FADE IN:
INT. LIVING ROOM – EVENING
A soccer match blares from the telly — two British clubs battling it out. Weathered Union Jack socks rest neatly on a battered coffee table, next to a Guinness can balanced carefully on a coaster with Her Majesty’s profile. One hand clutches the remote, the other nurses a half-warm can of beer.
The doorbell RINGS.
The man (HUSBAND) sighs, sets the beer down with exaggerated poise, and ambles toward the door.
HUSBAND
(Cockney, attempting sophistication)
Who might that be, then?
POLLSTER (O.S.)
Hello. We’re conducting a sociological survey.
He opens the door. A short, round fellow in his thirties stands there, notepad in hand.
POLLSTER
May I ask you just one question?
HUSBAND
Well, go on, then. Let’s hear it.
POLLSTER
I should warn you — it’s a bit delicate. Would you be willing to participate in a threesome?
INT. LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS
Full view from behind. HUSBAND — t-shirt, boxer briefs, socks — slowly turns, pondering, then turns back.
CLOSE-UP – HUSBAND
He steps outside, gently shuts the door behind him.
HUSBAND
(lowered voice)
Perhaps… and who, pray tell, would be involved?
POLLSTER
You. Me. Your wife.
HUSBAND
No, no — utterly preposterous! Out of the question.
POLLSTER
Fair enough. I’ll cross you out, then.
POLLSTER jots something in his pad.
As HUSBAND moves to close the door, POLLSTER wedges a foot in and bulldozes in, nudging HUSBAND aside. The poor bloke just stands there blinking, gobsmacked, as POLLSTER saunters toward the bedroom.
CUT TO:
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
HUSBAND lies curled in a fetal position on his side, face mashed into a pillow, a trail of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth.
He bolts upright, panting like he’s surfaced from a deep dive. He turns to see his WIFE slumbering peacefully, bathed in moonlight.
FADE OUT.
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – EVENING
WIFE lounges on the couch, flipping through a magazine.HUSBAND bustles about — overdressed: best shoes, silk Union Jack neck scarf under his jacket, a faint cloud of aftershave clinging to him.
WIFE
(amused, without looking up)
Where are you off to, then? Ballroom dancing?
HUSBAND
(too fast)
Business meeting. Very important. Proper serious.
WIFE
(raises an eyebrow)
Business, is it? Didn’t know you ran an empire.
HUSBAND
(nodding vigorously)Yeah. International clients. Contracts. Gotta look sharp, innit?
He adjusts his silk scarf grandly, as if it’s a tie for a royal audience.
WIFE
(sweetly)
Don’t forget your crown.
HUSBAND grins nervously, leans down, awkwardly kisses the top of her head, and bolts out the door.
WIFE folds the magazine, and her smile fades slowly.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. PRIVATE EYE’S OFFICE – DAY – STATIC WIDE SHOT
A rough-around-the-edges detective’s office. HUSBAND, tall and looming, sits across from PRIVATE EYE — compact, composed, and utterly unimpressed behind a cluttered desk.
PRIVATE EYE
Coffee? Cigarette?
HUSBAND
No, thank you. Might I trouble you for a spot of water?
PRIVATE EYE rises with a smirk, strolls to the cooler.
PRIVATE EYE
What brings you here, my friend?
HUSBAND
Well, Mister—
PRIVATE EYE
Grimaldi. Tony Grimaldi.
(with a thick Russian accent, feigning Italian flair)
HUSBAND
Of course, of course… Although I must admit, you don’t quite sound Roman.
PRIVATE EYE
My college roommate dated a Russian girl. Long story.
(He says this without missing a beat, though it’s the third different backstory he’s told this week.)
HUSBAND
Right… well, it’s me missus. I daresay she might be… how shall I put it… a touch unfaithful.
PRIVATE EYE
(dryly, already bored)
What makes you say that?
HUSBAND
She’s proper sweet during the week. But come Saturday, she trots off to this milonga, yeah? Dances all night with these Argies. She says it’s “cultural.”
(beat)
Cultural me arse. She’s rubbin’ up against ’em like she’s auditionin’ for somethin’.
PRIVATE EYE
Charming.
(beat, eyes narrowing)
Got a photo?
HUSBAND hurriedly pulls a snapshot from his coat pocket. WIFE in lingerie, visibly annoyed. His reflection — camera in hand — in the mirror.
