morning.
Where do you get off riskin' your ass
over some worthless, drunken Indian ?
- He wasn't drunk.
- All indians are nothin' but drunks, tit-head.
Look at me when I'm talkin' to you.
You fuckin'...
crazy, stupid son of a bitch !
- You're fuckin' fired.
- Bob, don't do that.
Shut the fuck up, Butch, or I'll fire your ass too !
Is that what you want ?
- That's your call, sir.
- You're damn right !
Come on.
[ knock at door ]
- Yeah ?
- I'm Conroy Price, Mr. Saxon.
Special investigator of division
Arizona attorney general's office.
I have a proposition for you.
- Does this turtle ever move ?
- What do you want, Price ?
I'm forming an undercover
narcotics operation.
- I'm lookin' for a field officer. You're the man I need.
- How do you figure that ?
I know everything
there is to know about you.
Really ?
Dan Saxon isn't your real name.
You were born William Patrick Steiner
in Manhattan on June 24, 1966.
Your father was a pipe fitter.
Your mother was a full-blooded
chippewa Indian.
You were orphaned when you were 3 and
raised by your maternal uncle, a policeman.
Shall I go on ?
Who the hell are you ?
I told you.  I'm with
the attorney general's office.
Let me give you my card.
I'll put it right here.
I'll go on.
Because she was a native american,
your uncle hated your mother.
He locked you in a room, handcuffed you
and beat you for the next three years.
When you were six years old,
you somehow got his gun...
and shot him through the heart six times.
Six times.
Hmm.
A court-appointed psychiatrist testified you
have no memory of how it happened.
"Severe emotional trauma,"
he called it.
You know what you did.
You just can't remember doing it.
How did you find out ?
I can't tell you that,
but it was no easy task.
The judge sealed your records
when you were adopted.
I'm curious about one thing.
Why become a policeman ?
That's a strange thing to do
under the circumstances,
don't you think ?
Then again, maybe not.
What I think... is you better get
the hell out of here.
- Let me finish.
- You gonna leave or do I throw you out ?
I can find my own way out.
Will you think about it ?
I don't want your goddamn job.
Maybe not. But I think you need it.
Something tells me you have some
unfinished business with a blue uniform.
Get the fuck outta here !
[ Price ] I knew you'd change your mind.
[ Saxon ] Well, you ever mention my past
again, I'll fuckin' kill you.
- Done.
- Where do we start ?
Here's $20,000. Sign the receipt.
When you make a buy, I'll give you more.
Also, instructions on tagging evidence,
drop point procedures...
And some numbers
where I can be reached.
Memorize and destroy them.
When you wanna see me, we meet here.
And nobody knows
you're undercover but me.
- I mean NOBODY.
- I'm gonna have to move.
I'll rent you a place in Phoenix. Grow
a mustache and change your appearance.
You're an ex-cop. If anybody recognizes you,
they'll kill you on spec.
- Would you miss me, Price ?
- You can forget the jokes. I have no sense of humor.
I never have.
I tried several times to develop one.
Even took a workshop. But it didn't work.
- Put quite simply, nothing is funny to me.
- That's funny.
Here's a list of all the bars and
known hangouts for the drug trade.
I want you to make yourself seen,
spend some money.
Do whatever's necessary to get people
to trust you, short of committing a felony.
Do that and the whole operation
goes out the window.
- Now before we go on, there's something
I have to tell you...     - What ?
My predecessor sent two undercover
officers into Gila county last year.
Both disappeared without a trace.
Like they were swallowed up
by some black hole.
It's important you know
what you're up against.
** [ "Hell's Kitchen" by Asphalt Ballet ] **
[ laughing ]
[ laughing ]
Name's Virgil.
Gonna get shit-faced if you
keep drinkin' that fast, man.
I hope so.
You know, I couldn't help but notice
how