Two For The Money (part two)

Back in his office, Brandon studies the newspaper. Tammy marches in, looking very hot. ‘His name is Amir,’ she announces, hopping onto Brandon’s desk. ‘He’s a dime bettor. Owns a dry cleaner’s. We got him for the subscription.’ She hands Brandon the details and he murmurs, ‘Amir, single, 102 Fifth Street’. Amir is waiting on line one, according to Tammy, who hops onto Brandon’s lap and plants a lingering smacker on his chops. Yes, we all love Brandon, but he’s such a lucky f****r that I have to admit I’m quite looking forward to his inevitable downfall. ‘Good morning,’ says Brandon when the kissing finally finishes. See what I mean? The man’s banter is truly pathetic. ‘Walter wanted your first call to be special,’ Tammy coos. ‘Go get ’em tiger.’ ‘You got it,’ replies the king of the epigram, before resorting to making bizarre schoolyard noises as he reaches for the phone, while Tammy saunters off.

‘Amir, my man, John Anthony here!’ Amir (Craig Veroni) is in his dry cleaner’s shop, as evidenced by the fact we see him with phone in one hand, freshly-cleaned garment in the other. Brandon launches a charm offensive: ‘Yes, hello to you, sir. How’s your morning going? Mine started off pretty outstanding. But not as outstanding as I plan on my weekend being.’ Outstanding on its own basically means well above the norm, so I can’t see the B-meister’s efforts to introduce gradations of the word catching on.

For some reason, we then cut to the outer office, where there’s a general hubbub as fools are parted with their cash. Back to Brandon, who is trying to persuade Amir to bet big. ‘How much can you lay with your bookie? Twenty grand?’ How much cash does Brandon think the dry-cleaning racket brings in? Amir agrees with me and asks ‘John’ if he’s crazy. ‘Listen, I was betting a thousand a game.’ Brandon couldn’t give a monkey’s. ‘I’ve got a game that I’m calling my lock of the decade. Okay? (Walter comes into the office.) Texas versus O.U.’ JA thinks Texas are going to win the game easily, even though they’re the underdogs. ‘I like Oklahoma in that game,’ Amir protests, although if his own opinions were worth sixpence, I doubt he’d have to phone these self-styled experts to put him straight. Amir tries to wrap up the call but Brandon butts in, ‘Hold that thought, I’ve got Vegas on the line’.

Cut to Reggie barking at some punter. Cut back to Walter leaning over Brandon, fresh back from Mount Sinai with another tablet of sports betting wisdom. ‘The only thing you got to know about any of our clients is that they’re all in the hole. The second they pick up the phone, wham, you got them…Get to the point. You’re above them. Let ’em know it. Let ’em feel it. More John Anthony.’ Brandon gets back to Amir and asks what his favourite drink is. It’s a pina colada. Come on Amir, you’re better than that. Brandon is equally bemused. ‘Tomorrow, we gotta get you a new drink. But today, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna go down to your bookie and lay twenty large on Texas. Then you’re gonna go home, put on your favourite Hawaiian shirt (Walter mouths something and leaves. I’m pretty sure it was ‘I love you’.), and you’re gonna sit back, twirl your little blue umbrella, after you’ve made that little rum concoction that you love so much with the orange slice and the cherry, and you’re gonna watch Texas rip those Oakies a new asshole. And after you win the twenty grand, you’re gonna call me back and you’re gonna tell me ‘Thank you sir. May I have another?’’ If I had thousands of pounds riding on some college football game, I doubt I’d be sitting around drinking pina coladas (afterwards maybe) but Amir seems impressed by Brandon’s braggadocio.

Night seems to have fallen but Brandon is still in his office, marching around with a ball in his hand and telling his customers what’s what on a hands-free gizmo. ‘McNeil’ has apparently lost his dog in a hunting accident so his team should be heavily-backed. ‘You don’t mess with a man who just lost his dog!’ What about the 50-odd players on the other team? Haven’t any of them got any extra motivation? Clearly not, as Brandon tells his mark to ‘Western Union me ten thou by tonight. Let’s ride this wave into Sunday,’ as if he was asking him (or her) to pick up a pint of milk. ‘Denny Boy!’ is next on the line. Remember Brandon’s brother from earlier? He’s told to lump ‘five hundred dollars on the Cheeseheads (Green Bay Packers). Let Stu in on that too and take care of Mama. Talk to you later.’ There’s not much time for small talk in this game! ‘Tammy, who’s on line four?’ Brandon enquires. Ha! I bet (geddit?) she wouldn’t have been so quick to straddle him earlier if she’d known she’d be answering the phone until all hours. Moving on, Bran’s got a real troublemaker here. ‘Forget the other four games you wanted to bet,’ he says in exasperation. ‘Let’s throw that four thousand on this one thousand and make it five, take it money line and turn it into twelve thousand.’ It all seems so simple!

Walter is in his office, football games are on his TV screens. He’s got eight screens, not four, as I wrongly claimed last time. We take a look at an Internet page. It’s ‘The Sports Advisers Exclusive Web Picks’. Brandon’s smiling visage is in the top right-hand corner, while the text on the page informs us: ‘John Anthony. I hit my $50,000. Texas 42 Oklahoma 7.’ That’s a pretty good tip, Amir should be okay for pina coladas for the foreseeable future. ‘Yes!’ says Walter as another game finishes. ‘Good ball game,’ the commentator enthuses. ‘10-7, Oakland upsets New York.’ Brandon no doubt predicted the result, winning margin, first touchdown scorer and the number of times a controversial call went to instant replay. Walter turns off the last TV, a good night’s work completed, but then starts coughing. He’s in a bad way.

At Walter and Toni’s, the lady of the house is on the phone, Brandon is mooching around and Walter is crawling around the house while one of his kids rides on his back, imploring him to speed it up a notch. Walter sees Brandon and addresses him as though he didn’t even know he was there, ‘Hey, ten and two, pro football?’ John Anthony can obviously pop round whenever the hell he likes. ‘85 per cent weekend, you’re a mutant!’ Walter adds. (‘Coming soon: X-Men IIII. The latest strain of good mutants use their uncanny ability to predict the results of trivial sporting events to defeat Magneto once and for all!’) It transpires that Brandon has brought some food round, as a favour to Toni . She gets off the phone and thanks him for saving her life, in the figurative sense. He wants to know what she was yapping about on the phone. Try minding you own business, pal! ‘Walter’s doctor, this is good news, finally put him on an exercise programme,’ she reports. ‘I want to be there the first time he goes to make sure the trainer understands his aversion to consistency.’ Walter’s ‘always been that way’ she adds. Walter, sitting on the floor in an other room, looks on somewhat jealously as Toni and the B-man talk at the kitchen table. I don’t think he can hear that they’re actually discussing him and his highly irritating ways. ‘Well that’s consistent,’ ‘jokes’ Brandon, causing Toni to crack up. ‘You are cute,’ she says, and feeds him something. Walter is horrified.

The Bizarre Love Triangle are now sitting at the table. ‘Life is f*****g good,’ Walter remarks. ‘So, let’s talk about making it better.’ ‘Duck Brandon, here it comes,’ says Toni. ‘I’m thinking of putting John Anthony on TV this week,’ Walter portentously announces, as if putting some clever-dick on a crappy cable TV show will cause a stir akin to Jackie Robinson’s Major League debut. ‘If you do this, from here on out, you’re gonna have to eat, sleep, drink, breathe, talk, walk, and fart John Anthony.’ Toni and Brandon laugh. ‘Just think it over,’ Toni tells Brandon. ‘Don’t decide now.’ F*** me, they’re not asking him to donate a kidney. And, incidentally, as Walter’s employee, if Walt wants him on his show, then he’d better, quite literally, get with the programme. I think the issue they’re trying to stress is that Brandon might find it hard to be ‘John Anthony’ on a more permanent basis but it’s a non-issue as far as I can see and the man himself thinks likewise. ‘Look, it’s the only move,’ he says. ‘It means I got to do a little acting, I’m cool with that.’ Walt won’t have it though. ‘No, no acting. This is living.’ Why, exactly? I’m sure a lot of real-life tipsters have monikers, but that doesn’t mean when they go out for a meal with friends they have to reserve the table under the name Winston Wins-a-lot. Walt won’t do the decent thing and shut it though. ‘From here on out, Brandon Lang and his fettuccini knee and his self-f*****g-pity is as flat dead as Donald Trump’s hair.’ Walt certainly knows how to sell something with sweet talk and I’ve seen no evidence in this film whatsoever of Brandon being at all self-pitying. Yeah , he wanted to get back into football, but he wasn’t moping around, quite the opposite. Walt continues, ‘And John I-can-walk-on-f*****g-water Anthony has taken his place’. That’s pretty funny, but we’re straight back to farce mode as Toni pleads, ‘Listen to what he’s asking you Brandon’. ‘I’m gonna build an empire around you,’ Walter promises. ‘It’s gonna cost me. You understand what I’m saying?’ I don’t, unless he means Jerry and the other tipsters will be pissed off, which they wouldn’t be if he handled the situation with any tact whatsoever. Brandon grins from ear-to-ear. ‘Hell, yeah, I understand. I’m John f*****g Anthony. I’ve got a crystal ball.’

Even though Brandon already looks, somewhat unsurprisingly, like a hugely attractive film star, it’s time for him to be beautified, ready for the limelight. Toni cuts his hair, they have crap banter, Walter buys him a sharp suit, they have crap banter, Brandon buys … a top-of-the-range car! I was going to take the piss out of this but I suppose the brilliant John Anthony can’t be seen driving around town in some old banger. The car salesman asks if Brandon has any credit. Upon being answered in the negative, he speaks sotto voce to Walter. ‘I don’t know, Wally. Can you trust him?’ ‘With my wife, naked,’ replies the ever-confident Wally. ‘The floor is yours,’ the salesman tells Brandon, who points at a tasty silver model.

Brandon pulls up somewhere in his new motor, which has the personalised number plate ‘900 KING’. You don’t have to wait long for your licence plates when you’re the top betting guru in town. The parking valet wants to know what the plate means. ‘That’s me, John Anthony,’ says Brandon, handing him his card and a tip. ‘I don’t lose.’ He is greeted by Walter, who is in typically buoyant mood. ‘I want you to meet Mr Miracle, John Anthony.’ Brandon shakes hands with some big-shots.

Walt’s now in make-up, prior to taping his show. ‘It’s never, ever gonna go down,’ he complains, I think referring to his hair, rather than the fact he went a little overboard on the old Viagra earlier on. The beautician sprays him liberally with aftershave, although I’m not sure the show ‘Mad Walt and his zany soothsayers’ will be airing in smell-o-vision. It transpires that Brandon was sitting in the next chair. He’s looking intensely into a mirror. ‘A star is born today,’ says Walter encouragingly. Bran’s got the sweats on. He’s ‘scared s******s’. ‘You just read off the teleprompter,’ Walter explains. ‘You’ve been here before, kid. Remember football?’ Hey, John Anthony didn’t play any football, that was Mr self-pity Brandon Lang, remember? It’s bizarre how they’re making such a big deal about this TV show. No one watches rubbish like this and, if they do, they’re unlikely to make too much of a fuss about the appearance and delivery style of the assorted presenters. Brandon thinks this is different from football. Too right. In football the quarterback has to play at least reasonably, or there’s a good chance his team will lose, so at least something is at stake, whereas he could go on to this show and do a lame, long-winded Jack Nicholson impersonation and I doubt anyone would give a fig. They’d probably view it as an upgrade when compared with Walter’s monologues. But no, the B-dog is worried because there’s ‘no opponent’. ‘Well then, you’re a lock to win,’ Walter points out. It’s time to get going. ‘Remember, stay with the script,’ is Walter’s parting shot.