PRIVATE EYE studies it with professional disinterest. He sips his water. HUSBAND stares at the glass like a man dying of thirst.
PRIVATE EYE
(flat)
Lovely framing.
HUSBAND
Ta. So… am I paranoid, or what?
PRIVATE EYE leans back, eyes drifting to the window.
HUSBAND
I just need to know if it’s real… or if I’m going crazy.
Ext. Across the street, moment later
A large first-floor window of a dance studio. Inside, a couple masterfully dances Argentine tango. As the music fades, the dancers stop. The woman, VERONICA, opens her eyes and looks outside.
She notices the PRIVATE EYE in the second-floor window — and more notably, the imposing silhouette of HUSBAND looming over him.
She smiles.
PRIVATE EYE smirks, winks back.
VERONICA grabs her phone and types.
PRIVATE EYE’S phone CHIMES.
HUSBAND (O.S.)
So… would you be able to assist me in this matter?
PRIVATE EYE looks away from the window, checks the screen:
TEXT: “Hey babe, Gabriel has a private at 9. Wanna check out my new undies?”
PRIVATE EYE smiles faintly. Then turns to HUSBAND, who is still talking.
HUSBAND (O.S.)
I don’t care what it costs. Bees and honey’s not an object. Do what you gotta do.
PRIVATE EYE
(Cutting him off, dryly amused)
One moment, my friend. Life or death.
(gestures at the phone)
He quickly types:
TEXT: “No can do. A guy’s here. Wants money. Very persuasive. If I don’t comply, things will get messy.”
PRIVATE EYE gets up, opens a safe, pulls out a dusty Scotch. Pours.
Offers it to HUSBAND.
PRIVATE EYE
Drink. I get it. We’ve all been there — innocent flies, tangled in spider webs of beautiful lies…
They drink.
PRIVATE EYE
But with five grand, I can fix it.
HUSBAND coughs, shocked.
HUSBAND
(startled, choking slightly)
Bloody hell! Five thousand?!
PRIVATE EYE
(completely unbothered)
You said the cost wasn’t an issue.
HUSBAND
(backpedalling)
I mean, within reason…
PRIVATE EYE
It’ll take a week. These things aren’t cheap.
HUSBAND
(balking)
That’s extortion, innit?
PRIVATE EYE
You came to me.
HUSBAND
Right… right… but five grand…
INT. DANCE STUDIO – NIGHT
VERONICA watches from the window across the street. HUSBAND towers over the seated PRIVATE EYE, flailing his arms. PRIVATE EYE remains eerily still. To her, it looks threatening.
She nervously squeezes her phone.
CUT TO:
INT. OFFICE – MOMENTS LATER
PRIVATE EYE
(drinks)
I’m offering you peace of mind. It’s priceless.
HUSBAND
(grumbling)
I suppose it’s worth it…
PRIVATE EYE
Excellent. Cash or check?
They walk to the desk. HUSBAND pulls out a checkbook with a Union Jack cover and begins to write. PRIVATE EYE watches the pen like a hawk, his head subtly following its motion.
The phone CHIMES. PRIVATE EYE doesn’t flinch. His eyes remain on the signature line until the pen lifts.
PRIVATE EYE
(firmly taking the cheque)
Thank you.
HUSBAND
(tearing the check)
You’ll keep me posted?
PRIVATE EYE
(accepts the check, tone suddenly tender)
Of course.
He tucks the check neatly into a drawer and closes it.
PRIVATE EYE
(flat)
Thank you.
PRIVATE EYE’s hand enveloping the HUSBAND’s — firm, but impersonal.
CUT TO:
CLOSE-UP – HANDSHAKE
CUT TO:
CLOSE-UP – DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND HUSBAND
A beat.
PRIVATE EYE exhales through his nose. He checks the phone:
TEXT: “OMG, he’s terrifying! Please — let me help! How much do you need???”
Private eye
(facetiously, to himself)
How generous of her…
He types: “Veronica, I can’t let you do this. It’s a lot.”
DING.
NEW TEXT: “Don’t make me beg! How much?”
He types: “5K. You are my angel, the savior :-*”
PRIVATE EYE
(muttering to himself)
Two birds, one stone… and I get the scotch.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN.
