08x01 - Archer Dreamland: No Good Deed

[bunniefuu]

♪♪ [slow jazz]

[Man]
Oh death, where is thy sting?

Oh grave, where is thy victory?

For man that is born of woman
hath but a short time to live,

and is full of misery.

He cometh up and is cut down
like a flower.

He fleeth as it were a shadow.

In the midst of life,
we are in death.

In the midst of death,
we are in life.

[Lana] It was a nice service.
[Malory] Hmm.

And he had a good, long life.

He did, for a heroin addict.

Sad Archer wasn't there.

Or here.

It's been a long
couple of months.

Three, next week.

You should go sleep
in a real bed.

I'm fine. I want
to be here if--

When he wakes up.

Yeah. Did the doctor--

The same.

Could be tomorrow,

could be another three months.

Could be...
Yeah.

Well, I guess I'll go.

I'll try to bring
A.J. by tomorrow.

Or Friday.
We'll be here.

At least he doesn't know
Woodhouse d*ed.

That would break his heart.
Mm-hmm.

Although there's no telling
what he knows.

Or what he's thinking about.

Well, dreaming about, I suppose.

No.

No, no, no!

No!
[grunting]

No!

Noooo!

♪♪ [jazzy theme]

Let me go, God damn it!
Come on!

Go easy, Archer.
Poovey, I swear to Christ,

I will punch you
right in the... genitals.

It's okay. Let him go.
You big lummox.

Oh, Jesus. Woodhouse.

So, where are you, Figgis? You got any
leads? What do you think happened?

I think he got too far
behind on his dope tab,

so sometime last night his dealer
punched his ticket for him.

Yeah, and wouldn't that
be convenient?

[chuckles]
Not for him.

You little rat fu--
[whistling]

Oh!
Now, scram, Archer.

Ow. Son of a--
I mean, just ow.

You can claim the body
at the morgue.

But that better be the last time I
smell you anywhere near this case.

Yeah, we'll see about that.

Yeah? And we'll see how you
like it when I yank your P.I. license.

[sighs]
See you around, Poovey.

Take it easy, Archer.

Oh, hey, and Archer?

Come to think of it,
where were you last night?

Ask your wife.
[growls]

Ah, you know his wife left him.

For you, Archer, 'cause you screwed
her tits off at the precinct cookout.

So then she thought the two
of you would get married

and live happily ever after,
but then you were like, "What?"

Exactly. That face
right there.

I--
[groans]

How does that help?

Mm, humanizes you?

[whistling]

Hey, pal. You got a second?

I do not, actually,

and I am not, come to
think of it, so screw.

Hm. I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that.
Wh--

Do you know who I work for?

Do you know how much
I don't care?

About what?
Living out the week?

'Cause we're both
out of luck, friend.

I left all my cash at the track.

But if maybe you wanted
some dope--

Do I look like a junkie to you?

I don't know.
I try not to judge.

You used to sell to this guy.

Yeah, Woodhouse. He--

Wait. Used to?

He's dead.
What?

Oh, for the love of--

He was one of--
No, he was my best customer.

So, he was paid up?

Paid up? He paid in advance.

Yeah. He was not great
with money.

[chuckling] Right? I mean,
who tips their dope dealer?

So, I guess we're done here?

We're done when I say
we're done.

I'm sorry.

Let me rephrase that.
[growling]

[sighs]

[snarls]
Okay.

So, one of two things
is gonna happen here.

Oh!
[clatter]

Hm. Wonder what
the other thing was.

♪♪ [jazz trumpet]

g*dd*mn.

Is it your feeding time already?
[growls]

I wish you wouldn't
antagonize him.

Well, I wish you
could hold a tempo.

[rimshot]

Which, clearly, sarcastic.

No, it wasn't.

[snores] No, thank you,
Zerk, that will suffice.

[Zerk growls]
Huh?

Wha-- What's-- What--

Ah, there he is.

The infamous Sterling Archer,
private eye.

And I trust you know who I am?

I do. But what do I call you?

Mother will do.

And so, you do know who I am,
but you don't care?

