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Faulk ‘N Schette: Buddy Cops – Episode 202

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 10/25/2011

They’re cops. They’re buddies. They’re buddy cops. This is their story.

Episode 202 – The Emergency Case

Schette:  A singer, eh?

Lopez:  Singer-songwriter, actually.

Schette:  Ah, like Stephen Stills. I bet you have a beautiful singing voice. Like a Mexican angel.

Lopez:  (frowns)  Thanks.

(Det. Harry Schette is leaning over the desk of Chief Galarraga’s secretary, Conchita Lopez…)

Chief:  Faulk and Schette, get in here!

Schette:  (holding his ear)  Ow! Jeez, Chief. You don’t have to yell.  (turning back to Conchita)  We’ll have to continue this another time, Connie. Maybe over drinks?

Lopez:  Please don’t call me Connie.

Schette:  (points at the secretary, grinning)  That wasn’t a ‘No’.

(Ricky grabs Harry by the arm and shuts the door…)

Schette:  She wants me.

Faulk:  Married. And I doubt it.

Chief:  So, what’s the plan on this Russian Mob case?

Faulk:  We’re waiting for Rublov to contact us. He said he’d be in touch.

Chief:  Now, I need you two to be as corrupt as is humanly possible. Can you handle that task?

Schette:  (rubs hands together)  Oh, that won’t be a problem, Chief.

Chief:  Kinda worrying me the way you’ve responded to that question the last couple days.

Faulk:  We’ve been on deep cover missions in the past, back in New York.

Chief:  Oh, really? What groups did you infiltrate?

Schette:  Various gangs. The Copperheads, the Killer Turtles, the Sharks, the Jets…

Chief:  The Jets?

Schette:  Yup. The New York Jets. I got to punt in a game!

Faulk:  He punted it backwards. Lost the game on a safety.

Schette:  But we got to the bottom of that steroid ring.

Chief:  (frowns)  I don’t remember hearing about that.

Schette:  Corporate bureaucrats buried it.

Chief:  Huh.

Faulk:  We’ve got this, Chief. The Russian Mafia’s days in LA are numbered.

Chief:  Great. Looking forward to seeing you two in action.

(The detectives get up to leave…)

Chief:  Oh, and Harry? Stop flirting with my secretary. You make her uncomfortable.

Faulk:  (giggles)

Schette:  (red-faced)  Well…she makes me uncomfortable! Ever think of that?


(Harry and Ricky are driving down Olympic Blvd, when Ricky gets a call…)

Faulk:  Hello?

Gchev:  Det. Faulk, it is Petrov. From the tire store. Mr. Rublov said I could call you if I needed help.

Faulk:  (elbows Harry)  What seems to be the problem, Petrov?

Gchev:  One of my employees, Alex. He’s injured himself on the job. Some…tires fell on him.

Faulk:  Then take him to the hospital.

Gchev:  He has no insurance. And a doctor would ask questions.

Faulk:  I see. We’ll be right over.  (hangs up)

Schette:  Rublov Tire Supply?

Faulk:  Yeah, but stop by my place.

Schette:  Forgot your gun again? I do that all the time.

Faulk:  Nope. We gotta pick my wife up.


(Harry and Ricky pull into Rublov Tire Supply with a heavily-pregnant Bernadette in tow…)

Bernadette:  Who are these guys?

Schette:  Russian Mob.

Bernadette:  What!

Schette:   Oh, relax.

Faulk:  Baby, I really need you to be cool about this. It’s for a case we’re working on. We need someone we can trust. Nobody is gonna get hurt. We just need you to patch somebody up real quick.

Bernadette:  What happened to him?

Schette:  Tires fell on him. Duh.

(A frantic Petrov Gchev locks the gate and leads everyone into a back room behind the garage. Alex, a beefy henchman-type, is lying on a table in the center of the room with a gaping gunshot wound…)

Bernadette:  (turning to Harry)  Tires fell on him?

Schette:  (shrugs)  You’re the one with the nursing degree. You figure it out.

Faulk:  Petrov, this man’s been shot.

Schette:  Too late. Your husband figured it out.

