do?
I guess I'll call him.
Be kind of weird if I didn't,
wouldn't it?
You're playing with fire, David.
If you're so upset about it,
why'd you give him my number?
I didn't.
Mr. Taylor?
Hi. Here, sit down.
That was stupid. Sorry about that.
Thanks very much.
Drink?
No, I'm okay.
Unless you want another one.
I just had us meet here
because my place is hard to find.
Like an illegal loft space?
That's one way to put it.
I feel like I'm knee-deep
in bohemian cachet.
Lead on.
-How's Emily?
-She's fine, thank you.
Well, be sure and say "hi. "
I will.
One more.
One more floor.
Building's over 1 00 years old now.
Watch your step.
I can certainly see
what Emily was drawn to.
Yeah? What's that?
Your work. It's. . .
. . .very trashy. . .
. . .but potent.
Trashy?
Is that what she said?
Your anger. . .
. . .it's very controlled.
You think I'm angry?
The anger in your work.
The color of despair.
Wonder where that comes from.
I don't know.
Inside, I guess.
Inside. . .
. . .indeed.
Nowhere to sit but the goddamned bed.
You know, I envy you.
You envy me?
You should be. . .
. . .flattered.
I'm not prone to envy.
It's a pathetic emotion.
Sneaks up on you like cancer.
I've got it and you know why.
No.
Oh, of course you do.
One of life's legitimately
sublime experiences. It's so. . .
. . .utterly complete.
What?
Fucking my wife.
Mr. Taylor, I don't know--
I think it's about time
you called me Steven.
We're in love, sir.
That's it?
That's it?
You steal the crown jewel
of a man's soul. . .
. . .and your only excuse is some
candy-ass Hallmark card sentiment?
Even if it was true,
that's not good enough!
If what were true?
She is in love.
You, buddy. . .
. . .you're in business.
What the hell are you saying?
I'm saying you did not meet
my wife by chance.
I'm saying
you didn't study at Berkeley.
I'm saying you learned to paint while
doing 3 to 6 in Soledad Prison. . .
. . .for relieving a widow
in San Francisco of her life savings.
Your second conviction. . .
. . .if I'm not mistaken.
Your real name is Winston Lagrange,
which I rather like.
Born to pure trailer trash
in Barstow, California.
Ward of the courts
since the age of ten.
You went from pickpocket to car thief
to con man till you found out. . .
. . .that you had a way
with the softer sex.
No doubt looking for that mother
you can barely remember.
A life made up completely
of depressing little scams. . .
. . .until now.
Where'd you get all that?
All that is for sale.
The hell of it is, you're not. . .
. . .half-bad with a brush.
Called rehabilitation.
It's called a con.
My wife's the grand prize.
But you set your sights
too high this time.
She loves me.
She loves David Shaw,
your invention.
But you've made
a fundamental miscalculation.
Play it out.
Love conquers all.
Emily divorces me.
She marries you.
Given your history, her advisors
are going to insist upon a prenup.
You might storm the castle. . .
. . .but you ain't getting the keys
to the treasure room, ever.
I don't care about that.
The swindler doesn't care about a
trust fund that can buy Barstow?
Why don't you cut the shit!
You care, or we would not be having
this conversation!
The only thing that stops you from
bolting now is bad genes and greed.
Now what?
Choices.
I can tell Emily who you are,
and life will imitate art.
You become a starving painter,
game over.
Or?
Or you can cash out.
Cash out?
Half a million dollars.
Tax-free.
Just for walking away from her?
I said tax-free.
I didn't say free.
What's 500 grand for?
Killing my wife.
Emily?
Imagine my embarrassment
if they're not the same.
$1 00,000 now. . .
. . . $400,000 after, cash-and-carry.
You're out of your mind.
Not really.
Why?
I appreciate your curiosity,
but my agenda doesn't concern you.
I'll go straight to Emily
and tell her all this.
That would be my word against yours. . .
. . .Winston.
And what if I call the