Well, what do you think?
I think that in my next life
I'm gonna come back as a movie star.
Yeah, look out, gay porn.
Rimshot. Yeah, that could be your name.
So what, some movie star lives here?
Veronica Deane. Can you believe it?
No shit. You like her?
What, as an actress or for this homicide?
Both. Well, it's been a while
since I've seen her in anything, but man,
she was incredible in Shanghai Moon.
Oh, my God, that dress. Oh, bejeezles, right?
But as for Tennessee Tuxedo here, I want to talk to her.
See if she knows who tried to weight him down--
with an ounce of lead.
Found it on the ground over there by the table.
Is it hers? Hard to tell with no serial number.
Probably why they put 'em on there. Rimshot.
You should ask Veronica Deane
if her agent reps gay porn stars.
And maybe if she murdered this guy.
You got a real knack for this. Thanks.
But the household staff says she hasn't been home since yesterday.
And him? They say that as of midnight
the pool did not contain a dead waiter.
Okay, so...
let's get some unis on the gates,
front, backside, whatever. Nobody in or out.
And while we wait for the M.E.,
we'll go talk to the staff, maybe jog somebody's memory.
Rim Schott. How was that funny?
No, as my gay porn name.
You know--
Rim Schott.
Right?
It's not that bad.
No, on the contrary, it's wonderful.
If you enjoy starving to death.
Oh, please, Mother.
The only thing you eat is cocktail onions.
I simply cannot believe
I let you talk me into this boondoggle!
Not just me. Lana?
Okay, me too. A little.
But only because the CIA blacklisted us.
Plus now with A.J.
I thought it would be safer than being a spy.
It's safer than being a librarian!
Three months and not a single client.
Oh, for-- Mother, when the word gets out that Sterling Archer,
the world's greatest former secret agent,
has his own frickin' detective agency--
Which technically, you do not.
Because California is assholes.
What have I been saying? Something about bears.
Because what other explanation could there possibly be
for California deciding that a stupid law degree--
And a B.A. in Criminal Justice.
Shut up. Somehow qualifies an otherwise total idiot
for a private investigator's license, but an entire career
as a secret agent does not. Well, you're lucky they did,
or you, or Ray, or you, Lana,
couldn't work as an investigator under my license.
And I'm sure that's the last time we'll hear anything about that. Not.
And you can be sure that the minute...
Wait, the second I qualify for my P.I. license,
this is the Archer Agency.
Fair enough. So let's circle back
when you have 2,000 hours of investigative work
certified by your licensed employer, who is me.
Cyril-- And... go!
2,000 hours?
At this rate-- Mother, we will get clients.
All we need is one high-profile case.
And some kick-ass advertising.
Give me that.
Pam, if a single one of these has left this building,
I will personally sew you into a canvas bag
full of rats and throw that bag into the river.
I gotta go get my car smogged!
What river? It's a concrete slab.
The headline there was a bag of rats.
Here's a headline. "Malory Archer bankrupt.
Feckless Son to Blame." Look--
And even if we get a case,
what, some cheating husband, fake whiplash?
The whole thing is just so...grubby!
- Grubby? Grubby?! - Excuse me.
When we were spies, you murdered the Prime Minister of Italy.
Prove it. I can't!
Uh, excuse me? Because Krieger chopped him up,
and then we stuffed him in trash cans
all over four different boroughs.
Well, then. Wait. Four?
I'm not schlepping to Staten Island
in the middle of the goddamn night.
Hey!
Jesus, lady, earballs!
Is this the Figgis Agency?
Well, we're not married to that, but--
Yes, we are.
And yes, it is.
Hello, Cyril Figgis. Owner, CEO,
and fully licensed private investigator.
Veronica Deane.
The movie star?!
Ugh. May we talk somewhere...else?
Blackmail. I'm afraid so.
You see, my home was burgled recently,
and in addition to cash and some jewelry,
they stole a computer disk with, I suppose
you might call it, sensitive information?
It's nine o'clock in the morning.
I'm still on Eastern time.
Archer. It's lunchtime there.