INT. PRIVATE EYE’S OFFICE – MEDIUM SHOT – NIGHT
PRIVATE EYE pours himself another scotch, opens a desk drawer — not a case file, but a sketchbook.
He flips open the sketchbook. There is a diagram on the page: a rough plan of the street; a second-floor window marked “Observation Post,” a male stick figure marked “Mark (husband),” a female figure in the window across the street marked “bait (wife)”
He flips to a fresh page, writes in bold caps:
“Asset: Gabriel. Set: Flowers, music.”
He smiles, faintly, takes a sip, and looks out the window. Veronica’s practicing her boleos at the barre.
He raises his glass in salute.
Cut to: Mid close-up of private eye’s face holding a phone
PRIVATE EYE
Hey, Gabriel! How are you doing?
GABRIEL (V.O.)
Bien, bien, what’s up, amigo?
PRIVATE EYE
Got something for you, my friend.
INT. DANCE STUDIO – WIDE SHOT – night
GABRIEL paces, phone to his ear. VERONICA practices at the barre in the background.
GABRIEL
What’s that?
PRIVATE EYE (V.O.)
Just like the last time — you get paid when you get laid.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. WIFE’S ROOM – MEDIUM SHOT – Night
WIFE files her nails. Her phone buzzes.
INSERT – PHONE SCREEN: “Hello Karen, I am Gabriel — tango teacher and great admirer. I saw you dancing last Saturday… ¡Qué maravilla! Such elegance, such feeling — you move like music itself. You have big, big potential. Your pivots, maybe we polish a little, but with just few private lessons, I promise… you become the most divine tanguera in the city.”
CLOSE-UP – WIFE’S FACE
Flattered. Curious. Excited. She texts back enthusiastically — we don’t see her response. Then she suddenly stops and hesitates.
Her brow furrows slightly. She taps Gabriel’s name.
Scrolls down — finds a linked profile.
A dance event poster appears — Gabriel and another woman (VERONICA) striking a tango pose.
CLOSE-UP – WIFE’S FACE
A tiny flicker of recognition.
INT. MILONGA – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
Dim lighting, murmuring crowd. Gabriel and Veronica performing — magnetic, untouchable. WIFE watches from the crowd — glass of wine in hand, awestruck, distant.
BACK TO: INT. WIFE’S ROOM – PRESENT
WIFE finishes texting and locks her phone.
Beat.
She looks out the window, lost in thought.
Slowly — very slowly — her soft smile fades.
FADE TO:
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – NIGHT
TV screen briefly showing a love scene. HUSBAND’s hand grabbing a few Cheese Puffs from a pack, a bottle of Guinness in the other hand.
The phone rings. HUSBAND picks up.
(turns away from TV)
INT. WIDE SHOT – CONTINUOUS
In the course of the conversation, a love scene erupts on a TV screen in the background.
HUSBAND
Hello?
PRIVATE EYE
(muffled)
I have something for you, my friend. We have very little time. Listen to me carefully. Can I rely on you?
HUSBAND
(answers firmly, but after a short pause)
Yes
PRIVATE EYE (v.o.)
You will tell your wife tonight that you were unexpectedly informed that you had to take a business trip tomorrow morning. Make a note of this; it is extremely important: at exactly 8:00 you should be at the Gare del’Est. The train leaves at 8:05; you need to go to the final station, cross the bridge to the other side, and get off at platform number 9.
B-ROLL. EXT. A SEQUENCE OF CLIPS ECHOING THE NARRATION (STATIONS, TRANSITIONS, STREET POSTS WITH STREET NAMES, ETC.) – NIGHT
HUSBAND
Sorry, mister …
PRIVATE EYE
Grimaldi. Tony Grimaldi … yes, say …
HUSBAND
Yes, Mister Grimaldy… But it’s more convenient to get to platform number 9 through an underground passage.
PRIVATE EYE
Great point, buddy! You are pretty sharp, sharp indeed … I just knew that you would make an excellent partner! So. You will tell your wife tonight that you were unexpectedly sent on a business trip tomorrow morning. At exactly 8:00 you should be at the Gare de l’Est. The train leaves at 8:05; you need to go to the terminal station, go to the other side through the underground passage, and get off at platform number 9. On platform 9, a train will be waiting for you. But hurry up; it stops only for 5 minutes. You must travel exactly 10 stops and change to a train going in the opposite direction and ride three stops. Next, you must change to a train that goes to the South Station. From the South Station, go to 27th Street, 533 … at 17:45 sharp …
HUSBAND
But this is right in front of my bloody flat!
