucking eat.
Gentlemen.
Farnum.
Come from the gathering of the worthies.
Whatever was purposed by your get-together at The Gem I hope came to full fruition.
Thanks.
I believe she's in.
As is the child which may confound his intention.
Mr.
Bullock.
Please come in.
I apologize for calling unannounced.
You find us in only mild disarray.
Sofia has me for teacher now, as well as guardian.
How are you feeling? Well, thank you, as I hope you are and your family.
We're all very well.
I feel better lately in the afternoons than in the morning.
Ah.
You find the right time of day to surprise me.
Mr.
Star, with whom I met yesterday, was not so fortunate.
Was that a morning meeting? I fell ill at its conclusion, or my falling ill was the conclusion's cause.
We discussed formation of a bank.
It's an excellent idea, and Sol would be an excellent chief officer.
I'm glad of your opinion.
And generous on your part, who need not put capital at risk.
Thank you.
And supportive of the camp at a crucial hour of its history.
Thank you very much.
Would it be better for you if I left? We seem to be conversing amiably.
I mean the camp.
Because I am unwell in the mornings? Would it be easier for you? Why would your leaving change in any material way my situation? I mean, as to your seeing me in the camp more or less daily, would you prefer not to? Mr.
Bullock if you believe the change in my condition and the decent concern for others we claimed as our purpose in separating dictates now your leaving the camp and uprooting your family, I will not judge your decision.
But please do not ask me to make it for you.
I understand.
I do not wish to make things more difficult for you.
Will you stay? Will she be certain to know? It becomes you.
I guess my concern is why you would invite to come a-calling the man that nearly beat you to death.
To know why he did it.
Well, I can save you time with that, Mr.
W.
Utter was dismayed you killed them whores.
Now instead of information, would your true goal be, uh further rebuke? Getting cuffed around a little more? Let me hire someone for the job, 'cause Utter's liable to kill you, and I don't need you dead.
Get out! You are tough to be a friend to.
You make a good point.
- Only one would think as mayor that - I don't know, Farnum! - Well - I don't fucking know! Uh, by all means, then let's just let the matter rest.
Go back.
Go back! You're much more fucking mobile.
What's this about? I'm done at that hardware store with their fucking harping and badgering.
Who's harping? The Jew? Are you making a fucking pun? I'm asking a fucking question.
The Jew.
And fucking Bullock also.
I'm erratic with my decimals and the like.
So harping now is a hardship on the same fucking order of a boot on your fucking neck? Do not fucking fault them, Trixie, for your own fucking fears of tumbling to something new.
Meaning you want me back there, secreted and listening in.
Attentive in particular to talk of Hearst's geologist.
Mind your fucking decimals! Charlie Utter didn't happen to look in? No.
As protective an eye as Charlie has for that madam Joanie Stubbs, if all her whores didn't make it to that wagon, and that was on Wolcott's account, you could see what ensued in the thoroughfare.
I saw Mrs.
Garret.
I support your enlisting in her banking venture.
Good.
She is as you thought.
I thought so.
I'll take the air.
Don't on my account.
I come to apologize for my work with the decimals and my attitude over my errors.
And since I do tend to be prickly when in the wrong, if you on your part was to realize Moses did the heavy lifting already, the fucking tablets and so forth that might lighten the atmosphere too.
Sure.
Guidance for me, before you turn to your numbers? Tread lightly, who lives in hope of pussy.
Is that a white male? Where? Issued from that Chinee whore-hut and walking like a man relieved.
Well, he is repositioning his johnson.
Sir! May I and my friend have a moment? We were wondering if if you fucked a Chink.
What would that be to you? Well, they're under our care.
We're their supervisors.
Yeah, at a a decent fucking remove.
Well, say I did? Well, we'd be eager to know the result.
Was it worth the fucking dime? Do you feel that they were overpriced? It was well worth the dime.
There is a run on from the other side of camp all the way down the creek.
Tallest fucking Chinaman I ever seen is keeping the line in order.
- Really? - Yeah, well, a lot of fellas, you know, outpaced by white pussy's price.
Well, thank you for your time, sir.
Thank you for that information.
Jesus Christ! You know that fucking Chinaman he made reference to, don't you? Better suited than us in every fucking aspect of the task.
Fluent in both languages and don't mind standing in filth.
A man, as it happens a rival of mine, learning the secret of a great man's lieutenant, would make that lieutenant his slave.
My rival knows that expanding the circle of the informed, diluting his power, will confound his intention, so he takes precaution to be sole sharer of his secret.
Then the world being the world along comes a half-assed knight-errant, Utter, Hickok's ex-partner, to put all my rival's plans at risk.
I'd seek audience with Utter, verify my thinking.
He earns his bread shipping packages.
And as the dimwit nobility that made him intercede may now make him reticent, you, Chief, will be my prop and ploy whilst I seek to draw him out.
I congratulate myself on having kept you around.
Why make a show of disposing of you was my fucking thinking.
It's not like we need the storage space.
And if there's a chance in 1,000 you people have been praying right, why get your boss's attention? Anyways, I've no plans of us parting company.
As you will note I have inscribed no address.
Miss Here-She-Was, Where-Has-She-Gone.
What's that to you? Only I got packages could be halfway by now to Cheyenne.
