Coke busts and dirty tradings and hookers, oh my! Plus, lots and lots of Uncle Pete until, well, you know...
Back off, senile. Becker wasn't nominated.
We pan through the stately office of Patty Hewes and Associates at nighttime, and come across...what is that? A walking swizzle stick? Oh. No, it's just Ellen Parsons, taking a midnight stroll in her signature cheerful black.
Ellen's holding two big law books in her arms (but surely they must be hollowed out prop books filled with sparkling water bottles and rice cakes - we all know real law books would snap those arms in half), Ellen comes down the stairs and sees a light on. It's Uncle Pete, working late of course in an office across the hall.
For some reason, Ellen finds this suspicious and enters the office after Pete leaves it. Then we see that the office in question is hers. Thus the suspicion. Maybe Uncle Pete was just looking for some booze or laxatives? The 82-year-old digestive system doesn't work the way it used to, you know...
But Ellen still takes her suspicion to the only friends she has left - FBI Dee and Dum, of course. The dynamic duo has been looking into Uncle Pete's background on Ellen's tip, and it ain't shiny. Apparently he racked up a lot of criminal charges and was a client of Patty Hewes at one point. That's some crack detective work, team.
I mean, seriously - you're telling me the FBI is doing a full-scale investigation on Patty Hewes and it never occurred to them to look into Uncle Pete - her oldest employee - before this point? Are Dee and Dum even real FBI agents? Because at this point I think they might just be boringly disguised elements of Ellen's imagination. Vodka delusions. No one would see THAT plot twist coming. Except for me, just now.
"He's been by her side for decades," Ellen says. "I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner." Dude, I was just saying.
"If Pete McKee knows where Patty's skeletons are buried, we'll find them," Dee says. Doubt it. Patty Hewes doesn't bury her skeletons. She nukes them and then swallows the ashes. Happy hunting.
Men's Warehouse catalogue pose #32: The single button reads casual confidence, yet the relaxed pose with the hand in the pocket signifies a hint of mysteriousness. Or that you like to rub up against your junk mid-conversation. Mysteriously.
Patty is telling Frobisher that she has organized a press conference to announce him as her lead plaintiff against UNR. Frobisher, being awesomely Frobish-y as usual, hands Patty some "words" he'd like her to read at the conference. It's two pages of praise, written out by hand on some legal paper and stapled together.
"Don't you think this is pouring it on a bit thick?" Patty says. That's Frobisher's game, baby. Charm them with sweet words. And if that fails, bludgeon them to death.
Frobisher wants Patty to help restore his reputation. It's the only way he'll stand up against UNR. Frobisher informs Patty that he's recently sought the counsel of a spiritual advisor. Patty says "really?" with a look on her face that's similar to the one my mom gave me when I told her I wanted to get a perm. Supportive, yet also mocking.
"I have clarity now. I've made mistakes and I can admit that," Frobisher says. You can practically see Patty biting her tongue through her dialogue. "That's big of you," she manages to say. She goes on to say that in order for them to work together, she'll have to vet his financials. He agrees. Because, what financials? She pretty much cleared him out, right? I bet his new "spiritual advisor" is Homeless Joe down at the baked potato line in the soup kitchen.
Suddenly a knock on the door. Ellen enters. "Patty you wanted to see me-" she says, then spots Frobisher and stops dead. Frobisher looks like a kid who opened his Christmas presents a day early and then blames it on the dog. Ellen just stares at him, retardedly.
Then we jump to another scene altogether, where a curly-haired stranger, whom I will dub the Douche Trader, is snorting coke in a car with a hooker. Oh, FX. You are the risqué-iest of risqué cable channels. They're listening to crappy techno, with the Douche Trader refers to as "musical epic poetry," when suddenly a cop badge is pressed up against the glass. Ha.
Zoinks!
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