Archer (2009–…): Season 7, Episode 1 - The Figgis Agency - full transcript

At The Figgis Agency, not even the willing appearance of a paying client can make the team shut up about dead Italian Prime Ministers and the stupidity of CA catering to lawyers in handing out P.I. licenses. A draped and sun-glassed woman calling herself Veronica Deane, film star, has a big issue with Alan Shapiro, her ex-husband's divorce attorney, for stealing her sex tape. Like Archer says: divorce attorneys are terrible people!

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?

Sync & corrections by honeybunny
www.addic7ed.com

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...

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.

Sync & corrections by honeybunny
www.addic7ed.com