Party over, whoops, out of time
Sarah gains entry to Todd's apartment, and we cut to her entering a shirtless and spiky-haired Timothy Olyphant's main drawing room. Banter about Simon ripping her off, The Olyphant Man taking a moment to kiss a female caller goodbye for, like, five hours, and she plants a Santa hat on him and takes off without a word. He focuses on Sarah: "I take it this is not a social call." She needs a favor. "Wow, I didn't know we were such good friends, Ronna. Because if we were, you would know that I give head before I give favors." Tempting, but no. She's tries to slice through some of the banter even before the twist contest at Jackrabbit Slim's, telling him, "I need twenty hits of ecstasy." He cranks up the music and whispers something in her ear, inspiring Sarah to stand up and remove her shirt. And turn around. He clicks off the soundtrack filler and berates her for baiting him into selling her twenty hits, which, as we all learned at Drug Dealer School, is "the magic number where intent to sell becomes trafficking." He retires to the next room and returns with some pill bottles, foreshadowing, "Only one hit per headbanger." For fifteen dollars a pill. But she doesn't have enough money. She gives him two hundred dollars and tells him she'll leave collateral until she returns with the rest of the money. The Olyphant Man takes up snark duties for a moment: "I've already got a fuckin' Swatch." Heh. He doesn't want a watch. He wants A-Watch. By Armitron. There you go, Olyphant Man. I see your one kitschy eighties time-telling reference and raise you one more. "I need something I know you'll come back for." Cut to Sarah bullying Katie into sitting upstairs with George Jung until she returns with the money, whining, "I don't get this money, I get evicted, okay? My ass is on the street." Oh, the moral bankruptcy. Katie goes up. Sarah promises to be back by eight. Sarah lies when she cries.
New Boy's car pulls up in front of another ramshackle-y house as New Boy tells her, "Next time ask for directions," and a subtitle appears reading "8:04." Wait for the Wolf, who should be comin' directly. Sarah attempts to pull off the perfect crime, but New Boy has pilfered two pills from the bottle and downs them both as Ronna walks in the house. Foreshadowing and impatient narrative drive high five in the back seat as Chekhov smacks his forehead with his palm and yells, "No, you idiots! The gun goes off in the third act, not the third scene!" That Chekhov. Such a diva. Always running around nineteenth-century Russia, smacking his forehead with his palm and calling people "idiot." Inside the house, Gailey and Jay Mohr stand in the background looking vaguely guilty as Fichtner, holding a beer, opens the door, calls Sarah "Rhonda," and tells her how worried he became when he found out Philly was snowed in. Sarah's beeper goes off, and Fichtner sympathizes that Friday must be a "busy night" before offering to get her a drink. She asks for "some of that orange juice," but an awkward pause and a few furtive glances later, Fichtner returns from the kitchen and apologizes for being "fresh out of O.J." My. Curious. Gailey offers to grab the O.J. from the car, but Fichtner changes the subject to the drugs a bit too quickly, and Sarah makes for the bathroom. A quick shot of a surveillance camera watching over the scene cuts back to Sarah alone in the bathroom, Gailey whisper-yelling, "We said Chicago, you said Philly! Maybe she didn't notice." Sarah turns on the water and looks around for an escape, opening the pill bottle and emptying the contents into the toilet. Fichtner uses a key to gain access, but Sarah flushes the toilet just then and tells him, "It's all yours." He follows her back into the living room, barking about making a deal. She asks, "Who the fuck are you, Monty Hall?" She takes a serious swig of her beer, and then reminds Mr. Blown Cover that she's only seventeen, telling him that she shouldn't be drinking the beer, seeing as she's so "underage." Back in the car, Sarah berates New Guy (his name is "Manny," and it's a shame I know that because that nickname was so endlessly sustaining) for taking one of the pills, and demands that he drive. He's looking all sweaty and fried. Chekhov's giggling like an idiot in the back seat, and he's got himself a serious case of the munchies.