Faulk ‘N Schette: Buddy Cops – Episode 201
They’re cops. They’re buddies. They’re buddy cops. This is their story.
Episode 201 –A Person Of Interest
Chief: Faulk and Schette, get in here!
(LAPD Detectives Harry Schette and Ricky Faulk rush into Chief Armando Alejandro Bobando Galarraga’s office…)
Faulk: Morning, Chief.
Schette: Hola, sir.
Chief: I don’t know who you think you are, lettin’ those tire thieves go last week; but they’ve struck again.
Faulk: We thought if we let them go, they’d move onto a bigger score.
Schette: Yeah. Like maybe a whole car.
Chief: No! They’re just tire thieves! Go pick ’em up!
Schette: You know, our old Chief never yelled at us like this.
Chief: Well, I ain’t your old Chief. Go catch those thieves!
(The detectives exit Chief Galarraga’s office and Harry takes a Mexican hard candy off the Chief’s secretary, Conchita Lopez’s desk…)
Faulk: What were you talkin’ about in there? Chief Red Tree used to yell at us all the time.
Schette: He doesn’t know that. Is it so bad to want a nice Chief for a change?
(Harry cringes and spits the hard candy on the floor…)
Schette: Aw man, I got plantain flavor!
(Harry is navigating the LA streets as the detectives make their way to Rublov Tire Supply…)
Schette: What, did everybody just get new car horns today? Can’t hear myself think!
Faulk: How’s Max like school?
Schette: Loves it. California public school system is really more his speed. Everybody’s dumb out here. Only thing left to worry about is finding a place to live.
Faulk: Still crashin’ at Mary’s college roommate’s condo?
Schette: Yeah. Gail. Some producer or something, I dunno. She’s crazy hot, though. Her and Mary have been reminiscing about their wild USC days. You know what that means.
(Harry raises his eyebrows at Ricky, who shrugs…)
Faulk: Memories? Friendship?
Faulk: Ugh. That’s your wife, Harry. The mother of your child. You’re a married man.
Schette: It’s not cheating if she’s there too! This is how it works in Hollywood, Ricky. Everybody’s bangin’ everybody else all the time. There’s no rules out here!
Faulk: You’re gross.
Schette: It’s continental. European!
Faulk: You missed the turn.
Schette: “El this”, “La that”. This is America!
(The detectives are greeted at Rublov Tire Supply by manager Petrov Gchev…)
Gchev: You find tire?
Schette: Well, we just got here. So, no.
Gchev: You find tire, or boss kill me.
Schette: That seems like a bit of an overreaction.
Gchev: This tire store. We don’t have tire, we don’t have store.
Faulk: That makes sense. How many tires were stolen?
Gchev: Four bushels.
Schette: Tires come in bushels?
Gchev: You find tire!
Schette: Jeez. Cool it, comrade.
Gchev: You find tire, or I find you.
Schette: And now he’s threatening us. You know Ricky, I’m beginning to not like the Russians.
Gchev: Apology. My boss angry man. I am desperate, please help.
Faulk: Any chance we can speak with your boss? Mr. …Rublov, is it?
Gchev: Rublov out. Please just find tire. You find tire, I give you free tire for car. Deal?
(Harry kicks a tire and it bounces and rolls toward the back of the lot…)
Schette: These are pretty good tires, Rick.
Faulk: Sorry, Mr. Gchev. We’re not allowed to take gifts. We’ll find your tires, though.
Gchev: Thank you, Detective.
(Ricky turns to see Harry with his head buried in a tire hole…)
Faulk: Harry, stop that.
Schette: They smell so good!
(Faulk and Schette are driving toward the tire thieves’ lair…)
Schette: What was all that back there about not taking gifts? We always take gifts! That’s, like, the whole point of being a cop.
Faulk: Not anymore, Harry. I’m done with the dirty cop business. That’s what got us kicked out of New York in the first place.
Schette: Well, is it okay if I still take bribes–er, gifts?
Faulk: No. We have to stand united on this.
Schette: It’s just tires.
Faulk: No gifts.
Schette: (pouts) If I didn’t have a three-way to plan, I’d be pretty bummed right now.
(Ricky knocks on the trailer of two-bit petty criminal brothers Terry and Larry Fitzberger…)
Terry: Hold on, we’re naked!