(Bernadette rolls her eyes as she washes her hands…)

Gchev:  Please. He’s lost a lot of blood.

Faulk:  How did this happen?

(The back door opens and the detectives are greeted by Andrei Rublov…)

Rublov:  If you gentlemen will come with me, I believe I can explain.

Bernadette:  Don’t mind me. I’ll just be here sewing up this strange Russian man’s gunshot wound.

Faulk:  (heading out the door)  Thanks, babe.

Schette:  Yeah, thanks bab–er, Bernie.

Bernadette:  Please don’t call me Bernie.


(Rublov leads Ricky and Harry down the street to a Russian tea shop and they find a seat on the patio…)

Rublov:  When I was a young boy, my grandfather was the most powerful man in Kiev.

Schette:  Ah, Kiev. The poor man’s Moscow.

Rublov:  (frowns)  He had the ears of councilmen, ministers and high-ranking KGB officials. But in the Sixties — during the height of the Cold War — he was outed by a CIA double agent for taking money on the side. My grandfather was summarily executed and my father packed us up and fled the country in order to escape the same fate. We came here to California for a new life. But soon the ways of the old country caught up with my father.

Schette:  Oh, he died of alcohol poisoning?

Faulk:  C’mon, Harry.

Rublov:  Yes.

Faulk:  What.

Rublov:  I was only fifteen. But I was now the man of the house, so I had to earn a living. I started small; pickpocketing, stealing cars, running numbers for bookies. But before too long, I created the empire you see before you today.

Schette:  The tire store?

Rublov:  Yes. And also this tea shop.

Schette:  Ooh!

Rublov:  And various other business ventures.

Faulk:  What happened to your family?

Rublov:  Alcohol poisoning. You see detectives, I’ve worked too hard to get where I’ve gotten to just lose it all thanks to some nosey government officials.

(Harry and Ricky exchange glances…)

Faulk:  Which government officials, specifically?

Rublov:  The SEC.

Schette:  The football conference? What are they, recruiting Petrov?

Rublov:  The United States Securities and Exchange Commission. They’ve been looking into my various business dealings, trying to find an explanation behind all the wealth.

Faulk:  And are they going to find anything?

Rublov:  Perhaps. Unless I can find some men I can trust to help run interference for me. Keep them off the scent.

Schette:  Ooh, I’m not very good with numbers. Have you considered hiring some crooked accountants?

Rublov:  Yes, I have contacted the Jews.

Faulk:  Wow.

Rublov:  I was thinking more along the lines of a front-line defense. Somebody on the street making sure all my various ventures continue on unabated. I would like to put you two on my payroll. You will report directly to me and together we will make sure everything runs smoothly.

Schette:  I’m in. We’re in. We’re both in. Both of us are in.

Faulk:  Easy, Harry. Mr. Rublov, in order to enter into any agreement, we’re going to need to know exactly what line of business you’re in. Judging by that man with the gunshot wound in there, I’m guessing it’s not all tea and tire repair.

Rublov:  (smiling, finishing his cup)  In due time, Det. Faulk. In due time.

Schette:  So, how exactly did that dude get shot anyway?

Rublov:  I don’t know. Probably the Mexicans. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have my niece’s choral recital to attend. Good day, gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.

(Det.’s Faulk and Schette make their way back toward Rublov Tire Supply…)

Schette:  Well, aside from the casual racism he seems pretty cool.

Faulk:  We gotta get back to Central and give Galarraga the good news.

Schette:  I can’t wait to tell Conchita I hung out with a real live Russian mobster. She’s gonna think I’m so badass!

(Harry and Ricky enter the lot to see a cross Bernadette standing by Harry’s car, covered in blood…)

Bernadette:  What took you so long?

Schette:  (smiling)  We had tea!

Bernadette:  (scowling at Ricky)  Tea?

Faulk:  (sheepishly)  It wasn’t very good tea.

Schette:  (spreading a beach blanket on the backseat)  Hey Bernie, you mind sitting on this? I don’t want you getting that henchman’s blood all over my ride. Plus, your water might break; ’cause you’re, like, crazy pregnant.

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