PRIVATE EYE
Exactly. Second floor, Apt. 209. This is our observation post. Take a cab. Stop a block away. Use the rear entrance. Don’t be late.
FADE OUT
FADE IN
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – NIGHT
Cozy chaos: TV droning in the background. WIFE in slippers and a loose sweater, flipping through a magazine. HUSBAND sprawled nearby in wrinkled loungewear — a Union Jack t-shirt and boxers.
On the coffee table: An empty beer can; A half-eaten packet of crisps; A crumpled notepad; HUSBAND scribbles something furiously on the notepad — mouth moving silently as he repeats Tony’s instructions to himself. Suddenly, HUSBAND leaps up, clutching his stomach.
HUSBAND
(grimacing)
Bloody Guinness.
He lurches toward the bathroom. As he goes:
HUSBAND
(shouting across the flat)
You’re not in the loo, love, are you?!
WIFE
(dryly, without looking up)
Would I still be here if I was?
HUSBAND disappears into the bathroom. The door slams.
Off-screen: the sound of peeing begins — loud, shameless, unstoppable.
CAMERA lingers casually on the abandoned notepad, full of scribbled train station instructions.
WIFE flips a page of her magazine with exaggerated calm.
Fade out
Int. CLOSE-UP – A FINGER PRESSES A DOORBELL – morning
INT. PRIVATE EYE’S RENTED FLAT – CONTINUOUS
From inside:
PRIVATE EYE (O.S.)
(shouting)
“Be there in a second!”
CUT TO:
INT. PRIVATE EYE’S RENTED FLAT – BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS
Cramped, grimy mirror. PRIVATE EYE, shirt half-buttoned, leans over the sink. He dabs mustache glue under his nose, fingers fumbling. The fake mustache slaps into place. He presses it down hard, adjusting it millimeter by millimeter.
A beat.
He squints critically. Smooths it once with a damp fingertip. He gives himself a curt nod in the mirror — no smile, no warmth — just mechanical self-repair.
CUT TO:
INT. RENTED FLAT – FRONT DOOR – CONTINUOUS
The door swings open. PRIVATE EYE stands there — fully composed, mustache perfect, fake hospitality radiating.
PRIVATE EYE
(overly cheerful)
Come on in, my friend! How’re you doin’?
They walk to the window. A camera and binoculars are set up.
PRIVATE EYE
Here. Lemme show you.
POV – BINOCULARS – SILENT
WIFE lights candles, sets the table, and disappears out of frame.
INT. PRIVATE EYE’S FLAT – SOUND
PRIVATE EYE picks dirt from under a fingernail with an Italian stiletto switchblade.
HUSBAND (O.C.)
He’s got flowers. Course, he’s got bloody flowers.
INT. HUSBAND’S DINING ROOM – SOUND
GABRIEL, a fashionably dressed brunette man with a bouquet of white roses, enters the dining room. WIFE and GABRIEL hug. He kisses her on the cheek. WIFE frees herself from the embrace, takes flowers, and puts them in a vase standing on the table. WIFE puts on a record. Music begins — it’s a tango.
CUT TO:
POV – SILENT
WIFE and GABRIEL begin to dance.
They dance, promptly switching from an open to close embrace. They move out of frame.
Cut to:
int. Private eye’s flat – sound
HUSBAND looks at PRIVATE EYE in despair.
PRIVATE EYE
(nonchalantly gesturing with the knife)
Keep watching.
POV, binoculars – BEDROOM WINDOW
WIFE’s moving lips are dangerously close to Gabriel’s ear.
GABRIEL dips WIFE dramatically, right over the bed, looking her in the eye.
She twists away playfully.
GABRIEL walks to the window and shuts the curtain.
INT. PRIVATE EYE’S FLAT
HUSBAND collapses to the floor.
HUSBAND
What are they doing in there?!
I can’t stand this bloody uncertainty!
FADE OUT.
FADE IN
INT. RESTAURANT – NIGHT
GABRIEL closes in with two martinis, walking from the background.