The tipping experts sit around, ready for the show, while TV technical types shout things out. ‘John Anthony, huh?’ asks Jerry. Is he coming on to Brandon? (If you haven’t read part one of this marathon, you won’t get that joke.) ‘Yep,’ says Brandon. ‘Alls I see is another wannabe in a thousand dollar suit,’ Jerry remarks. ‘Word to the wise, keep the suit you came in with. All right, Jethro?’ ‘Jethro?’ How many pseudonyms has Brandon got? He smirks smugly and says he’ll do that, while we hear a woman say ‘good luck to you’. I think it’s someone (Toni? Tammy?) speaking into Brandon’s earpiece.

The show starts. ‘Welcome to this week’s edition of ‘Sports Advisers’,’ says Walter. He introduces himself, ‘Jerry Sykes, Chuck Adler (Charles Carroll) and a truly gifted newcomer to the Sports Advisers panel. I want you to meet him, a substantial find, and his name is Brandon Lang … I mean, er, John Anthony.’ Okay, okay, he doesn’t really mess it up like that. Brandon nods arrogantly into the camera. Walter engages full-on twitter mode. It’s week six in professional football and thinks are getting really ‘hot’. ‘This is oven mitt time, am I right?’ Well, we’d better hear from the ‘Wizard of Odds, Jerry ‘The Source’ Sykes,’ in that case. Jerry launches into his spiel. While each of the panel speak, by the way, TV viewers see the number they can call ‘1-800-BET-ON-IT’ beneath them, plus some encouraging blurb on the crawl: ‘Call now for your free picks etc’. Jerry’s evidently got some computer programme with which he makes his predictions. ‘The Sykes System uses 42 proven indexes to eliminate the guesswork in sports wagering.’ This is all news to us, of course, but regular viewers, if that’s not an oxymoron, must have to listen to the same old bull every week. Without Jerry’s ‘computer-based picks, you gotta a better shot of having God show up at you door with nine strippers, a bag of pure Bolivian cocaine (we see Walter laugh indulgently, though I can’t believe the FCC welcome this sort of material), enough Viagra to make Chuck’s head blow up, than picking these things on your own. You call me, absolutely free, I got five picks this weekend that are incredible.’ Speaking of Chuck, it’s time to hear his sales pitch. ‘How many gamblers did I bail out last weekend with my game of the year?’ He recounts how some of his clients struck it rich, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he does so. He’s got six games this weekend, he’s releasing them free, blah blah blah. I can see how people like Amir might give John Anthony kick-backs to keep the tips coming but what’s with all this giving some of the tips away for free? Can’t people just keep calling back with a different name or maybe this is just a one-week thing? I’m probably over-thinking it.

Chuck exudes confidence about his selections. ‘These games are a burial, a blow-out, a human lock! You can bet your children’s unborn children’s children on these six games absolutely free!’ Chuck is yelling incoherently by the end of this rant, and the final two words would be unintelligible without subtitles. He has turned purple, but at least it’s a bit of entertainment for the viewers. ‘I believe, I believe,’ says Walter. ‘I believe you’re trying to make me deaf.’ Brandon laughs, Chuck cackles strangely and Jerry points out the unusual colour he’s gone. ‘Is that, would you say, that’s kind of a chartreuse?’ Not really, you prat. Chartreuse is yellowish-green, old Chuck’s now more of a maroon hue. Back to Walt, who helpfully reminds viewers that ‘Saturday comes before Sunday,’ which means college football, which means it’s Brandon’s chance to shine. ‘Thank you, Walter,’ he says. ‘This is John Anthony here.’ He spouts some drivel. ‘From Wall Street to Tokyo to Hollywood, all your big money is gonna stay and play with me That’s right, that’s why they call me the Million Dollar Man.’ Yep, I expect the guys were sitting around the office one day, and Walter said ‘What about this John Anthony character?’ and Jerry replied ‘Well, from Wall Street to Tokyo to Hollywod, all the big money stays and plays with him,’ to which Chuck exclaims, ‘That’s right! We should call him the Million Dollar Man from now on!’ Walter must have written this script, it’s beyond dire. Brandon realises this too and his voice trails off. Oh no, his TV debut is going to end in ignominy! ‘I can’t say that, man,’ he remarks. Jerry looks pleased and Walter is about to tell the techies to cut but Brandon recovers. ‘Somebody wrote some very clever stuff for me here like the ‘Million Dollar Man’.’ I think he’s taking tongue-in-cheek. ‘So let’s just call me John.’ Walter tells the cameras to start rolling again, if they ever stopped. Brandon continues: ‘I played quarterback, Division One. And every QB knows that the secret, the key, to victory, is anticipation. The ability to see the future and react to it. Now, that is what I do. And that is the truth. So I’m not gonna sell you today, all right? I’m just gonna tell you the facts. For over one year, I have been picking 80 per cent winners (way to not sell them Bran!). Unbelievable? Used to be. I know the leagues. I know the teams. I know these players. I know this wonderful game called football. Call the number on the bottom of your screen and ask for John. Let’s make some money.’ He grins ingratiatingly into the camera.

Walter gets home, looks in on his daughter (Julia - Chrislyn Austin) and then starts wheezing unhealthily. Toni wakes up and informs him that it’s 4am but Walter’s on a high after the show. ‘Man, you should have seen him.’ Walt, we all enjoyed Chuck practically self-combusting but I’m not sure it was worthy of a 4am bender, unless … you’re not talking about someone else are you? ‘I just sat there and watched him roll. I swear, he made me want to pick up a phone and call. (He laughs.) I took all the sales boys down to Smith and Wo’s, you know, get them primed for the weekend.’ That doesn’t sound like an optimal management strategy to me as the staff will be nursing hangovers and doing sweet FA all day tomorrow but Walt knows best. Anyway, ‘Chuck got so drunk he took a swing at one of the deer heads on the wall’. Now that’s a good scene, why can’t we view it for ourselves, instead of having it relayed to us by some drunkard? Walt cackles with glee, Toni smiles indulgently. ‘I’m gonna hire more guys on Monday,’ Walter adds. ‘I got to. I gotta get more phones.’ Unbelievably, with his gorgeous wife beckoning him to bed, Walt will not shut up about Brandon. ‘I’m going to do this whole dot-com thing around him, you know?’ But we’ve already seen a web page with Brandon’s grinning mug on it. Maybe Walt’s going to expand that side of his operation? He burbles on about how Brandon is his ‘protégé’. ‘If anything happens to me, he steps in.’ He gestures to his heart, to indicate the fact that his scenario is sadly not very far-fetched. ‘It’s like having a son.’ Toni again tries to entice him into bed but Walter is in that sozzled state where the most asinine ideas seem perfectly reasonable, and announces that he’s ‘gonna go for a run’. Walter changes into his gear while eulogising about his work-out but Toni cunningly gets him to lie down ‘for one minute’ and he gradually passes out while she whisper soothingly to him. Fair play to Toni, I can’t see many women showing such forbearance when their hubby wakes them up at four in the morning spewing nonsense.

Brandon’s office, Jerry bursts in. ‘You know anything about Stokey being out this weekend against New York?’ Brandon’s reading the paper in relaxed fashion and is more concerned about Jezzer’s office etiquette. ‘A knock would be nice, Jerry.’ The J-man points out that he’s ‘kind of underwater here, man’. Brandon doesn’t know anything about the Stokey situation. Jerry says that if he does hear anything, then he’s got to spill the beans to Jerry. ‘’Cause that’s the way we work.’ ‘I’ll rush right over,’ Brandon deadpans. ‘Stat.’ It transpires that Jerry’s concerns about Stokey are the tip of a mightily pissed-off iceberg. ‘I been working here for six years, you been doing it for one,’ he snarls, pointing aggressively at Brandon, but Walter comes in and cuts him off before he can really hit his stride. ‘What are you doing in here? Hit the phones, man.’ It seems Jerry’s tips have been driving people towards the Samaritans in their droves because Walter advises him to ‘do some damage control, rewrite that frigging computer programme’. Jerry is incredulous. ‘Hey, it was a f****d weekend.’ ‘For some people,’ Walter retorts. ‘There’s a fifty dime bettor on line three, he wants to talk to John Anthony.’ Brandon asks for more info. ‘His name’s Carl, he’s a gazillionaire. He owns a couple of dozen McDonald’s franchises.’ This news adds yet more grist to Jerry’s mill of fury. ‘I landed that lead. He’s my guy.’ Walter continues to treat his former top man with complete contempt. ‘Was. (He) Was your guy.’ ‘He’s raiding my lists now?’ Jerry asks. Surely it’s time for Walt to put his arm around him, lead him somewhere private, and gently explain that, with John Anthony on a hot streak, it’s natural for some clients to seek his counsel, and that they’ll no doubt be back with Jerry when his own form changes? Instead Walter opts for the more confrontational: ‘Your clients are jumping ship, you lactose-intolerant f***! Get out of my sight. Come on.’ Brandon ‘helps’ matters by saying excuse me and gesturing towards his phone.

Toni and Julia arrive home, Julia goes upstairs to play. Walter emerges from a room at the end of the hall with a nubile woman in tow. He gives her money for ‘cab fare’ and greets Toni pleasantly before claiming the awkward situation is easily explainable and introducing Toni to ‘Gail’. Toni looks very angry, as Gail leaves, saying she’ll talk to Walter later. It’s all so blatant that there is obviously nothing going on between them but Toni is fuming. ‘What the hell’s going on here Walter?’ Walt is surprised by her hostility. ‘I just brought her up here to pay her off,’ he says. ‘I got her for John. Come on!’ Toni is furious and whirls around, pointing her finger at him. ‘Don’t b******t me, Walter!’ she advises. Walter laughs disbelievingly. ‘You can’t be serious. You think I slept with this girl?’ He’s got a point, even Walter wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring a hooker he’d procured for himself back to the house with wife and daughter expected back at any time. ‘Who the hell’s John? Who’s John?’ says Toni, who is unrealistically lacking in street-savvy in this scene. It’s not as if Brandon/John isn’t all Walter ever talks about, plus it was her who made such a fuss regarding Brandon’s identity switch in the first place. Walter says all that far more succinctly. ‘John. John Anthony. Ring a bell?’ ‘You got Brandon a hooker?’ Walter explains his rationale: ‘He’s working late at night. He’s in a new city. He has no friends.’ I would love to shout Walter down here but I once moved to a completely different part of the country for a new job and did not receive a paid-for prostitute into the bargain. Quite frankly, I’d have considered it a thoughtful gesture. Toni is horrified, though. ‘Are we actually gonna stand here and have this conversation? Are you completely, completely clueless, Walter?’ Walter is genuinely baffled by her reaction and accuses her of being ‘jealous’. Never a smart move. He continues on the attack, ‘Are you jealous? You look jealous to me,’ so Toni asks what he’s on about. ‘I don’t know, Brandon getting laid or something?’ About five paragraphs ago this pair were ranting on about how Brandon, to all intents and purposes, was dead. Looks like he’s risen again. Toni thinks Walter is ‘crazy … ’cause that sick thought never entered my mind.’ ‘That’s not where those thoughts enter,’ says Walter. Toni storms off, as Walter shouts out, ‘You’ll be happy to know he didn’t sleep with her. I just paid her for coming. Pardon the pun.’ She wheels around in anger yet again but the nipper comes charging down the corridor before Toni can tear strips off Walter. The Brandon-Toni-Walter thing really is tiresome and I fear the worst is yet to come.