What? No, I--

That's what you told
my bartender

when you stuck a g*n
in his ribs.

I-- Well, first of all,

your bartender sells heroin.

Gasp.
And I pulled my g*n

because I'm trying to find out
who k*lled my partner.

That would be Woodhouse.

Yeah. He-- How'd
you know that?

It's my business to know a
great many things, Mr. Archer.

What would you say
if I offered you a drink?

I'd probably say bourbon.

Old Buncombe, if you've got it.

Oh, I have a bit of everything.

So I hear.
Hmm.

How do you take it?
Usually alone.

Thank you for making
an exception.

Please.

And so, I do hope you'll
forgive Mr. Zerk

for his hands-on approach.
Maybe.

But I sure won't forget it.

Yes. I believe that
was the point.

I meant--
I know what you meant.

Cigarette?
No, thanks.

Never took it up.
Really?

But I thought they loaded
all you G.I.s down

with cartons of them
on your way up the gangplank.

They did.
Supposed to help keep you alert.

I guess I found it all
stimulating enough.

Hm. Normandy?
Yeah.

Omaha Beach.

By way of North Africa
and Sicily.

And after Normandy,
through France and Belgium,

all the way to Berlin.

Well, I had to get to Berlin.

I'd sent
all my clean shirts ahead.

Mm-hmm. Speak any German?

You know. "Don't sh**t,"
"I surrender,"

"h*tler's the tops," stuff like that.
Mm-hmm.

Bronze Star with two Oak Leaves
and "V" device.

Legion of Merit.
Croix de Guerre with Palm.

Silver Star with two Oak Leaves.

Distinguished Service Cross with
one Oak Leaf and "V" device.

Three Purple Hearts.
It goes on, Mr. Archer.

Yeah, senior year,
I was voted class flirt.

And yet, you turned down a b*ttlefield
commission to second lieutenant.

Well, after class flirt,
I mean--

In fact, you left the army
at the same rank you went in.

Buck private. And do you know
what that tells me?

I need a new lock on my diary?

That you don't like
taking orders.

Yeah, or having my time wasted.

So, if you'll excuse me--

Oh, no. I will not.

Excuse me?
No.

I just said.
Sorry?

Me too.
I-- Wait. No. I meant--

I know what you meant.

I-- Look, I'm just trying
to find the bastard

who k*lled my partner.
With which, perhaps, I can help you.

With which-- Hang on.
Wait, really?

Perhaps. But before I
could help you,

I would need you to help me.

I'll do anything to find
Woodhouse's k*ller.

And then avenge his death.

Well then, Mr. Archer,

what would you say if I
offered you a job?

I'd probably say yes...

...and also bourbon.

[Mother]
Len Trexler.

I assume you're familiar
with him?

[Archer, chuckling]
Who isn't?

He's the biggest mobster
in L.A.

Well, maybe not for much longer.

Why, is he sick?

Wh-- No, you ass.

Although you could say
that his time has come.

Wait. You want me to help you
make a move against Len Trexler?

Whose hobby is dissolving
people in acid?

Oh, now, Trexler doesn't do
the actual dissolving.

That would be
his enforcer, Dutch Dylan.

I don't care who
does the dissolving.

But if you help me,
I can help you.

Perhaps. You made that
very clear.

Look, all I need you to do is go
down to Pier 9 in Long Beach tonight

and simply observe
and report back.

No.
Oh, come on.

I thought you had guts.

And I'd like to keep them
in their current location,

i.e., inside me, not melting
in a 50-gallon drum of acid

with my shoes and feet and face.

♪ Never know how much
I love you ♪

♪ Never know how much I care ♪

♪ When you put your arms
around me ♪

♪ I get a fever that's
so hard to bear ♪

♪ You give me fever ♪

♪ When you kiss me ♪

♪ Fever when you
hold me tight ♪

♪ Fever in the morning ♪

♪ Fever all through
the night ♪

♪ You give me fever ♪

I'm in.
Excellent.

Then find k*ller,
uh, revenge do.

Careful what you wish for.

You just might get it.

♪ Till you sizzle ♪

♪ What a lovely way ♪

♪ To burn ♪

That's some set you got on you.