Cut to:
PRIVATE EYE and GABRIEL sit at the table, discussing
something lively and laughing. The PRIVATE EYE gets a wad of
money from an inner pocket and slides it over the table to
GABRIEL, who laughingly catches it and drops it in his jacket pocket.
PRIVATE EYE’s phone dings; he picks it up, looks at the
screen, puts it back on the table, screen down, and smiles.
GABRIEL
(laughing)
Nice doing business with you!
Gabriel
Just tell me one thing: what’s in it for you? You’d get paid either way; why bother setting up this whole thing?
PRIVATE EYE
(taps GABRIEL on a shoulder in a patronizing fashion)
PRIVATE EYE
Human chess, GABRIEL. It’s my favorite game.
GABRIEL leaves. PRIVATE EYE looks at him pensively, then
looks at the screen of his phone.
CLOSE-UP OF THE PHONE SCREEN.
TEXT ON THE SCREEN – A VENMO NOTIFICATION “$5000 from
VERONICA.”
PRIVATE EYE typing: Thank you, baby, for saving my life!
INT. RESTAURANT – moments later – WIDE SHOT
PRIVATE EYE sits, smiling faintly. In the background, a
bartender polishes glassware.
A beat.
Private eye
(to himself)
That was a goddamn masterpiece!
PRIVATE EYE spears an olive with a toothpick, eats it. A hint of a smirk.
Private eye
A forced mate in three… and not a soul saw it coming.
A beat.
Suddenly, his eyes bulge. He clutches his throat.
Moments of struggle. His hand grabs the tablecloth, pulls it, and then stiffens.
Stillness.
His head slumps to the side, eyes still wide open.
CLOSE-UP – HIS FACE
His mustache — once perfectly aligned — is now crooked. One side peeling slightly away from his upper lip. A sad little betrayal of vanity.
The bartender in the background keeps wiping glasses, unconcerned.
EXT. Outside of the restaurant – cONTINUOUS
GABRIEL walks out of the restaurant, turns his head back, and smiles slightly.
gabRIEL
Human chess my ass…
Cut TO:
INT. RESTAURANT – earlier (flashback)
GABRIEL sits at the bar, two martinis before him.
The bartender turns away to get a bottle from the shelf.
GABRIEL pulls a small syringe from his inner pocket.
Cut TO:
Close-up:
GABRIEL’S hand with a syringe injects an olive in a Martini glass with a dangerously looking green liquid.
Cut to:
INT. RESTAURANT – CONTINUOUS
GABRIEL picks up two Martini glasses from the bar, smiles politely at the bartender.
FADE OUT.
INT. RESTAURANT front door in the background – MOMENTS LATER – WIDE SHOT
WIFE enters the restaurant.
int. RESTAURANT – CONTINUOUS
crash-zoom on wife’s face straight on
WIFE looks around, and her facial expression changes from unsure to affirmative.
CUT TO:
Pov
WIFE walks towards PRIVATE EYE’s body.
Int. RESTAURANT, MEDIUM-WIDE SHOT – CONTINUOUS
WIFE finds PRIVATE EYE’s phone on the table and tries to use his face to unlock the phone. It doesn’t work. She tries one more time and unlocks it after fixing his dangling mustache in place.
Close-up of the phone screen
WIFE’s fingers go into a Venmo app, and she transfers $5000 to her account.
CuT TO:
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – NIGHT (flashback)
Husband straightens his jacket nervously in the mirror.
Wife lounges on the couch, pretending not to notice.
WIFE (O.S.)
(playful)
Where are you off to then? Ballroom dancing?
HUSBAND adjusts a garish silk scarf.
WIFE flips a magazine page, smiling slyly.
WIFE (O.S.)
Don’t forget your crown.
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
WIFE promptly gets up, puts a jacket on, grabs a purse, and leaves.
CUT TO:
Cut to:
EXT. STREET – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
The Wife follows a few paces behind the Husband, eyes narrowing as she watches him with increasing tension. She stops briefly as he talks to a woman on the street corner, her voice low and sharp as she whispers to herself:
WIFE
(softly)
Who is she?
She takes a moment, still watching, then her gaze hardens. Without a second thought, she strides toward a waiting cab and climbs in, her eyes still fixed on the Husband.
Cut TO:
Ext. Street – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
Pov through the windshield
Busy street, the back of HUSBAND’s bold head is a cab in front.
