Just down the street, Palaka is paying a visit to that pain-in-the-balls retired ex-cop, much to Bill's general displeasure. "My boss, the shit he sees," Palaka says. "Don't get me started." "You're about to get eighty-sixed," Bill threatens. Palaka tries to get to the point, as best as he is able, warning of an "incident" that's coming up before launching into a sneezing fit. "Your birds," Palaka says. "Greasy feathers." "There's no grease on these birds," Bill replies, rather forcefully. After several more sneezes, each one making Bill visibly more uncomfortable until you expect him to leap out of his own skin and run away, Palaka reports that Freddy has had a vision: "It scares his pants off." Bill wants to know of what. "Don't make me imagine that beating, him giving me chapter and verse," Palaka says, a little too brightly, before becoming as deadly serious as he can: "I can only tell you he does not mess with that shit. Even refusing to admit it, he would appreciate it if you came to consult." Bill orders Palaka outside, and Palaka's happy to leave, but first, he'd just like to remind Bill that they should keep this little conversation between themselves: "If you confide to him I told you he asked me to come get you, this is the last I would speak off a ventilator." Bill's done talking now, and just points in the direction of outside; Palaka takes the hint and leaves. Before Bill follows, he turns to Zippy and raises his hands up in the air, in the universal symbol for "My bird keeps telling me to consort with morons and half-wits."
Back at his non-intervention, Butchie's leaving a message for his son to give Cissy a call because "[his] cell phone's fucked." He then turns to the other assembled worrywarts: "This is bullshit," he says. "John's a good guy." Cissy clucks her tongue in disgust: "Only you would think he isn't strange." Butchie reminds Cissy to consider the quality of their normal hangers-on; he's right -- apart from a doubtlessly low SAT Verbal score, John fits right in with the crowd.
Freddy is pacing in front of the sliding glass door of his motel room, almost as if he's expecting someone. The other tip-off is when he hustles back to the bed and sits down, affecting an air of casual indifference, just as Bill opens the sliding glass door and walks in. Smooooooooth, Freddy -- I'm sure Bill, who's having trouble negotiating his way through the vertical blinds, doesn't suspect a thing. "Whadda you want?" Freddy demands. It's so cute when he plays hard to get. Bill plays along with this charade, pretending he's looking for Butchie so that he can collect a fictional debt. "Anyway, he wasn't in," says Bill, waiting for Freddy to jump in with a request for help. "Then I guess your work here on Earth is through," Freddy snots. "I guess your mission's complete." Out of nowhere, Bill asks how Freddy's sleeping; Freddy is puzzled by the question. "Slee-ping," Bill repeats, slowly and stupidly. "If I spoke Monkey, I'd put it in your language." Freddy does the ol' Why-I-Oughta routine, and Bill asks the question again, this time punctuated with a lot more profanity. "Are you having visions?" Bill spits out. "When you are sleeping? You half-a-fucking ape. See, I could give less of a flying fuck, but I'm here, see? So I ask the questions. And believe me, I give less of a fuck." Well, when you put it that way...Freddy "dreamt of that kid...gone. Butchie's son, Shaun. That kid." Bill is suitably worried. He covers his mouth with one hand and sits down on the bed. See? Good scene. Two great actors exchanging great dialog that eventually, after a modest amount of dramatic tension, reveals information that the audience finds useful. If every scene unfolded this way, we'd be getting along much more famously, me and John From Cincinnati.