We watch an advert for the ‘Sports Advisers’ TV show. ‘New star’ John Anthony ‘went an amazing 24 and six in last weekend’s games’. On the set, it’s time for Jerry to receive his latest f***-you pill. ‘John’s up first tonight,’ Walter tells him. A less shrewd man-manager might have told Jerry hours, rather than seconds, before the show starts, so he had time to get used to his new place in the pecking order, but why do that when you can let the rancour and bitterness which you have created seep into the show? Jerry thinks he may have misheard. ‘What?’ ‘John Anthony is leading off tonight.’ ‘John Anthony’s leading off?’ True to form, Walter quickly tires of this and starts to belittle Jerry. ‘There an echo in here? Engineer? Sound? Help me. I’m hearing everything twice.’ Jez is appalled by his treatment. ‘Two years I lead off for you and you bury me in the deck over a couple of lousy f*****g weekends? This is b******t Walter.’ There’s no time for Walter to respond because the show is starting. I hate to be so pedantic but it’s simply ludicrous that he would tell Jerry about this 30 seconds before the show starts. It makes Walter look stupidly capricious and idiotic, which he can’t be to have built up a (relatively) successful business.

Later on, Brandon talks to Denny on his mobile. Denny has furnished the car he’s working on with a very loud stereo, I think purchased by Brandon, which he now plays for his brother’s delectation. ‘It is the bomb, B!’ Brandon loves it too, then asks if ‘everything else (is) cool?’. ‘Did Dad reach you?’ Denny enquires. He did not. ‘He saw you on TV and he wants to talk to you,’ says Denny. As we know from the film’s opening, ‘dad’ is something of a deadbeat, but I still can’t believe he watches that moronic show. ‘I gave him your work number but he says they won’t put him through,’ Denny adds. Brandon looks over to see Walter talking to Chuck. He says he’ll ‘check into it’.

Boring Love Triangle. Walter is indulging in his favourite activity, namely heaping overwrought praise on Brandon. He refers to Brandon as ‘Jimmy the Greek’, a reference to American sports betting legend Jimmy Snyder, and adds: ‘He makes Nostra-f******-damus look like a novelty act.’ I think we should call Brandon Nostra-dumbass. Toni laughs at these inanities as they emerge onto the street but Brandon has the hump because his old man is being given the bum’s rush. ‘Have you been blocking any of my calls?’ he wonders, taking the circuitous route. ‘Of course,’ says Walter. ‘You don’t need distractions right now, my boy. Lot of crazies out there.’ Brandon doesn’t take kindly to this response. ‘Does that include my father?’ Walter pauses for a second but is undaunted. ‘You’re asking me, I’m gonna tell you. Yeah.’ ‘You son of a bitch,’ says Brandon. It turns out that pops has been trying to get through for a fortnight or so. Walter, completely unapologetic, wants to know if Brandon would ‘have taken the call if I put it through?’ Blimey, Walt’s such a hands-on boss he even mans the phone banks, no wonder he hasn’t got time to cosset prima donnas like Jerry. ‘That’s not the point,’ Brandon insists, marching off. Walter, intransigent to the last, marches after him, demanding to know what’s going on with Brandon and his old man. ‘Hey man, I was just trying to spare you something.’ Walter has the unfortunate habit of infuriating people to such an extent that they wheel round mid-stride and get in his face. ‘What are you gonna spare me from, huh?’ asks Brandon, not entirely cordially. ‘He was a goddamn drunk. Left when I was nine. I couldn’t compete with the bottle, end of f*****g story. You don’t spare me nothing. If I want to talk to him, I will.’ He ambles off again, muttering: ‘Spare me. You f***.’

Literally every single one of the billions of other people who inhabit this planet would have either left Brandon to walk off at this point or perhaps even shouted out an apology for their insensitivity. But Walter’s definitely a bit of a ‘has to have the last word’ merchant. ‘Is that it?’ he barks. ‘Is that all you got?’ He rushes to catch up with Brandon. ‘Because I will match my dysfunctional childhood and Toni’s against yours, any day of the week.’ If the scene had finished at the end of the last paragraph it would have been a rock-solid addition to the film but this little coda is beyond ridiculous. Did I miss the bit where Brandon bragged to Walter and Toni about how he had by far the most dysfunctional childhood. No, I did not. He’s not complaining about his rubbish childhood, he’s complaining about Walter taking a decision which was Brandon’s to take. I think the screenplay writer just wanted to give Pacino as many grandstanding speeches as possible. ‘My father, five foot, arms like this,’ he reports. ‘He had a cock like a Hebrew National. I even looked at him the wrong way he smacked me across the room like Jake LaMotta.’ He continues in this vein, then asks Toni to join in. Instead of pointing out that Brandon wasn’t trying to instigate a ‘who had the worst childhood’ debate and telling her deluded husband to shut it, she remarks: ‘I didn’t have a great childhood either Brandon.’ Well, whoopee, everyone had a bad childhood! Brandon’s pissed off that Walter’s been blocking calls from his father, these two decide to throw a pity party. ‘Tell (Brandon) about the uncle,’ Walter insists. ‘Well, I think he gets the idea now,’ says Toni. He certainly does, that’ll teach Brandon to loudly proclaim that he had the worst childhood in the history of mankind. Walter angrily (!) tells Brandon that Toni was ‘abused by everybody but the family pet’. Obviously, I’m not making light of such horrendous happenings, but they could either have been shoehorned in more artfully or, better yet, we could have guessed from some of the more subtle hints that have been dropped, that Walt and Toni have had it tough. More from Walt: ‘Your father was a drunk. He was a jerk. So what? It happens. I’m glad I blocked those calls. You know why? You need a new image of a man. How about me?’ Toni laughs and Brandon, smiling now, remarks: ‘That’s a scary f*****g thought.’ That no swearing thing has gone out the window good and proper.

Still Walter won’t put a cork in it! ‘The s**t that happened to you, to me, to Toni, you know what that is? It’s just that, s*** that happened.’ Thank you Descartes. I don’t remember Brandon saying anything different, by the way. HE’S JUST ANGRY THAT YOU WERE BLOCKING CALLS FROM HIS FATHER! ‘We’re all f****d up,’ Walter adds. ‘We are all just so f****d up. Now you gotta just say that s**t out. I am f****d up, and I ain’t gonna take it anymore.’ Is that a knowing parody of the famous line in ‘Network’ (‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore’) or is the screenwriter genuinely trying to pass this off as original thought. Walter gets Toni to join them and shouts ‘We are so f****d up, we’re not gonna take it anymore.’ He yells it again. Someone from the building they are alongside shouts down, ‘I’m trying to sleep here asshole!’ ‘That you Dad?’ Walter ‘humorously’ responds as a laughing Toni ushers him away. The irate building dweller hurls abuse at him, while I’m left to wonder why on earth I spent so much time on that hugely irritating scene.

We cut to the office. While an elderly gent measure his leg, Brandon is on the phone to Amir, and he’s not happy with what he’s hearing. ‘You’re going to sit here and haggle with me over fifty grand after the two hundred and fifty thousand I just made you last weekend?’ Things are on the up for Amir. We see him standing by what looks like a brand new sports car. ‘Fifty thousand seems slightly steep,’ to him. Brandon is marching around smoking a cigar while he reminds Amir about their first conversation. ‘You’re in a hole the size of the Grand Canyon, you’re crying to me about having to hock your fiancee’s ring. Now, today, you’re calling me from a red convertible F1 Ferrari.’ Divulging that nugget of info was a definite error on Amir’s part. Brandon threatens to cut him off and says he’s considering charging Amir ‘a ten per cent aggravation tax’. Brandon’s bottom line? ‘Wire me seventy-five grand and maybe we can kiss and make up.’ Amir acquiesces.

Time for B’s next caller. ‘John Anthony, talk to ME!’ he bellows annoyingly. It’s his mum, wanting to know how he’s getting on. ‘Mum, I have never been better. I’m kicking ass and taking names. Listen, did you get the money that I sent you?’ Someone close to his mother, as Brandon clearly is, would surely phone her up fairly regularly, but the tenor of this conversation suggests they’ve barely spoken since he moved away. Ridiculous. Brandon is planning to fly mum and Denny out ‘next month, first class. I’m gonna put you up at The Plaza. You’re gonna meet Toni, you’re gonna meet Water’. Mum’s in a for a rare treat. She protests that he’s sending too much money. Brandon thinks otherwise. ‘I made that money, I earned that money. Every f*****g cent of it!’ I don’t think she was hinting that the money came from disreputable sources and she’s unimpressed by new-model foul-mouthed Brandon. ‘It’s just how people talk out here,’ he says. He’s hardly moved to New York from a haven of clean living, he was formerly resident in Vegas for Pete’s sake. He tries to wind up the call while patronisingly saying ‘no cuff Francisco’ to the tailor but mum wants to know about ‘this John Anthony person’. Brandon explains that John Anthony is the reason for the cheques coming her way as Walter bursts in. ‘We gotta go to Puerto Rico,’ he says. Brandon puts his mum on hold and asks the reason for the trip. ‘C.M. Novian just called, he lives in Puerto Rico. He’s the biggest sports bettor in the world. We have hit the jackpot. He wants to sit down and talk, in person, with John Anthony.’ They’ve got 45 minutes. Brandon tries to get his mum back on the line but she’s hung up. Bit harsh that Mrs Lang. Granted, Brandon was a bit curt but, to be fair, cheques in the post, first class trips to New York? The boy’s doing his best! I think that we’re supposed to think it would be better if the family was still mired in poverty, if it meant Brandon didn’t say f*** every now and again. Anyway, Brandon is upset by this turn of events.

The tipping twins have now arrived in Puerto Rico. Walter tells Brandon about Novian. ‘He’s a world-class prick. Wouldn’t return my phone call. Treated me worse than my Hong Kong tailor. You know how long I’ve been trying to bag this guy? Have you any idea what this thing is worth?’ Brandon does not but wants a bonus if it all goes swimmingly. Walter briefly turns into Yoda from the Star Wars films: ‘No ‘if’. It’s only ‘when’.’ Walter gives Brandon a pep talk, then starts tottering around and struggling for breath. Brandon holds onto him as he collapses to the ground. ‘Is it your heart?’ asks Brandon. Brilliant diagnosis Dr Kildaire. ‘Where’s your vial? Easy, easy. (To concerned onlookers) Get me a doctor and get me some water, now.’ He gives Walter a couple of pills and tells him to ‘suck on them, man’. Wouldn’t swallowing them be more efficacious? Wide-eyed Walt manages to speak. ‘You love me?’ ‘You know I love you. You know I love you. You ain’t going nowhere.’