Yesterday, a lawyer named Alan Shapiro contacted me.
He said he was in possession of the disk
and wished to arrange its return.
For a fee.
And the fee was?
I would think none of your concern.
But-- Yeah, Lana.
Oh, Ellis Crane, the movie director.
So do you have any reason to suspect
your ex-husband is behind this?
I have every reason.
Yeah. Lana.
What?! But Mr. Shapiro wanted to meet me
at his house, so I assume the disk is there,
presumably in a safe.
I want you to go there and recover it.
You mean steal it. I mean--
Lana, she can't steal what's already hers.
That's-- Wait, is it double jeopardy?
No.
The disk is rightfully mine,
and I will pay more than fairly for its return.
Well, um, for a case of this nature
our standard rate would be--
Cyril! What?
Sterling! For God's sake, man.
Mrs. Deane-- Ms.
Ms. Deane isn't a standard client, Cyril.
She is a film legend.
And as such, she deserves our legendary service package,
which includes, um-- Get me the disk,
and I will pay your agency $100,000.
Yeah, yeah--
Yeah, that's our rate for that.
This is Mr. Shapiro's address,
and I want the job done as soon as possible.
And of course, it goes without saying
that this matter is strictly confidential.
Apparently not. And conversely,
anything you think you may or may not have overheard,
regarding the Italian Prime Minister's murder and dismemberment--
Alleged murder and dismemberment.
I couldn't care less, Mr. Archer.
All that matters to me is that you return the disk.
Now, good day.
Holy shit, $100,000?
I was gonna say $10,000.
Oh, my God!
Yeah, what were you gonna say, smart guy?
Nine!
Okay, people, listen up.
This is our first case, and we're gonna crush it,
so listen up! These are your assignments.
Pam. Hey, in case you've forgotten,
the writing is literally on the wall,
and I give the orders around here.
Oh, I'm so sorry. Please, by all means.
Uh-huh. Um--
Well, our-- Okay.
Archer has your assignments, so listen up!
Truly inspiring, Cyril.
It's like Patton and Churchill had a baby.
Oh, and put me down for 15 minutes of investigative work.
That wasn't even 15 seconds!
15 minutes is the smallest manageable increment.
You dick! Hey, shut up!
You... also dick! With just a hint of Oscar Wilde.
Mother, if you're not gonna help,
maybe you'd be more comfortable in your office.
No, I'm fine here.
I want to see how you're gonna crack the big case.
Mancy Drew.
Okay, Pam, this is our target location.
That's a nice house.
4220 Arroyo Canyon Road.
Find out everything you can about this house
from the public records. Plat map, utilities,
building permits-- Oh, and especially look
for any blueprints. Oh, man!
Can't Cheryl do that?
I wanted to be the gruff but lovable driver,
mechanic, and maybe occasional muscle.
Like a folksy B.A. Baracus.
Fine. Carol, you're head of research.
I'm on it.
How would one go about being on it?
Try the Internet.
And get everything you can on the owner,
a lawyer named Alan Shapiro.
I think it's safe to assume he doesn't eat shellfish.
Hey, not cool!
What? The fact that he's a Hollywood lawyer
doesn't automatically make him Jewish.
Eww, he's Jewish?
Probably, but that's not the point.
You can't say shit like that!
Wait a minute. If you didn't know he was Jewish,
why'd you mention shellfish? He's allergic!
You buttlicks.
That's why he made that big donation
to the stupid food allergy charity.
Oughta call it the Weak Bloodlines Foundation.
Lana, you and I will break into the house,
and since we can assume there's a safe--
Ray? You care to join us?
I guess, since we're hourly now.
Okay, you got comms, night vision,
infrared, alarm bypass,
suction cups, this crazy spray,
which shows laser beams, and just in case there's a guard dog,
you got doggy treats loaded up with tranquilizers, which I call--
Wait, wait, wait-- I got something for this--
"Hush puppies" Uh, damn! That's better.
Duh. And since the front of the house by the road is guarded 24/7,
you're gonna have to go in from the rear.
No. You all took it for granted.