Larry: Who is it?
Schette: Gross, guys! It’s Det.’s Faulk and Schette, LAPD.
Terry: Aw, man!
Faulk: Open up, Terry.
(Terry unlocks the door and invites the detectives into their trailer…)
Terry: Come on in. Let’s get this over with.
Schette: (looking around the filthy trailer) God, what were you doing in here? Shaving each other?
Larry: What did we do this time?
Schette: You stole more tires, ya dopes.
Terry: No, we didn’t.
Schette: Yeah, right. (whispers in Ricky’s ear) New West Coast catchphrase.
Larry: Honest! We’ve graduated to stealing cars.
Terry: Shut up, idiot!
Schette: Ha! I knew it!
Faulk: You sure you didn’t relapse and steal four bushels of tires this morning?
Larry: Tires come in bushels?
Schette: Yeah, sounded weird when he said it.
Terry: Who said it?
Faulk: The manager at Rublov Tire Supply.
Larry: No, no.
Terry: No can do.
Larry: No thanks.
Terry: No no, Nanette.
Larry: No siree, Bob.
Schette: (head swiveling back-and-forth between the brothers) What’s this? What’s going on here?
Terry: Rublov is Russian Mob. We wouldn’t go near that place with a ten-foot pole; which, interestingly enough, is the best way to steal tires.
Larry: Slide ’em on the pole and roll away. But, again, we don’t do that anymore. We steal cars now.
Terry: Stop saying that!
Schette: Russian Mob, eh? Sounds like The Case Of The Stolen Tires just got a whole lot juicier.
Faulk: Well, I would certainly hope so.
Schette: Alright Fitzbergers, we’ll get out of your hair…-filled trailer. Just don’t steal cars anymore or whatever. I don’t care.
Larry: (waving) Don’t be a stranger!
(Back at Rublov Tire Supply, the detectives are greeted by a chain-smoking older gentleman…)
Rublov: (shaking the detectives’ hands) Andrei Rublov. Sorry for the inconvenience, but tires have been found. Thieves learned error of their ways. All is well. Vodka?
Faulk: Interesting. And where are the tires now, Mr. Rublov?
Rublov: All sold. Very successful business.
Schette: (glancing around the barren lot and garage) Yeah, this place is bustling.
Rublov: (slips a hundred-dollar bill into Ricky’s hand) Thank you for your help, Detective.
Faulk: (hands back the bill) Sorry, Mr. Rublov. We don’t take tips.
Schette: (eagerly holding hands out) I do! I take tips! I even have a jar! Lemme get my jar.
Schette: (drops his hands) Fine.
Rublov: (hands Harry a bottle) At least take some vodka for ride back to station.
Schette: (clutches bottle to breast, flashes doleful eyes at Ricky)
Faulk: (rolls his eyes) Fine.
Schette: (cracks bottle, chugs)
(Back at Central Division, Chief Galarraga is looking over Det. Faulk’s report…)
Chief: So, Mr. Rublov made an insurance claim for the missing tires.
Faulk: Can’t make an insurance claim without a police report. I’m willing to bet there weren’t even tires to steal in the first place.
Schette: (reeking of vodka) Especially four bushels. (bad Italian accent) That’s alotta tires!
Schette: (sulks) Our old Chief loved my Italian pizza chef character.
Chief: (hands the report back to Ricky) Faulk and Schette, I think you’ve got something here. Let’s work this Russian Mob angle. I want you to get in deep. Convince Andrei Rublov that you two are the dirtiest cops this city has ever seen.
Schette: (grins devilishly) We can do that.
(Back at Mary Schette’s friend Gail’s condo, Harry has put his son Max to bed and is sitting in front of the fireplace in a silk bathrobe with a bottle of champagne…)
Mary: (entering the front door, throwing her purse down) Another long night at the library. Hey, hon. What’s this?
Schette: (grinning, hands his wife a glass) Thirsty?
Mary: (sits down next to her husband) Sure, babe. Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you. Gail is going to be filming in Europe for the rest of the year; so she said we could stay here in the condo indefinitely, until we find a place of our own.
Mary: (glances at the coffee table) Why are there three champagne glasses?
Schette: Uh, I thought we could teach Max how to drink?