Tense music ratchets up the excitement, as Walter fights for his life. ‘Would you love me if this was a joke?’ he asks. ‘I’m okay. I was just practicing.’ That Walter, he’s incorrigible! He gets up and assures the onlookers that he’s fine. ‘Little indigestion. Too many peanuts on the plane.’ Brandon is, naturally, volcanically pissed off. Come on Brandon, practice makes perfect! ‘That’s pushing it too far,’ he tells Walter, who now has to sweet-talk his way out of trouble yet again. ‘You pay attention to me right now. There’s no such thing as ‘too far’. Understand? You push everything as far as you can…’ Blah blah blah, keep pushing, ‘remember that when you’re with this guy today’. What would he have come up with if Brandon hadn‘t made the ‘too far‘ remark? And is pulling such a lunatic stunt the best way to prepare for such a vital business meeting? And isn’t it time I stopped questioning Walter’s crazy methodology and just went with the flow?
The betting buddies arrive at Novian’s impressive dwelling. The man himself (Armand Assante) arrives and greets Walter, who introduces John Anthony. Once everybody is seated, Novian points out that ‘these sports services of yours, (are a) complete f*****g scam, huh?’ Brandon laughs and Walter joins in. Novian asks for Walter’s system but Brandon chimes in. ‘Let’s start with how much you bet.’ ‘A million a game, across the board,’ says Novian. Brandon nods. ‘Is that our ceiling here? Is that the most we’re working with?’ It’s Novian’s turn to laugh, ‘Oh, it depends. I mean, s***, Benny (he turns to a grinning henchman), check your wallet. See if you’ve got any cash hanging around.’ Novian is keen to get onto the upcoming weekend’s betting good things but Brandon gestures towards a yacht and wants to know if Novian rents it. He doesn’t, he owns it. ‘That’s how I feel about this weekend,’ says B, ‘And I’m not being cocky. I’m talking straight commerce with you, Mr Novian. I didn’t come down here to b******t you.’ ‘Wow, you got steam,’ says Novian, bewilderingly impressed by this speech. Did he expect John Anthony to say that he didn’t have a clue who was going to win at the weekend? ‘I know these teams better than they know themselves,’ Brandon continues. ‘I’m going twelve for twelve this weekend and that includes the Monday Night parlay.’ Monday night par-tay, more like, if you follow Brandon’s tips! Novian asks for Walter’s take. ‘I don’t believe him,’ says Walt. ‘You cannot afford not to,’ says Brandon. Novian says that actually he can afford not to. ‘Can anyone afford to lose as much as a man like you needs to bet to actually feel a win?’ Brandon muses. It’s not quite ‘To be or not to be,’ but it’s certainly a fascinating philosophical debate. ‘Winning’s a funny thing,’ Brandon continues. ‘It’s one of those rare commodities on earth that money cannot buy, until you called me.’ ‘I didn’t call you, I called your boss,’ Novian points out. Brandon is in bullish mood. ‘And he called me,’ he barks. ‘The price is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars up front, plus ten per cent of every game you win.’ Novian thinks such a proposition is ‘wild’ and looks at Walter for support. Walt gives him a blank look. Novian checks with his henchman that he ‘never paid up front before’. H-Man shakes his head. ‘We’ve never charged it before,’ Brandon informs him, as Walter puts his sunglasses on in the background for some reason. Is he trying to intimidate the billionaire? ‘But considering whose picks you’re getting,’ Brandon drones on, ‘and the amount of money that you’re betting, Mr Novian, two-fifty’s a bargain. You know it and I know it. If you want this weekend’s winners, that’s my offer. You can take it or leave it.’ ‘Let’s step outside,’ says Novian, after brief deliberation. There’s one born every minute!

Back at base camp, Brandon is deliberating over his picks at his desk. A nervous minion comes in to tell him that ‘they need it, Mr Anthony’. A propos apparently nothing, Brandon asks ‘Mitchell’ what his mother’s name is. It’s Sheila. ‘What street did you grow up on?’ ‘Atlantic Avenue.’ ‘Who do you like Monday night?’ Mitchell has not got a Scooby. ‘Pick one,’ Brandon encourages him. ‘Well, that’s your job,’ Mitch counters. ‘I’ll do your job tomorrow,’ Brandon lies. ‘Today, you do mine. Who do you like?’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Mitch asks nervously, and truth be told, rather dumbly. He’s asking who you think is going to win the Monday night game Mitch. ‘Mitchie,’ Brandon wheedles amusingly, ‘Seattle versus New Orleans. Stop stalling. Who do you like?’ Mitch looks back into the outer office for some reason, then again professes ignorance, before finally caving in. ‘I guess I like Seattle, plus the two points.’ Brandon circles Seattle but he’s still not satisfied. ‘Over or under?’ ‘You can’t do that,’ says Mitch, alarmed that thousands of pounds are going to be wagered on the basis of his half-baked opinions. ‘No, I can do this,’ says Brandon tetchily. ‘Over or under? It’s 44 points. Come on.’ ‘Over?’ Mitch ventures. Brandon fills in his sheet accordingly and hands it to Mitch, who echoes my earlier point. ‘I’m not going to hand that in, there’s, like, a million dollars riding on that game.’ Mitch, if this arrogant son of a gun wants to use your tips, then so be it. He’ll be the one who takes the fall. ‘Oh, there’s like a whole lot more than that,’ says Brandon, the epitome of smug complacency. ‘Look, we all know I can pick. Today, I’m picking you. The outcome will be the same.’ ‘And what if I’m wrong?’ Mitch wants to know. ‘There’s no ‘if’,’ Brandon replies. I think he’s trying to out-Yoda Walter from the airport scene, but, if you think about it, what he’s just said implies that Mitchie will definitely be wrong. Nice try though, B.

Walter and his staff are watching an American Football game in a state of high anxiety. ‘They score, we win,’ Walter repeats over and over, as we see Brandon look on from the back of the room. It’s the Seattle Monday night game - Mitch’s handiwork. Touchdown Seattle! The two teams on the TV look nothing like Seattle or New Orleans, so it’s safe to say the NFL have not collaborated on this film, understandably I suppose, given it’s betting theme. The office celebrates, led, as ever, by Walter, who yells: ‘We won a hundred-f*****g-per cent!’ He does a comical dance of joy while Brandon takes the congratulations.

Later on, the party is in full swing, and Mitch is telling an interested throng how he was the man behind it all. ‘It was like he mesmerised me a little bit, you know? And then, like Spock or something, I just visualised it. Seattle and the over. And he just wrote it down. I mean, he just said, picking me was like the same thing as him doing it.’ Ha, ha! It was like getting blood out of a stone as well, but don’t mention that old son. To add to the hilarity, Jerry emerges from a room next to the group as Mitch finishes recounting his exploits.

Walter is counting out money and Brandon raises a glass to him from across the room. Uh oh, here comes Jerry. However, he seems to be oozing bonhomie. ‘Congratulations Brandon, or, should I say, John?’ he remarks, drunkenly putting his arm round Brandon. ‘Either way, it’s amazing. I am very impressed. Are you kidding me? Letting salesman make your picks? That’s balls.’ To be ultra-picky, I feel like, in a really great film, we’d have just seen Jerry overhear Mitch’s bragging, look a bit hacked off, and not hear anymore about it. Brandon tells Jerry he should head over to where Walter seems to be blithely handing out cash to all and sundry. ‘With the way you’re picking, you’re gonna need some for a rainy day,’ he can’t resist adding. But Jez has some words of warning: ‘Gambling Gods, (are a) fickle bunch, so easily offended.’ Brandon makes noises of acknowledgement while staring vacantly into space.

Walter sits on a desk holding wads of cash. ‘I tell you,’ he tells everyone within earshot. ‘There might be businesses (in which) you can make more than two million dollars in a weekend (Brandon thanks Jerry for ‘looking after’ him in the background.) but will somebody tell me, somebody please tell me, where else you can have this much f****** fun?’ He throws the money into the air in delight. Brandon comes over. ‘You the man, big papi,’ he tells Walter. ‘I love you forever,’ says Walter as they embrace. Or until he has a bad couple of weeks and some hot-shot new kid comes along, Jerry might ruefully remark. Instead we just see him watching on like a Shakespearean villain from the corner. ‘How much of that Dough-Re-Mi be for moi?’ Brandon asks Walter. ‘How about a one, with five zeroes behind it?’ suggests Walt. ‘A hundred thousand?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘On two mill?’ ‘You be working out of my shop.’ Brandon concurs: ‘This is your place. It’s your shop, Walter’s shop. I understand that. I’m just saying, feed the horse, baby. Maybe ten per cent?’ ‘Ten per cent?’ Walter literally finds this a laughable suggestion. He tells Brandon to forget it but our man ain’t leaving until he’s got a pay rise. ‘We got Novian. We got the two hundred and fifty grand …’ An angry Walter grabs him round the neck before he can continue. ‘I want to tell you something now, okay? I’m gonna say it only once. If you want something more from me than a gesundheit after a sneeze you’re gonna have to do more than come to me with this s***. You understand? You’re gonna have to earn it. And once you earn it, you’re gonna have to fight me for it. You’re gonna have to challenge me. You’re gonna have to rip it out of my f*****g talons. That’s how you get ahead with me. Now, John Anthony would know that, see? As a matter of fact, next time you come to me with this s***, you come as John Anthony. I ain’t talking money with you.’
I can’t believe I transcribed that risible speech. For starters, I’d say ‘John Anthony’ would have asked for more cash in exactly the same way that Brandon did but, more importantly, why is Walter such a w****r about everything? After all the stuff about how much he loves Brandon, he speaks to him like this? Yes, Brandon’s being greedy and ungrateful but he’s young and over-excited after, let’s not forget, landing Walter his biggest client ever and then picking the winner of every single game, massively enriching his employer in the process. Do: Put your arm round the kid, tell him that’s not how it works, remind him how you plucked him from obscurity in Vegas and tell him that, if he keeps coming up with the goods, he’ll be rewarded. Don’t: Start mouthing off about f*****g talons. Anyway, Brandon edges backwards, glaring at Walter, as a cheerful Toni bursts in and congratulates him. He raises his arms, tells her he’s ‘winning’ and departs. Walter asks Toni to dance with him. They kiss happily and Walter talks crap about extravagant things he’s going to buy, while Toni, as per, laughs happily, even though his remarks aren’t funny in the slightest. ‘Just tell me you’re not gambling Walter,’ says Toni. ‘Eighteen years straight, okay? That s***’s over,’ he assures her, angrily. ‘It’s never over,’ she tells him. ‘How about a truth serum in the veins,’ he belligerently suggests. I’m sure we’re not supposed to find Walter this obnoxious. He wants to ‘just enjoy a dance,’ and she hugs him in a desperate attempt to shut him up.