But the back hangs off a cliff, like,
a hundred feet above the canyon!
Which is why I invented the rocket-propelled grappling hook!
You didn't invent that.
Ah, that's what the patent office said.
And how much is all this costing?
Oh, my God, Cyril.
You have to spend money to make money.
No! You don't! You just have to break into a safe!
Shut that damn thing off! Lame!
Well, what the heck is that thing?
Thermal lance. For the safe!
Like Jimmy Caan used in Thief.
It'll cut through two feet of reinforced concrete
like non-reinforced... butter.
We don't need a thermal lance, ass.
Just a standard safe-cracking kit.
Well, what's legendary about that?
You know, you guys could help.
Hey, you said you're the muscle.
And what are you doing here?
Pam's my ride home.
I can't even. And Archer,
do you really need to do that right now?
Yes, I do. Somebody left an entire palm print, Lana.
Do you realize what skin oil can do to the factory finish?
You realize how ridiculous you are,
for buying that automobile?
What? Shut up, it's amazing!
Okay. So we'll just follow you in the van,
and watch in amazement. Haha!
Try to keep up!
So, my guess would be the fuel pump?
Great. Shut your guess-hole. Oh, come on!
It's gotta be under warranty.
Right? I don't know.
Warranty's in Italian.
Okay. Make sure they're secure.
'Cause they're our only way out of here.
Oh, I was hopin' T.C. was gonna come pick us up in the chopper.
Ha!
Well, but he's gonna be busy flying around,
searching for your battered corpses,
only to find out later that all the coyotes left
was a pile of titanium gears and a shitty weave.
First of all--
This is not a weave! Okay!
Well, it ain't a shitty one.
You should do the camera first.
I said do the cameras first!
I know, right? How awesome is it to be back,
doing what we're best at?
What? Robbery? It's not robbery, Lana.
It's burglary. Or maybe home invasion,
if we run into anybody, which hopefully we won't, but...
I'm talking fieldcraft! Stealth! Teamwork!
Night vision, grappling hooks--
Whatever the hell Ray's doing.
Well, it better be the cameras. Ray, are you doing the cameras?
Yes, Lana, I was doing the cameras.
Okay, so cut the alarm and jam the cell phone signal.
And Lana? The locks aren't gonna pick themselves.
And meanwhile, you were doing...
I'm goin' infrared, Lana.
Holy shit!
It's just like Predator!
In 3-D! Ow!
Give me 90 seconds on the lock.
Sixty seconds on alarm and phone.
Not a competition.
Seriously, we were made for this!
We'll be out of here in no time.
Don't count your chickens before they're hatched!
Okay, A, I'm pretty sure chickens give live birth, like sharks.
What the-- And B, compared to espionage,
P.I. work is gonna be a total cakewalk!
But... I doubt they've gotten the disk yet.
Don't you think it's a little premature to be celebrating?
Who's celebrating? We're out of liquor!
But I admit, I'm cautiously optimistic.
Because out here, you can buy liquor at the grocery store?
Literally, the only thing about Los Angeles
that doesn't make me want to vomit.
But I'm talking about this new line of work.
A good detective and a good spy share a lot of skills,
and I'll deny I ever said this,
but Sterling was an excellent spy.
So... maybe we can actually make a go of this!
I mean, even Pam and Carol are showing some talent for it.
Oh, my God, Pam! I forgot to give
Mr. Archer one of the public records that came back on that guy's address!
What? His license?
Well, I mean, it was kind of a license.
Oh! Mother of--
Sweet Jesus! What?
Run!
No, no, no, don't run! I got them... treats.
Owww!
Bad dog!
Oww! Archer, lower your voice!
***
With what? We didn't bring guns. What?
Plus, awww. Oh, the treats. Give 'em the treats.
Wait, no, hang on.
Treats! No, no, no, no, wait!
Ugh! Ooh!
Ooh.
Well...
Aww, sleepy, babies.
Guess we oughta... get crackin'.
Rim shot! That'd be a good porn name.
Mine would be "Lance Biggerstaff."