Wife
(nervously, to the driver)
Don’t lose him!
CUT TO:
EXT. STREET OUTSIDE TONY’S OFFICE – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
Wife sits low in her parked car, hidden in the shadows.
Cut to:
POV
Through the second-floor window on the right:
Husband flails his arms, shouting.
PRIVATE EYE sits motionless, unimpressed.
Downstairs in the dance studio, in the window on the left, Veronica types nervously on her phone.
Cut to:
Medium shot
WIFE watches all of it — confused, uneasy, disturbed.
PRIVATE EYE’S phone screen flashes subtly upstairs.
CUT TO:
CLOSE-UP, WIFE’S FACE
WIFE’s eyes narrow, piecing it all together.
Cut to:
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – LATER (FLASHBACK)
Phone RINGS.
Husband picks up.
HUSBAND
(on phone)
Yes.
A beat.
HUSBAND
(on phone)
But mister… Yes, Mister Grimaldi.
Wife, behind her magazine, lifts an eyebrow, filing the name away.
INT. WIFE’S ROOM – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
Phone BUZZES.
INSERT: Gabriel’s flirtatious text lights up her screen.
Cut to:
INSERT – PHONE SCREEN
Dance poster: Gabriel and Veronica striking a tango pose.
cut TO:
INT. MILONGA – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
Gabriel and Veronica perform — magnetic, intimate.
Wife watches from the crowd — frozen, wine glass in hand.
Recognition slams into her.
INT. HUSBAND’S FLAT – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
HUSBAND furiously scribbles spy instructions on a crumpled notepad.
WIFE flips through a magazine, but her eyes flick sideways, catching every word he mutters.
Cut TO:
INT. WIFE’S ROOM – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
WIFE stares at GABRIEL’s “Let’s meet” message.
Her thumb hesitates over the reply button.
A beat.
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.
cut to:
INT. DINING ROOM – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
WIFE and GABRIEL dance in close embrace.
Music pulses around them.
Tension sharpens.
Cut TO:
Int. WiFE’S ROOM – NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
WIFE and GABRIEL are still dancing. She leans close to GABRIEL, her mouth brushing his ear.
WIFE
(whispered)
Ask your friend Mr. Grimaldi who he dances with…
Gabriel
He doesn’t dance
Wife
Exactly! And who he sleeps with.
GABRIEL throws her in a wide tango move and looks her in the eye.
GABRIEL
(whispered, tight)
Prove it.
A beat.
WIFE freezes — just for a breath — her body still moving, but her eyes flick toward the open window.
She leans closer, voice barely audible:
WIFE
(whispered)
Not here.
Her glance — quick, loaded — points GABRIEL’s gaze toward the window.
Understanding flashes in his eyes.
Without a word, he releases her, strides across the room, and yanks the curtains closed.
The outside world vanishes.
A heavy silence falls.
They are alone now.
Conspirators.
WIFE turns back to Gabriel — no longer soft, no longer hesitant.
Her voice is low, lethal.
WIFE
(whispered)
Everyone knows, Gabriel.
You’re the last to find out.
Gabriel’s jaw tightens.
The tango resumes — sharper, darker.
GABRIEL
(whispered, furious)
Serpiente apestosa… I’ll tear him apart.
WIFE
(whispered)
I know. I would.
Cut to:
Int. RESTAURANT – CONTINUOUS
WIFE is typing something on her phone, looking mischievous and satisfied.
CLOSE-UP – TONY’S PHONE in the Wife’s hand.
VENMO transfer: ”$5000 to KAREN.” TRANSFER COMPLETE.
WIFE’s phone DINGS.
New screen: Flight 982 – Buenos Aires – One-Way Ticket.
WIFE’S thumb hesitates —(Just for a beat.) Then taps: CONFIRM.
Locks the phone.
A beat.
She stares at PRIVATE EYE’s face. Still. Considering.
(Expectation hangs: Will she close his eyes?)
Instead, she peels the mustache from his lip, folds it once, and drops it into her purse.
Cut to:
STATIC WIDE SHOT FROM INSIDE THE RESTAURANT
She walks out slowly, without a backward glance. PRIVATE EYE’s body slumps behind her, abandoned at the table. The bartender keeps wiping glasses, utterly unfazed. The door swings open into the night.
FADE OUT.
the end