Brandon decides to give Alexandria a call. ‘I happen to be in the neighbourhood.’ She meets him in the lobby and he informs her that she has ‘a Doberman for a doorman’. He kisses her but she looks perplexed. ‘What are you doing here?’ He suggests they go out for a ‘late-night dinner, right now. Have a couple of killer bottles of wine, go back to that place where we first met’. This point is about to be made redundant anyway, but going back to the place you first met is something couples usually do after they’ve then been out a few more times. You don’t generally sleep with someone, fail to get in touch with them for a few weeks, then turn up out of the blue and suggest returning to where you first met, as if it’s a fantastically romantic idea. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Alexandria wonders. ‘I live in this building, asshole. This is home. I don’t appreciate you stopping by without calling.’ It’s a tad tricky to get on board with this, seeing as … he did call! She could have just told him to get knotted on the phone if she so desired. It’s Brandon’s turn to be baffled so she makes ‘this s*** real clear, so this doesn’t happen again. You meant five thousand bucks. Your friend set it up.’ She stalks off, Brandon looks gob smacked. Expensive old night for Walt that one, and you have to admire his generosity. He lost ten large in a bet with Brandon, having already paid five large to ensure he lost. I take it all back, I want Walter as my next boss!

At the office, presumably the next day, Brandon is clapped in by the staff and graciously raises his hand in acknowledgement. He finds Walter in his office, demanding to know if Brandon is aware of the time. ‘It is 8.37 in the am,’ says Brandon. Nope, it’s time to press, according to Walt. ‘When you’re winning, you press, you don’t rest on your laurels.’ Brandon gets his golf clubs out. ‘Got a ten-thirty tee-time at Wingfoot with a client, that Howell guy,’ he informs Walter. ‘So don’t call me unless the lines change, you got it?’ Walter doesn’t like this one little bit. ‘The salmon are running, my man. You gotta stay here… You can’t go out playing golf, having fun.’ ‘Fun? Senor, you have obviously never played Wingfoot,’ Brandon jokes. Walter wants Brandon to stay but Brandon is a changed man. ‘I’m not asking you if I can leave, Walter. I’m telling you. (He puts his hand on Walter’s cheek.) That’s how it is, all right?’ For once, Walter is silent. Brandon asks if Walter wants his picks, then starts working on them. ‘You’re gonna start picking on Tuesday for the weekend, huh?’ says Walter, unhappily. Walt, you’re only reaping what you sowed, although I’m not sure if this rebellious Brandon is a consequence of the money dispute or the fact Walter paid for him to sleep with Alexandria. If the latter, well, I suppose it would be a bit of a blow to Brandon’s ego that a gorgeous woman who he thought had succumbed to his charm, actually had to be paid five grand to put up with him. On the other hand, Alexandria’s very hot, he got to sleep with her, and there’s no denying old Walt meant well. Why does this particular stunt go beyond the pale, considering everything else he’s pulled? Brandon continues to make his picks, muttering team names to himself and basically paying them scant attention. Walt tries again: ‘You know, we’re gonna be advising somewhere in the neighbourhood of twenty million dollars this week.’ ‘That’s a nice neighbourhood,’ says Brandon, barely listening. ‘We should be doing double that by week ten, Walter.’ Walter’s still unhappy about Brandon’s nonchalant approach to his picks. ‘No study, no analysis. You’re just gonna pick ’em.’ ‘Locked in, Walter,’ Brandon explains. ‘I don’t really need it.’ He hands over the picks. ‘Now, if you want next week’s picks, I can give you those by Friday. You want to join us, you can.’ ‘No, I’m starting to get the drift here. I tell you what, we’ll keep these picks on ice and go over them tomorrow, okay?’ Brandon puts on his sunglasses. ‘I won’t be in tomorrow.’ ‘Well then, the next day,’ Walter pleads. ‘Ahhh, we’ll talk about it,’ says Brandon, well on his way to the exit. Throughout the film, Walter has flown into a fury at the slightest provocation, but now Brandon waltzes in, acts like he owns the place, and Walt doesn’t really say s***. Who kidnapped angry Walt?

Two For The Money (part one)

Who enjoyed ‘Wall Street’? Anyone eager to hear about its sports-betting equivalent in laborious detail? Great, let’s crack on.

The action gets underway in an unrealistically deserted park, where a young boy stands, baseball bat aloft under the shade of a tree, preparing to receive a pitch from his old man. We are informed that TFTM is ‘inspired by a true story’ although, as you will see, the melodramatic nature of events suggests liberal artistic interpretation has been utilised. As we zoom in on the youngster, a voiceover, currently en vogue at the start of films, kicks in. ‘That’s me (cut to pops, about to unfurl an underarm lob) and that’s my dad. (The blonde-haired tyke, a leftie, smacks the ball miles) I remember that day. And believe it or not, I remember that hit. I remember it because of the smile that spread over my dad’s face.’ With no one else in the park on what looks like a beautiful autumn day, the long walk to fetch the ball should wipe the inane grin off dad’s face. Next, we see the nipper miss a shot on a basketball court, ‘Yeah, I’d have stood there all day just to sink one. Just to see that smile (this time, we see dad looking pissed off and taking a sip from a can of beer). You see, to Pop, sports were a religion. To me, it was about purity (now, they’re playing American Football, and our young pal, dressed in full regalia, including a helmet, is going deep alongside the family dog, while dad drops back to pass. Needless to say, no one else is anywhere to be seen). Sports was a place where all wrongs could be made right. I though if I filled the house with trophies for him (dad launches it long) he’d stick around. Well, I did. He left before my tenth birthday.’ I don’t want to start on a captious note but it’s a pretty precocious eight- or nine-year old who equates his own sporting success with family stability.

We don’t even get to see whether he catches the long bomb because it’s time to move on a few years, to a big college football game. ‘The Conference Championship has come down to this final play,’ a commentator reports. ‘The Sun Devils trail by four. The ball on the Aztec 15, seven seconds left on the clock.’ The crowd are at fever pitch, while on the sidelines our world-weary young friend has metamorphosed into long-haired, bandana-sporting quarterback Brandon Lang (Matthew McConaughey), who is spitting out water and getting instructions from his coach. ‘Now, settle it down. Pro right tiger. This is your game!’ Brandon arrives at the huddle and wastes no time in revealing his cocky persona. ‘Here we go, men. Last play, it’s fun time. Pro right tiger, wide check, 532 double fly, on two, Scottie. (He gestures to the planned recipient of the pass.) Guaranteed TD. We gotta worry about one thing, men. After we win this game, they’re gonna be putting cameras in your faces. Don’t be giving them any ‘Hi Moms’ and s***, it’s overused. You got to thank somebody? Thank me. See you in the end zone men!’ As he prepares to take the snap, we get another Brandon voiceover. ‘I’d been a quarterback since Pee Wee football. Set high school records, won state championships. This was perfect. (We watch in slow-motion as Brandon walks up to the line, talking ‘smack’ at one of his opponents as he does so.) Bowl game, national TV, there were pro scouts in the stands. And I knew exactly what was gonna happen next.’ The commentator burbles (‘Lang has led the Sun Devils to four fourth-quarter comebacks this season. Can he do it, win their first bowl game in 12 years?) and the play eventually gets going. Lang drops back to pass (‘He’s looking for Ravis on the right side’) but finds one of the opposing defenders (‘Sherman’) in his face and takes off running with the ball. As the commentator goes bananas, Brandon produces a nice little spin move to elude a would-be tackler and dives into the end-zone for the winning touchdown, while about three men tackle him at the same time. Unfortunately, as he dives, we hear the sickening sound of a limb being bent in the wrong direction. I hope Brandon’s not hurt! Voiceover time: ‘My first thought was, I could tape it and play next week (isn’t a Bowl game always the last game of the season?). Then I puked.’ We are treated to an unpleasant shot of Brandon flat on his back in the end zone, with his right leg below the knee, positioned at a 45 degree angle to the rest of his body. He won’t be playing next week.

Brandon is stretchered to an operating theatre. Inside, he asks, ‘When do I play again, Doc? What’s the rehab time?’ ‘I’m not sure son.’ Brandon looks, understandably, very worried, as various medical types bustle around him.

We skip forward once again and voiceover Brandon has yet more plot details to impart. ‘Football wasn’t a sport. It was my life. And I wasn’t gonna give up, no (we look down on a large open-plan office, split into small cubicles). I would play again. In the meantime, I needed a job to hold me over between tryouts. Then one day, and it didn’t take long, six years had passed and I woke up at the bottom.’ You might be thinking something along the lines of ‘A job’s a job, and anything that doesn’t involve trawling through sewage hardly constitutes ‘the bottom’’ but Brandon wasn’t lying, as we discover when we pay a visit to his cubicle. ‘You have reached the Jessica Simpson hotline,’ this shorter-haired Brandon says into a recorder. ‘Jessica’s going to tell you a little bit about Nick’s surprise birthday party and a whole lot more about her rocking new panty line at Wal-Mart. But first, here’s a little fan trivia to win a VIP Gold Package backstage pass to Jessica’s Omnicon Hotel’s Summer Tour.’ However, before Jessica Simpson fans can have their knowledge of the great lady tested, Brandon is interrupted by his boss. ‘Bauer’s sick, I can’t update his betting line. You know anything about sports?’ Brandon gets the job and, for the umpteenth time in just the first five minutes, we are treated to a voiceover explaining exactly what it entails. ‘900 numbers, audio text, the racket had a lot of names. This guy’s gig was sports handicapping. Predicting winners for people who bet. I was supposed to just record his picks. Thing was, I didn’t agree with them.’ Brandon, pen in hand, shakes his head as he examines Bauer’s apparently laughable selections. Considering his own sports star background and his unbridled self-confidence, might he not have suggested something like this would suit him better than recounting Jessica Simpson’s itinerary before now anyway? Back to VO: ‘Living in Las Vegas, it was easy to gauge the temperature of the betting public. The problem with the betting public is they’re usually wrong.’

Brandon seems to have swiftly played Lou Gehrig to Bauer’s Wally Pipp because we next find him striding into a gambling hall, demanding information on the ‘action this weekend’ from some bloke behind the counter called Stu. ‘We’re getting big money on Tampa-Oakland,’ Stu informs him. ‘Everyone’s jumping on Oakland right now.’ ‘Oh, that’s crazy,’ says Brandon, in condescending sing-song tones. Stu is intrigued. ‘That game’s going to be won by coaching,’ Brandon explains. ‘Look, Gruden put that Oakland team together before he came to Tampa, right? (In a transparent bid for authenticity, the screenwriter here uses the exact scenario from the 2003 Super Bowl, right down to using the same teams and the real-life men involved.) He knows every strength and every weakness. He knows Brown only likes to catch the ball over his left shoulder. So he’s gonna have him double-teamed to the defender’s right. He also knows Gannon only throws on a three-step drop. So he’s going to stack the middle of the field with linebackers, take away the short pass. Gannon’s gonna throw three, maybe four INTs Sunday.’ ‘F*** me,’ is Stu’s verbose response. He’s on Oakland in a big way and Brandon has convinced him of the error of his ways. ‘I think I’m gonna save your ass one more time,’ our hero announces. ‘Take Tampa Bay, money line. They’re gonna win this game outright. Bet them, bet them big.’ ‘Thanks B,’ says Stu. It’s ….. voiceover time! ‘Stu did bet them big, and he won ten grand. I was quickly becoming the biggest 900 line in Las Vegas.’