I mean, not your-- I--

I meant--
I know what you meant.

Uh, yeah.
Uh, let me start over.

My name's Archer.

Lana Kane.

And, I'm sorry, but have we met?

If we had, you'd remember.

[rimshot]
[Gillette] Stop it.

And so, um, you're
the singer here.

Wow. And you must be
an old gypsy woman.

Close. I'm
a private investigator.

I'm doing some work
for your boss.

And apparently doing it
with a fresh new take

on the word "private."

Can I buy you a drink?

Hmm. Bottle of PBR.

[chuckling] PBR. Wow. I-I would
have thought your tastes

were a little more, um--

Pierre Beauvais. Rouge.

Ah.
Problem?

No. Not when you're pulling down
25 bucks a day plus expenses.

And what sort of daily expenses

does a semi-private
investigator incur?

b*ll*ts?
Daily.

Or, I don't know,
maybe a surf-and-turf dinner

at the Polo Lounge?
Un-hun.

And then maybe a room upstairs,
at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Uh-huh.
And then, maybe--

I'm gonna leave you here.

Between hope and despair.

What the hell does that mean?

Before you sh**t a big,
salty load in your pants.

Shut up. How much
for the champagne?

Twenty-six dollars.

Wha-- I'm not paying 26 bucks

for a bottle of frustration.
[growls]

[groans]
You're lucky my ear hurts.

There.
Plus tip.

How about the tip of my cock?
[rimshot]

[Gillette] Stop it!
So, in that scenario,

would I take your penis
in my hand? My mouth?

assh*le. Wait, no.
I mean-- Not-- Goddammit.

[Archer]
Pierre Beauvais Rouge.

Hardy har har.

Hey, 1933 called.

They want
their gold digger back.

Meanwhile, I have to dip
into my rainy day fund,

which is barely enough to buy
an extremely nice umbrella.

Wait. What the--

Holy sh*t.

Leave it to Woodhouse.

Now I can find his k*ller
and take revenge.

Although I better get moving if I'm
going to make it to Long Beach in time.

Okay. So, first thing
tomorrow morning.

Well, or probably
after breakfast.

After which, I just remembered
I'm getting a haircut.

But after that,

vengeance will be mine.

Oh, duh.

Just like you always
said, Woodhouse,

"Lock the safe, Archer,
you dumb twat."

I wanted to get mixed up
with mobsters

like Mother and Len Trexler
about as much as I wanted

a new hole in my head.

But I meant it when I said
I'd do anything

to find Woodhouse's k*ller.

Although, truth be told,

I'd also do anything
just to see Lana Kane again.

So here I am, headed straight
into the belly of the beast.

Nothing between me and death
but my wits

and the cold, blue steel
of my .45.

[chuckles] I have no idea why
I'm telling you all this.

Or why I picked you up.

I don't even know where you're going.
[whines]

Hopefully Long Beach.
[barks]

Well, too bad.

[whispering] Because I don't
need a spirit animal,

and if I did, he'd be an ocelot.

[whines]

Okay. Observe and report.

So easy, even a cop
could-- Wait.

What the--

Hm. Now, what's a nice,
unmarked LAPD girl like you

doing in a place like this?
[engine approaches]

So, what's Trexler importing?

Some new, improved
people-melting acid?

Dammit, they're in defilade,
I can't see what they're doing.

[sighs]
I gotta get higher.

That ought to do.

[sniffs]

Now, that is a lovely
parting gift.

And who's our lucky
contestant, Bob?

Come on, you bent prick,
look up.

Dammit.

[Man]
Come on, move it.

[Archer] Huh.
Let's go, let's go. Come on.

Guess Trexler's not opening
a Chinese restaurant.

I mean, in this economy?

A whorehouse, though, bet that's
pretty much recession-proof.

Move, goddammit.
[cries out]

[Archer gasps]

[panting]

Okay, Archer, just stay calm.

Yeah, good advice.

Ow.
Oh. Still tender, huh?

What the hell are you
doing here?

Asking you the same thing.

None of your damn business.

Everything is my business.