I'm picturing a gay wizard.
I always am.
Eat a dick, gravity. Aww.
No, I don't get this at all.
Maybe 'cause it's upside down.
Wait. Really? Yeah, you're just kind of a hick.
Said the man with a relative called, "Uncle Paw-Paw."
That's 'cause he's my mother's...
Yeah, no. Never mind.
So what's the deal? How's that going?
It's goin' great!
And you talking is helping! So, what do you think is on that disk?
Uh, duh, sex tape!
Please. She's like 100. She's like 50.
And she's also Veronica Deane, you big jealous bitch!
Archer?
Don't scream. Because you have no reason to feel threatened
by Veronica Deane.
Am I attracted to her? Obviously. I mean, come on.
You saw Shanghai Moon.
Oh, my God. That dress?
Right. I mean, yeah.
Maybe it was 20 years ago, but if anything,
she's hotter now-- Oww!
Shh! Ow! Ow...
How could you even tell if she was still hot?
She was basically just gigantic sunglasses and a big hat!
Trust me, Lana, she's still hot.
Oh, and the joke's on you, because if I have rabies, now you've got it!
Uh, I don't think you want to get bitchy with me
about communicable diseases.
Crabs aren't a disease!
Oh, my God. First of all...
So, if y'all are done having your little post-fight-makeup-sex-fight--
That's not what we do! Oh, my God.
That is all you do! Now can we go, before Shapiro knows we're here?
How would he? Except for two sleepy grizzly bears,
we didn't leave...
Aaah, intruder!
Intruder!
That's bullshit. How did he know?
Guards! Yeah, but besides that?
Why didn't you tell us you were bleeding like a Russian princess?
Because I honestly didn't know! How could you not?
Because I took a bunch of painkillers at the office!
Why?
Because somebody left them out, Lana.
Move, you idiots. They got the disk!
I am so angry at you right now!
Well, you shouldn't give me that power--
Jump!
Whoo-hoo! Painkillers!
There! Agh! Agh! Agh! Agh! Agh! Agh!
Well, I hope you brought enough painkillers to share with the class!
No. I ate 'em all. Because we're all gonna get shot.
Relax. They're not gonna hit us with those suppressors on,
they'd need a-- Grenade!!
And with that having been said--
Son of a bitch!
Why does a divorce lawyer have grenades?!
Ray, they're terrible people!
You assholes! If they live, you die.
Archer, what are you doing?
Getting you out of here.
Ray, get her to the van.
What about you? I'll be fine.
I lied, I got like, 20 more. Go!
Hang on, honey.
Archer!
Wow, say what you will about cyborgs.
Sure can run good.
And I should take the fast way down too, so--
Ow!
And now, Ms. Deane--
As promised, your computer disk.
And your cashier's check for $100,000.
And while I appreciate your firm's hard work,
I'm sure you'll understand when I say
I hope we never meet again.
A feeling that I assure you is mutual.
Then I bid you good day and goodbye.
Yay!
Lower your voice. Ow.
Oh, let her enjoy it, Sterling.
We just made $100,000! Well, minus expenses, which--
Which reminds me we need to add an extra $1,200 to that.
For what? Something called a pompa di benzina?
Called it. No, you didn't!
And while you're at it, add a case of champagne.
We deserve to celebrate.
Ooh! Bubbly!
Damn it, Veronica Deane already left?
I wanted her to sign this head shot.
Ooh, Joan Crawford's gonna be so jealous.
You know what-- Excuse me.
Oh, my God.
Is this the Figgis Agency?
Again, not married to that. Yes, we are!
And yes, it is.
I'm Cyril Figgis, owner, CEO,
fully licensed investigator. And you are?
She's...
My name is Veronica Deane.
Oh, goddamn it.
May we talk somewhere privately?
Wait a minute. If you're Veronica Deane,
then who the hell was--
Ow.
I, um-- Uh, that is to say, uh, it's uh--
Such a pleasure to meet you.
May I ask how you heard of our agency?
My housekeeper found this under her windshield wiper at the supermarket.
His name's Furlock Bones.