Back in his cubicle, Brandon is tossing a football up and down and taping his latest nuggets. Finished, he hands the tape to his boss and collects his wage packet, with which he quibbles. ‘Steve, I went nine and two in pro football Sunday and hit my third straight Monday night parlay. It’s worth 12 bucks an hour.’ ‘Hey, I don’t make 12 bucks an hour.’ ‘You’re not picking 75 per cent,’ says Brandon, smiling confidently, as if this clinches the argument. Steve thinks otherwise. ‘Well if you’re that good, why don’t you bet your own game? Get rich. Send me a postcard from the Riviera.’ Point well made, Steve. I like a flutter myself every now and again but I’d never phone up some tipster for advice. The real betting experts are languishing on beaches in the Bahamas enjoying the fruits of their success, not wasting their time taping phone messages for the common herd.

Brandon cycles home and finds his brother Denny (James Kirk) with his head under a car bonnet. Him and his pal seem to be souping up some old banger and they rev up the engine to show Brandon their progress. Denny literally howls in delight. Inside, Brandon’s mother is running late and hunting for her ‘lucky crucifix’. She tells Brandon he has a letter from Chicago. ‘You just went there for your tryout last week.’ Brandon’s no mug and could probably have connected he dots on that one by himself but it’s nice of her to keep the audience in the picture. Now, who haven’t we heard from for, what, two minutes? Brandon’s expositional voiceover of course. ‘Another rejection letter. ‘Strength of your knee in question’. Let’s see, I only had two Arena teams left (shot of Brandon lifting some weights). And I guess, well, after that, there was always the CFL.’

Not sure yet whether Brandon is the brash, self-confident type? The upcoming, otherwise completely pointless scene should serve to convince you. Bicycling Brandon pulls up next to an attractive woman, who has the top down on her convertible. The fact the cars all have their headlights on and that there are drops of rain on her bonnet suggest she’s playing a dicey game with the weather. ‘So what do you think?’ Brandon enquires. ‘Should I ride shotgun or do you want to hop on the handlebars? (She laughs in disbelief.) Hey, the packaging is not great but I guarantee you there’s a prize on the inside. What do you say?’ Despite the fact his lines a) aren’t even vaguely amusing and b) don’t really make sense, she laughs and gives him a nice smile before driving off. ‘You’ll be back. I’ll have a life,’ he bellows after her.

At work, Brandon cycles (?) down the aisle and stops at his cubicle, where the phone is ringing. He greets a co-worker and answers it. ‘Congratulations,’ rasps a voice familiar to cinema-goers the world over. ‘You went nine and two last Sunday. This is Walter Abrams (Al Pacino). I don’t know if you know me but I run the biggest sports service in the country and I’m a big fan of yours, Brandon. As a matter of fact, I got a poster of you on my wall.’ Brandon suspects a prank but Walter wants to give him a job and tells him to open his top drawer, wherein lies ‘travel cash and an airline ticket’. ‘I paid someone to put it there, who incidentally told me that the place you’re in reminded him of a Turkish prison (thanks partly to the grimy lighting they’re using, Brandon’s workplace does look hugely uninviting, but I can’t believe Turkish convicts get away with wearing surfer dude gear and cycling to and from their cells). Now, all I’m asking you to do is come up with a number. You write down the number of what you make now, you cross it out. You write what you should be making and then you toss in how much it’s going to take to get you to fly to New York, first class, and come work for me.’ As Brandon gets scribbling, well-informed Walt continues his sales pitch. ‘With your bum knee, a comeback is just a dream. My offer is real.’ Brandon has written down ‘250/week (but hasn’t crossed it out as instructed), 700, 1500’. Walter then takes another call, giving voiceover Brandon an opportunity to mull his options. ‘With mum holding two jobs and Denny wanting to go to college this looked like a chance to make some real money. And besides, I’d never seen New York and New York had never seen me. (We are shown a plane touching down and then Brandon admiring some pretty girls, who are going the opposite way on the conveyor belt walkway at the airport. Of course, you simply never see pretty girls on the conveyor belt walkway at airports except in New York).’

Having been collected at the airport, Brandon asks the driver how long he’s worked for Walter. ‘Long time,’ says the smiling driver. ‘Two weeks!’ Brandon is naturally surprised but is informed that ‘every day with Walter is an adventure’. The driver creases up with laughter and smacks the wheel in delight.

They arrive outside the offices and Brandon takes a look around, before smiling approvingly, even though there’s nothing remarkable about the street or offices whatsoever. Inside, he finds Walter on the telephone, and, as luck would have it, he just happens to be having a telephone conversation which encapsulates his entire personality! ‘All right, double it. Triple it. No, everything’s about money. Listen, this Sunday, my little girl, an angel, turns six. This is not likely to happen again. She loves elephants, your circus has ten, I only need one. Now, my little girl’s happiness is in your hands. (Pause.) I don’t need parenting advice from a guy who doubles as a clown. I need a f***ing elephant. Now, I’m willing to pay. What’ll it take to grease your wheels and get one here this weekend?’ The putative elephant provider hangs up. Walters does likewise, swears and barks out ‘Find Ringling Brothers. Get someone on the phone who understands profit,’ before finally acknowledging Brandon with an enthusiastic ‘Whoa!’. Bizarrely impressed by the pachyderm-related prattling, a grinning Brandon introduces himself. ‘The Marlboro Man here,’ says Walter (he is besuited, Brandon is wearing jeans and a suede jacket). It’s the very definition of love at first sight, as Walter informs Brandon that he’s ‘in great shape,’ although, when Brandon mildly suggests otherwise, Walter is less impressed. ‘Modesty, not a virtue, could be a vice,’ he points out. Brandon sits down as Walter waffles about his ‘rules to success’. ‘Rule number one is: know what you know, know what you don’t know and know that I gotta know everything you know as soon as you know it. Sooner.’ If I had a pound for every time I’ve heard that old chestnut! Walter elicits from Brandon that he has not ‘sold’ before and that he believes in God. ‘Hey, Liz,’ Walter shouts to his secretary. ‘This is me 30 years ago, right? It’s remarkable, the resemblance.’ Liz goes along with it, Brandon laps it up, Walt reaches for a ciggy. ‘I’m not supposed to do this, it’s bad for my condition.’

Returning to business, he asks about Brandon’s work in Vegas. ‘Just the 900 recordings. You know, ten bucks a call.’ Walter is unimpressed. ‘That’s chump change. I mean, we’re going after much bigger fish here. You know, networks don’t talk about it. Government can’t tax it. But sports betting is a two hundred billion dollar a year business.’ Brandon is impressed. Walter witters on about how gamblers ‘have needs, and come Monday morning, after a losing weekend, they got big needs. Gargantuan.’ Walter flicks a switch and a bank of TV screens on the wall start showing sporting events. ‘That’s every football game last Sunday,’ he brags, although there are only four screens, and there are 30-odd teams in the NFL. He goes on to claim Monday Night Football is the most watched game of the week because ‘Monday’s the last chance bettors have to climb out of the hole they got themselves in’. Brandon nods curtly, perhaps aware that this long seminar about sports betting is more for our benefit than his own. ‘Sports betting is illegal in 49 states, including this one,’ Walter smugly continues. ‘But what we do, is not. We are one hundred per cent legal, (Brandon is genuinely, and justifiably, looking quite bored now) like stock brokers. Only instead of touting stocks, we advise people on how to bet. Now, if a client wins by taking our advice, we get a percentage, or we ask for one, which they will gladly give us, because they want to keep getting the advice. But if they lose, we get zip.’ Brandon looks like he’s about to lapse into a catatonic stupor, even though Walter is outlining his business plan as if it’s the greatest idea mankind has ever managed to formulate. Still he rants, ‘So the object here, my dear, tall, athletic, religious friend (!), is to win.’ ‘I can do that,’ says Brandon laconically, Walter takes a contemplative puff on his cigarette. Vocal cords worn out by his interminable lecture, he flicks a switch and the screens now show … Walter presenting his sports betting TV show. ‘Hello. This is Walter Abrams,’ says on-screen Walter. ‘Hello, Walter,’ shouts ‘sitting in office’ Walter excitedly. He’s definitely got a screw loose. ‘That’s my cable show,’ he tells Brandon. On-screen Walter is certainly no impostor because he starts yabbering away in already painfully familiar fashion: ‘Now, after a nice five-day vacation on my yacht, you can see the tan …’. But we cut back to ‘sitting in office’ Walter, who for some reason thinks Brandon might want to highlight this inane show in his TV guide. ‘Airs Saturday and Sunday morning, nationwide. We tape Thursday and Friday … What’s going on with my hair?’ He yells out to Liz his unhappiness regarding the hair situ. ‘I got one part of my head in Cleveland, the other’s in Chicago.’ Walter wants his barber ‘dead’.

His on-screen self is informing the viewers about his plans to give away ‘our three-team college and pro parlays absolutely free’. You don’t hear the term ‘parlay’ much in British betting vernacular but it basically means a bet where the winnings from one segment go on to the next bet, so, in this case, I think if all three of the teams win, then you’re in clover. Unlikely, with this snake oil salesman touting them, however. Brandon spots an error in the watertight business model. ‘If all the picks are free, how’d you get the yacht?’ ‘There’s no yacht,’ says Walter. ‘Why give any picks for free?’ Brandon persists, unfamiliar with even the simplest business concepts. ‘Why not charge a fee up front?’ Walter: ‘You make a good point. Next.’ That’s a terrible point, it‘s not even really a point! ! I’m (clearly) no business expert but it’s basic strategy to get people hooked by giving away your product and then starting to charge for it. Brandon wants to know what’s on the second floor. ‘That’s where we print the money.’ Brandon finds this enormously amusing. He’s got no more impertinent questions, which gives Walter a chance to eulogise him further. ‘You and me. This thing’s going to work.’ They’re both looking forward to it. Liz has got the ‘Ringling Brothers’ on the line for Walter. He tells them to wait and asks Brandon if he’s had a manicure. Brandon’s brief glance at his finger nails is answer enough. ‘There’s a girl you gotta meet,’ says Walter, handing Brandon a piece of paper. ‘What’s she like?’ ‘She’s beautiful. You’re gonna like her. (He picks up the phone.) Is this Barnum or Bailey?’ Ho, ho. That’s the way to get your elephant Walt.

For some reason, you need immaculate finger and toe nails to be a true sports betting savant. Brandon sits in a salon with cotton wool around his toes, while a beautician prepares his nails. The gorgeous Toni Morrow (Rene Russo) comes over, introduces herself and takes over on the nails. ‘Nice to meet you,’ says Brandon lasciviously. ‘Walter said you’d stop by,’ she says. Brandon: ‘This was his idea.’ Toni says she knows, in put-upon fashion. It’s obvious to all of us that she’s Walter’s girlfriend or something but not to Brandon. Let’s hope he doesn’t make a fool of himself by asking her out, eh? ‘Does he make all of his employees do this?’ he enquires. Yes, he does. ‘Once. Before they start work.’ Brandon, quite rightly, finds such a policy odd. Toni compliments him on his ‘strong hands’. ‘Do you drink?’ she then asks. Brandon is taken aback by the question. ‘I have a beer every once in a while.’ She wants to know if he smokes. He doesn’t, he says, grinning. ‘What about gambling?’ ‘What about it?’ Toni realises her interrogatory method is somewhat brusque, and apologises, ‘I’m a little bit pressed for time here. I asked, do you bet, are you a bettor?’ ‘No.’ She is surprised and wants to know why not.