What, is it fucking Tuesday already? It's fucking Thursday, Jane.
So I got five days left before I got to leave.
No.
Oh, I see.
Well, you look your usual piece of shit.
By you, Jane.
You look like dew on fucking roses.
I, uh woke up on the dirt in the fucking graveyard, questioning dusk or dawn.
It was dusk.
I know it was dusk because it's fucking night now.
Fucking bruises everywhere.
Dished out by who? It's getting the upper fucking hand on me, Charlie.
Go on upstairs and clean up.
Right.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Go on up.
Hurry up, Christ's sakes.
All right, Charlie.
Thanks.
Evening.
I'm fucking closed.
Banker's hours, huh? Where is it going anyway? Jesus Christ.
She neglected to inscribe the destination.
Anyways.
As far as this morning in the thoroughfare, I would have done the same fucking thing.
I'm done fucking talking about it.
Don't care who he works for, thinks he can get away with that.
You give that cocksucker what he fucking needed.
The sick fucking bastard.
I knew when I saw the wagon, for Christ's sake.
- Poor fucking girl.
- Tolliver's whore? - Never seen a girl so distraught.
- Wouldn't you be? Being a man, you believe you've seen your equal.
No.
Not to that.
She told me too.
She told you what? What she saw.
She didn't see fucking nothing.
No, I don't mean "see" in the sense of seeing.
Get the fuck away from me.
Yeah, right.
Let me get this address put on.
Evening.
Every fracas ain't a victory, Chief, Al! Al.
Why, Al? Why, E.
B? Because being present at that meeting and made as you are, blackmail would have proved irresistible, and pursuing it would have gotten you murdered.
Thank you then.
And am I still the mayor? For all of me, in perpetuity.
Full fucking day, eh, boss? They all are.
Still got that package, I see.
Ain't nothing gets by you, Johnny.
I'm going to head to Cheyenne first thing in the morning.
Don't think that's the idea anymore, Dan.
Hmm? What happened to Tolliver illustrated till the race is fucking finished, never mark the fucking wager paid.
Wakes up this morning in bed with the fucking Hearst Combine, knowing he's got us by the balls.
Whatever sick fucking business that geologist has transacted, you can bet he had his wrists in it up Tolliver? Tolliver, yeah before, after and in the fucking middle too, thinking he's got the fucking edge, which is the right fucking move.
Underwriting whatever sick business that geologist was involved in guarantees his fucking position, but what fucking happens, Dan? Fucks himself up the ass Tolliver.
No mean feat, yet how often we bring it off.
Who impressed me at that meeting was Bullock, that avoided putting his pet interests innocence, so forth, guilt, fucking who did what to fucking who before the needs of the fucking camp.
It shows fucking progress.
It shows growing maturity to what makes the world's fucking tail wag.
Anyway That's why Cheyenne is canceled.
Well, l I figured as much.
You want to fuck me, Jack? When haven't I? Would you pay? Can I double your mark and call it a gift? That way I keep my illusions.
Let me borrow this beauty, Jack.
All yours, boss.
You seem subdued.
I'm good and fucked up, Cy.
Not nearly as your friend, Mr.
Wolcott.
His day was busy as his night got his balls beat by Charlie Utter.
Sweetheart, them as dead as gone.
We give them to God and move on.
Hell, you didn't have to see them fucking throats cut.
You didn't clean up their gore.
Don't tell me you cleaned up anyone's gore, Cy.
Your friend Maddie's problem, young lady, didn't want to get old.
Well, who the fuck does? Shut up, Cy.
But them of us with stamina and fortitude don't go searching out some maniac with a straight razor - to put us from our fear.
- Stop talking.
I won't stop talking, nor show the fucking future my neck nor permit it in a fucking friend.
I propose instead you and me, Miss Stubbs, wrestle the fucking future to the ground.
We fix your place up, get all new stuff, open the fuck back up.
Knowledge ain't general what happened there, and those who know ain't gonna say.
Grant me at least as your friend, if we don't partner, while that maniac is loose in camp, you'll avoid that fucking place.
Move back here, Joanie, where I can fucking protect you.
No.
What the fuck did you come here for, if not to be protected? Don't be like your dead fucking friend, afraid to face the truth.
I was just looking to turn a trick.
Mr.
Utter.
You agree our shaking hands would be incongruous? I come for my partner's letter, which you told Doc Cochran you would give me.
I can't guarantee it's genuine but it has the feel of authenticity, and it's clear he would want her to have it.
To his wife then.
Agnes Lake.
Prudence dictates my requiring in return your account of what Miss Stubbs told you.
The prudentest thing you can do is not name that girl again with me in the fucking room.
It was she, this nameless she, who set you upon me.
"Agnes, darling, if such should be we never meet again, while firing my last shot, I will gently breathe the name of my wife, Agnes.
And with wishes even for my enemies, I will make the plunge and try to swim to the other shore.
J.
B.
Hickok, Wild Bill.
" You keep this shit up, you're going to earn a trip out the fucking window.
I am simply asking confirmation of what you were told and by whom.
And I'm promising I'll sooner blow off your fucking head and take the fucking letter from your corpse than confide any fucking particulars.
- To me? - To any fucking one, when I give my word I wouldn't.
Thank you, Mr.
Utter.
That's what I wanted to know.
Open or closed? Open, please.