Interior

Precinct 9 interrogation room, night.

Lieutenant Mazzelli, 40s, muscular, but grizzled.

Gases across the cold steel table, a cigarette dangling from his muscular but grizzled lips,

locking eyes with silk suited, and also grizzled Polly Lorenzo.

Mazzelli.

You didn't think those bodies would ever be found, did you?

Well, Chipotle just buy half a battery park to plant cilantro fields and look who they found.

Johnny know for us, so he's getting on topsy by the medical examiner right now,

but I think they can skip the autopsy, Polly.

Because Albert dollars to dickholes, the thing that killed Johnny was the 17 bullets in his brain.

So how about it?

Those your bullets, Polly.

You better hope you keep your nuts clean, Lieutenant.

My lawyer's gonna have so much fun shredding your badge.

You'll think he's Tony Hawk at a badge factory, dammit.

Okay, I really thought I knew where I was going there.

Hey, all just doing another pass on Precinct 9, the whiskey sour chronicles,

which has interest from several Tribeca adjacent producers.

No, not that one.

That's the one, the bread company.

But they have a lot of bread influence, a lot of dough, so to speak,

...