Uh oh, Brandon’s had enough of the small talk and leans towards her, while unleashing a line which I must try myself, such is it’s poetic brilliance … ‘Toni, huh?’ To be fair, if you look like Brandon does, simply saying a woman’s name in a suggestive fashion is actually probably going above and beyond what is strictly necessary to win her affections. He demands to know if Toni is at the salon full time. ‘This is my shop. I better be,’ she replies. She returns to the issue of Brandon’s non-gambling. ‘Well, I did once,’ he concedes. ‘I wagered everything I had and I lost…I swore I’d never do it again.’ ‘And you’re sticking to that story?’ He is indeed. ‘I’m not going to start this relationship off by lying, Toni.’ She’s pleased, ‘Walter could definitely use someone with a little resolve in his life.’ Until that remark, Brandon’s lecherous behaviour can be easily forgiven, but surely now her obvious familiarity with Walter will throw up a few red flags. ‘Fraid not. Brandon grabs her hand and asks if she wants ‘dinner with (him) tonight?’ She smiles. ‘He didn’t tell you.’ ‘Tell me what?’ ‘Brandon, Walter and I are married.’ The situation’s crying out for a quick-thinking Brandon to say ‘Oh, yeah, he told me that. Now, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’ but he actually tops that by pulling a hilarious face, making a funny noise and remarking ‘Oh, bogey.’ They have a good laugh at Walter’s behaviour. ‘I’m gonna kill him when I get home,’ says Toni. Nonetheless, ‘He has a big, bright beautiful spirit though and you will love working for him. But he is held together by meetings. If it has ‘anonymous’ at the end, he goes. He has to. He also has to be very careful who he lets into his life. In most ways, Walter is brilliant. But he can be bulls******, and I can’t. So he sends them to me before he hires them.’ Quick-on-the-draw Brandon works out that this is ‘(his) interview’. He wants feedback. ‘Except for an illegal forward pass, I would say perfect. Congratulations.’ I’d hate to see the other muppets she’s interviewed if Brandon is truly worthy of such rave reviews.

After a short clip of Walter trying to suck in mug punters on his two-bit TV show, we find the sorcerer showing his apprentice around the office. ‘This is the first floor, and it’s all yours. That TV’s satellite and it swivels (how thrilling!). There’s your bedroom. You got a Jacuzzi in there the size of a kiddie pool.’ A Jacuzzi in the bedroom? I’ve simply got to get into this sports betting lark. Brandon flukes a few winners on some obscure phone line and now he’s getting the whole floor of an office block to live in? There’s even a gym in there. Walter has Brandon’s ‘copy’ on a piece of paper, which he puts on Brandon’s desk. He’s ready to talk turkey but Brandon’s still in ecstasy about his new digs. ‘Walter, this is sweet ass,’ he observes. He sits down at his desk. ‘I’m gonna start you on the 900 numbers,’ Walter explains. ‘You make your picks, you record them each day, Monday through Friday, once a day, five times a day on the weekend…Each call is worth twenty-five bucks a shot. We’re doing about three dozen hits a week, that’s nothing. We should triple that.’ Water the Wise gets serious. He has ‘a few words for (Brandon)’. ‘You pitch sucks, no offence,’ he points out. ‘But you got potential, so we got to find a way to bust you out.’ Walter wants to give Brandon ‘a new name’. Brandon, as usual when Walter’s on a roll, doesn’t have much to say for himself. ‘John Anthony. Just came to me,’ Walt announces. Brandon laughs. ‘John Anthony,’ his new mentor continues. ‘The Million Dollar Man.’ Brandon wants to know why he can’t use his own name. ‘He’s still living with his mommy,’ Walter ‘explains’. ‘John Anthony’s living large. He don’t hold back. He’s got a direct line to God. (Ha ha! This little segment about John Anthony is really funny, although on paper I can’t do justice to Pacino’s enunciation.) And for a measly twenty-five bucks a call, he’s gonna let the world’s losers listen in.’

It’s time for Brandon to hone his selling skills and us losers get to listen in on that. ‘This is John Anthony in the Big Apple with my big money picks,’ he intones monotonously and starts banging on about some college football game. In Walter’s office the pair listen to the CD. Walter turns it off. ‘I already hung up,’ he says. Back to square one for the B-man: ‘John Anthony here, ready to make all your betting dreams come true,’ he brags exuberantly. He returns to the office, where Walter again turns it off. ‘I think it’s all right,’ says Brandon. ‘Wrong,’ says Walter and tosses the disc out of the window. Ha ha! Walter wants to know Brandon’s sales pitch. ‘My sales pitch is I’m picking 80 per cent winners.’ Walter puts his head on his desk in disbelief. ‘Stats is not enough. I’m telling you, you need a voice… You’re selling certainty, in an uncertain world.’ Brandon works out in the gym. He then marches over to his Dictaphone device and has another crack. ‘Sit back and relax ‘cause it’s a Scud attack this weekend and I am shelling your bookmaker.’ Apparently pleased with this latest effort he races up to Walter’s office. ‘It’s a start,’ Walter concedes. Brandon was expecting more hyperbolic praise. ‘That’s not what you want, then you need to find somebody else to sell and let me just pick,’ he says. Walter is standing behind his chair and looks in a bad way. After further debate he almost keels over and staggers into his chair while Brandon rushes over concernedly. ‘Should I call somebody?’ he asks, as Walter gets some pills out of his pocket. ‘Not unless they got a spare heart,’ he replies. ‘It’s a small one,’ he wheezes. Brandon wonders if Walter wants some water but instead he reaches for the ciggies. A horrified Brandon helps him light one. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks. ‘Courage wants to laugh,’ Walter says enigmatically.

Brandon cycles around town, while we listen to American football commentators burbling. Brandon laughs as he cycles past an elephant being led along the middle of a (hopefully fairly quiet) road by a pair of men in dinner jackets and bow ties. Pedant alert! We earlier heard Walter say his daughter’s birthday was on Sunday, but the football being played is of the college variety, which is played on a Saturday. Let’s be charitable and say the party was brought forward a day. Nellie probably had a prior engagement on the Sunday. Back in his huge apartment, Brandon follows the football on his TV. I was wrong to be sarcastic early, the TV doesn’t just swivel around a bit, it’s huge and it does a complete 180 degree about-turn so you can actually watch it in different rooms of the flat. Brandon nods at the TV, so presumably his tips are faring well. ‘Brandon!’ he hears Walter shouting. Brandon looks outside the window and sees the trumpeting elephant entertaining the kids. Walter, who is standing on the street, wants to know how the tips are getting on. Brandon writes 0-9 on a bit of paper and shows it to Walter, looking pleased with himself. Walter swears. Oops, Brandon had the paper the wrong way up! He turns it the right way round and he’s 6-0. Walter dances a jig of delight.

At the party, Walter and Toni are strolling along together while Walter extols Brandon’s virtues. ‘This guy is a machine. All he does is work out and pick winners.’ This is only Brandon’s first week on the job and a cannier operator would surely want to see how he does in the longer term but Walter’s smitten, in every sense of the word. ‘Talk about fit, you should see him with his shirt off.’ Toni laughs, then suggests he should ‘enjoy (his) daughter’s birthday’, rather than sharing his homosexual fantasies about Brandon with her. Walter is relentless however, and apparently in the mood for a threesome. ‘You should check him out. I know you want to.’ Toni’s having no truck with such truly abnormal chat. ‘Get out of your head, it’s a bad neighbourhood,’ she warns.

In his office, Walter watches more college football action and studies a sheet of figures. We see that calls to Brandon’s hotline have increased by 82% ‘since previous summary report’. Walter grins maniacally.

In a posh restaurant, Walter, Brandon and Toni have dinner together. ‘I’m gonna have the bruketta,’ Brandon tells the waiter. Walter makes a face at Toni. ‘I think it’s pronounced ‘bruschetta’’ he informs Brandon. ‘They’re little pizzas, except they don’t have cheese in them.’ ‘Bruschetta,’ says Brandon. ‘Perfect,’ says Toni. ‘Who cares?’ says Walter, even though he brought it up in the first place. ‘Anyone who goes 20 for 24 college football, 12 for 14, professional, 175 calls on the 900 number, you can call bruschetta anything you want, son.’ Walter wonders if Brandon’s ever had a ‘thousand pound bottle of wine’. Finding that not to be the case, he shouts over to the steward. Toni tries to rein him in, pointing out that Brandon ‘hardly drinks’. Brandon confirms that he’s ‘good, man’ but Walter wants to celebrate. ‘Toni, come on. Just ‘cause he’s out with a couple of reformed drunks doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy himself.’ Toni denies she was a drunk and Brandon lightens the atmosphere by remarking that he’s never had ‘a twelve dollar bottle of water either’. ‘He thinks we’re fighting,’ says Walt. Brandon says that isn’t the case, gushes about how great everything is and thanks the pair of them. ‘Watch out Walter, he’s a fixer,’ says Toni.

We are now at the coffee and dessert stage of the meal and Toni asks Walter what the doctor told him. She could certainly have picked a more appropriate moment for such a conversation, like when it was just the two of them present for starters, although, in fairness, the way she says ‘come on’ at the end of her question suggests Walter may have been keeping mum. ‘I went yesterday and he seemed very concerned,’ says Walt. ‘Afterwards, he sat me down and looked into my eyes and he said: ‘Walter, who do you like in the Buffalo-Oakland game?’’ Brandon loves it (‘You tell him Buffalo?’) but Toni is pissed off. While she chides Walter and he protests, Brandon notices a beautiful blonde (Alexandria - Jaime King) sit down at a nearby table. She sizes him up.

Walter and Toni continue to squabble about his health. ‘I’m not raising a kid alone Walter.’ ‘In biblical times you’d just move in with my brother Morty anyway,’ he replies. She gives him a disapproving look but now he’s noticed Alexandria as well. She’s sitting with a pair of fat, bearded goons. Walter seeks Brandon’s opinion of her and our man admits that he’s a big fan. ‘She’s looking at you,’ says Walter. Yep, it’s time to wheel out the old, ‘I bet you can’t pull that beautiful girl’ trope. ‘Ten to one on a thousand, you can’t pick her up,’ is Walter’s suggestion. That means Brandon cops ten grand if he manages it, and loses a grand if he doesn’t. When it comes to wagering significant amounts of money on whether his employees can score with women, while his own wife looks on, Walter doesn’t mess around. ‘Why don’t we just go to Atlantic City and open a house account?’ says Toni, indignantly. ‘You know you can’t gamble, Walter, come on,’ she adds. In Toni-land, it seems betting heavily on picking up women is fine, unless you’re a former gambling addict. ‘Who’s gambling?’ says Walter obtusely. ‘I haven’t flipped a coin since the eighties. This is just a challenge.’ An amused Brandon confirms the odds and says he’s ‘gonna go introduce myself,’ while Toni shakes her head disbelievingly. Walter tells him to hold on a sec and heads over there himself. He interrupts the beardie brothers and informs Alexandria that she is ‘drop-dead gorgeous’. He goes on to claim that him and his ‘friends’ have been puzzling over something. ‘Your dates look like they haven’t missed a meal since Christ died. Seriously, you guys are eating like you got a date with the electric chair. What is going on?’ Finally, one of the goons gets up to clock Walter but he backs off and claims he was ‘just joking’. ‘I don’t want to get wounded with a fork.’ The goon is disgruntled but sits back down as Walter returns to his table. ‘What the hell was that?’ asks Toni, who is not best pleased, although I reckon most women would be in a cab home now and on the phone to a divorce lawyer. Years of marriage have clearly inured her to Walter’s predilection for behaving like a total moron. ‘I’ll buy them a bottle of champagne,’ he says soothingly. ‘You’ll pick up their cheque,’ she insists. Toni, don’t worry about placating a pair of goons, try to make clear to your mad-as-a-badger hubby that marching over to a table and insulting the people sitting there is not the way forward in the first place. Alexandria gets up from her table, gives Brandon and Co another look and heads off. ‘Your date’s going to the bathroom,’ Walter points out, a tad redundantly. ‘I don’t think that (Walter’s earlier outburst) helped me out too much, do you?’ says Brandon, patting him on the shoulder. ‘But thanks for the introduction.’ That doesn’t make much sense. Walter claims he was ‘raising the bar a little. John Anthony could close her’. Brandon heads off.