Oh. Including white sl*very?
Yes, incl-- Wait. What?

Those girls are
tied up, assh*le.

No, they're not,
they're just--

Ah, dog dicks.

Yeah, so--
But wouldn't it be yellow sl*very?

[scoffs]
Wh-- I don't know, r*cist.

White sl*very's just as r*cist.
What?

No. You know, if you differentiate
between, like, cotton-picking sl*very--

Jesus Christ.
...and then white sl*very, that's--

Sexual sl*very, then.
Okay.

Goddammit.
[engine starts]

My point is I think we're
both anti-sl*very.

Yeah, you're a regular
Granville Sharp.

But since I'm guessing that was
your boss taking the payoff--

But he didn't know
about this part.

Or any part,
'cause he wasn't here.

Wow. Well, I'm sold.

Really?
No, dickhead.

And neither are they.
Whoa.

Look, I don't know what the
hell you think you're gonna do.

Well then, that makes two of us.
What are you--

Oof.

Well?

Goddammit.

Son of a bitch!

[grunts]

[sighs]
I mean...

So, funny story.

Jesus, it's the cop, Poovey.

So, yeah. So--

[screaming]

[grunting]

[panting]

[sniffs]
Okay.

One of two things is gonna--
[g*nshots]

Wh-What--

What?
...the sh*t?

They knew me from work.

Ugh.
What? You think they heard that?

Because, just so I
understand you,

your theory is
the truck backfired,

whereas your theory
is fireworks.

They are Chinese.

What in Christ Foo Yung

could they possibly
be celebrating?

Who knows? They got
their own calendar.

[sighs]
Go back there,

you team of oxen, and--
[door opens]

Can I help you?

Out of the truck.
[chuckles]

Do you know whose truck this is?

Do you know how much
I don't care?

That's cute.
No, seriously.

You're making a--
[grunts]

...huge mistake. Huge!

Do you hear me?
Yes. We're right here.

Well, you better just k*ll me.

That's-- [clears throat, deeper]
That's what I said.

Because when, not if,
I find out who you are,

I'm going to liquefy you.

Okay.
Same goes for those Chinese whores.

So I'm serious.
You better k*ll me.

So, you're saying when I drive
this truck out of here,

you'd prefer I drove over
your head, not your ankles.

Wait, what?
No, no.

No, I meant--
I know what you meant.

[screaming]

[crying]

What?

Nothing.

I mean, I feel like I
already know the answer,

but are you crazy?

How are they my responsibility?

Because your crooked boss

took a payoff to let them
off that boat.

What am I supposed
to do with them?

Get them jobs. There are plenty of
Chinese restaurants, laundries--

Now who's r*cist?

No. Because those are places

where other Chinese people
already work.

They don't speak
English, dumbass.

I do little bit.
Then shut up.

[gasps]
I'm so sorry.

I can't even imagine
the day you've had.

God, the week.

The life. [chuckling]
Shut up.

Seriously.
Sorry about the laundry thing.

You're doing this, end of story.
I--

A story in which
a Los Angeles police detective

m*rder*d three people.

[sighs]
d*ck.

Thank you very much!
Thank you!

[sighs]
Super.

Now I get to go report
what I observed.

Then drove a truck over.

So, first, maybe a drink.

Or 12.

Goddammit!

Goddammit.

Goddammit!

[phone rings]

Who the hell is this?

[Mother]
Guess. [gulps]

I-I was just coming
to see you.

Oh, goody.

Because I am just on pins and needles--
Well--

...to hear how you turned a stakeout
into three dead, one crippled,

and Len Trexler
ready to go to w*r.

How do you already know that?

And I swear to God,
I've got half a mind

to just k*ll you myself.
I--

But the other half says you're
slightly more use to me alive.

If--
For now.

I--
Because now you owe me.

My office, Archer.
First thing tomorrow morning.

[dial tone]

[sighs]

Ahem.

Mr. Archer?

Depends. Who's asking?

Charlotte Vandertunt,

heiress to the vast Vandertunt
publishing fortune.

And I would like to hire you...

to m*rder me.

Okay.