He runs into his prey on the stairs by some stained glass windows. ‘You … are beautiful,’ he informs her. She tries to get past him but he asks her to wait. ‘I want to get to know you.’ Alexandria is sceptical. ‘You just want to get in my pants.’ Brandon is momentarily stumped but rebounds with ‘No, no, no. I want to get in your mind and your heart and your soul, and I don’t see you wearing any pants in that equation. Do you?’ The best thing that can be said about that effort is that Brandon didn’t die of shame on the spot for uttering it but, incredibly, he is rewarded with a shy smile. Emboldened, he continues, ‘Let me ask you something’ and whispers into her ear. We cut to them kissing passionately in the back of cab and then having sex. What do you think Brandon whispered? I’m opting for: ‘I’ve got a Jacuzzi in my bed room. you know. Let’s go.’

At the office, Walter tells Brandon he’s ready to leave the 900 numbers behind. ‘We’re going to the second floor.’ He gets Brandon to put his ear to the door, and does the same thing himself. ‘That’s the sound of possibilities.’ As they head in, Walter puts Brandon in the picture. ‘This is where the sales people turn a ten dollar bettor into a thousand dollar bettor before he even knows he made the phone call.’ How philanthropic of them, I’ve no doubt the bettor’s families will be eternally grateful. The office is of the open-plan variety and resembles a trading floor of sorts, full of various chancers spouting sports jargon into their phones (‘I’m asking, do they use AstroTurf or AstroPlay?’). Walter greets Tammy (Carly Pope), introduces her to Brandon and collects the ‘phone sheet’ from her. ‘The losers who need us, the more they bet, the more we win,’ he tells Brandon. Walter doesn’t have the highest opinion of his client base. ‘We take ten per cent of a winning bet, anywhere from five hundred to five hundred thousand. That’s Southie (Kevin Chapman).’ He indicates a dark-haired man, who is busy imploring a client to ‘stop holding back and let’s make some serious money’. Another of the trader-types is advicing whoever he’s got on the phone to ‘bang a cheerleader’ but is also taking a keen interest in Walter and Brandon. An older gent tells Walter he has a client on the phone who is ‘a little miffed at our picks’. Walter ignores him and goes over to a guy sitting in a corner, barking stridently into his phone. ‘Reggie Hawks (Ralph Garman),’ says Walter, putting a paternal hand on his shoulder. ‘Best salesman ever.’ As if on cue, Reggie snaps: ‘I don’t have time for this kind of s***, Jimmy. I know you’re a loser. ‘Cause if you’re such a big winner, you wouldn’t have to pay cash to call me today.’ If it’s the carrot or the stick, Reggie tends to go with the latter.

Having reached the end of the trading floor, Obi-Wan and Luke enter a smart office, which, just like the apartment, is conveniently vacant, and at Brandon’s disposal. I can’t see the rest of the workforce having any problem at all with this neophyte getting his own office within weeks of joining the company. Walter wants to know if Brandon approves. ‘What’s not to like?’ enthuses the tipster supreme. The chap who was closely scrutinising the pair a minute ago barges into the office with some betting news for Walter. ‘Miami-New York point spread just went up to ten.’ Nothing if not tactile, Walter grabs himself some shoulder. ‘What do you think?’ he asks. ‘I think Miami is a lock. I’m gonna keep it on my sheet, are you kidding me?’ Walter does the honours, ‘This is Jerry (Jeremy Piven), my top handicapper. Came to me straight out of grad school.’ Jerry looks 30-ish, what’s a top handicapper got to do to get his own office around here? Brandon eases into his luxuriant chair. ‘Whoa,’ says Jerry. ‘Phone boy makes good. It’s a big jump from 900 numbers. (Ridiculously, as Jerry gives him a bit of friendly grief, Brandon puts on a pair of sunglasses, even though the blinds are down in his office.) Make sure you don’t get a nosebleed up here. He looks like a bleeder.’ If by bleeder, he means the sort of prat who puts his shades on midway through an indoor conversation, then I can only concur. ‘I’m just kidding,’ Jerry continues, deciding to take the high road. ‘Nice meeting you man, I got to get back to work.’ Brandon, apparently eager to piss off his new co-workers, calls out, ‘Say, by the way, tonight’s game? New York wins that outright.’ ‘Really?’ says Jerry, resisting the urge to rip off B’s shades and ram them down his throat. ‘They always play the fish tough and tonight it’s foregone’ the sunglassed sultan smugly summarises. Jerry’s not backing down. ‘I wish I had a pen, because I would absolutely never write that down.’ Not a great comeback, Jer. ‘You know, college is right for you,’ he adds. Brandon laughs. ‘You have to work your way up to pro ball around here,’ Jerry continues, again keeping it civil. ‘(To Walter) Rookie’s got balls. I almost like it, but I don’t. (To Brandon) Good luck.’ Brandon sits in his chair, laughing hyena-style, looking like an utter twit. ‘I get that all day,’ says Walter, as if we’ve just witnessed a fantastic comedy routine rather than generic office banter, and starts pacing around. ‘I got three guys who can pick games. I got twenty who could sell. I never had one who could do both.’ Really? Brandon’s unique in the sports betting sphere? ‘You mean me?’ says the Chosen One, as surprised as the audience. No, Walter means John Anthony. But John Anthony doesn’t exist, Brandon complains. He’s pretty dense sometimes. ‘I’m standing in his office and you’re sitting in his chair,’ says Walter. ‘So you want me to sell?’ Brandon asks. Walter now explains why he values Brandon’s multi-faceted skill set so highly. ‘Big bettors don’t want to talk to middlemen. They wanna talk to the guy giving them the picks. What’s the matter, you got a problem with selling?’ Brandon says he’s OK with it, and Walter decides to enlighten him on ‘a few choice phrases’ which will make the punters feel better about risking their hard-earned on Brandon’s selections: ‘I don’t want your money, I want your bookies f*****g money.’ He makes Brandon repeat it and pronounces his second attempt ‘not bad’. However, the fact Brandon left out the obscenity has not escaped him. ‘What happened to ‘f***’?’ Brandon’s not big on swearing. ‘It’s not a religious thing. I just don’t use it.’ ‘It was all right for Chaucer, six hundred years ago,’ Walter protests. Not really a convincing argument, wasn’t it de rigueur to lob suspected witches in the river six hundred years ago as well? Walter opens the door of the office. ‘I don’t want to embarrass you but I gotta do this.’ ‘I got someone here who has a problem saying ‘f***,’ he yells out. ‘F*** you!’ they all shout back. Brandon laughs like a simpleton.

There’s simply no escaping these two jokers, we now join them out on the busy streets of New York. I wonder what topics of earth-shattering import they are discussing? Brandon: ‘Look at that, a lot of brunettes.’ Walter: ‘They’re everywhere.’ I can imagine Bush and Cheney indulging in that kind of highbrow chat. Brandon wants to know where they’re off to. ‘We’re gonna continue your education.’

They knock on a door and a woman answers. ‘Is this the meeting?’ asks Walter. They’ve come to the right place. We skip forward to find Brandon sitting down and listening to some bloke relating his failings to the group. It’s a gamblers anonymous meeting. ‘You’d think with two mortgages out, the repo guy staking out my car, my job on the line and my wife threatening to leave that I’d stop, instead of staying in the chase, doubling down.’ ‘It’s a disease Leon,’ says the woman who let Scooby and Scrappy Doo in a minute ago. A few other members of the group offer sympathetic words before Leon sits down, to a round of applause.

Without waiting for an invitation, Walter gets up, stubs out his cigarette and announces, ‘My name is Walter and I’m new to this group.’ Everyone sweetly says hello. They’re always so friendly and supportive, these addict types. I’m far from a compulsive gambler but I’m sorely tempted to pop down to a meeting regardless. Walter embarks on a long, grandstanding speech. He’s been coming to ‘these meetings’ for 18 years and this is his ‘936th consecutive meeting’. The kindly gambling nuts predictably lavish him with praise. Walter hasn’t had a bet in all that time and relates to Leon’s tale. He informs Leon that ‘gambling is not your problem’. Leon wants to know more. ‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding a little rude, but you’re a lemon, Leon. Like a bad car, there is something inherently defective in you.’ He goes on to claim everyone else in the room, himself included, suffers from this defect. ‘Most gamblers, when they go to gamble, they go to win. When we go to gamble, we go to lose, subconsciously. Me, I never feel better or more alive than when they’re raking the chips away, not bringing them in and everybody here knows what I’m talking about. Even when we win, it’s just a matter of time before we give it all back.’ Blah, blah, blah, when ‘we’ lose big time, we realise we’re still alive, and ‘we f*** s*** up all the time on purpose’, in order to remind ourselves that we’re alive, is the gist of the rest of Walter’s rant. He eventually sits down, to stony silence. Brandon starts clapping and a few of the ‘lemons’, Leon included, join in. However, a youngish guy with sideburns brings a halt to the back-slapping by picking this opportune moment to realise ‘You’re the guy I see on TV every weekend selling betting picks’. What on earth is a gambling addict watching programmes like that for, is he trying to test his own resolve? I doubt many alcoholics regularly set their videos for ‘Floyd on Wine’. ‘So what?’ says Walter, unable to see why his presence here may not be welcome. He’s got another fan though. ‘This guy peddles a tout service on TV,’ a balding man with a goatee informs the gathering. Walter is characteristically unapologetic. ‘You read the charter buddy? We all left our jobs at the door…What, you gonna throw an ex-alcoholic bartender out of an AA meeting?…That’s bogus, man.’ You’d have to be a pretty masochistic ex-alcoholic to take a job as a bartender, that’s for sure. The reformed gamblers are not swayed. ‘Didn’t you come in with this jerk?’ sideburns asks Brandon. Walter realises it’s time to leave but tries to give his card to baldy on the way out. ‘We’re topping 80 per cent this season,’ he remarks. You have to admire his chutzpah. Brandon leads him away as Walter shouts out ‘You never know when you’re going to get a relapse.’ The angry mob hurl abuse at him.

Out on the street, Brandon asks ‘what the f***’ Walter was up to. ‘What did you say?’ ‘That was b******t.’ Walter is thrilled that his amoral behaviour has forced Brandon to resort to profanity. ‘That’s great man! I mean, it was all worth it, just from that one word…Man, I’m proud of you.’ Keep swearing B-Lang and it’ll be plain sailing for you when Walt fills out his employee evaluation report.

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Two For The Money