Original subtitles

Police say the three Coney Island victims

were strangers until the arrest of Deonte Brooks.

What the fuck?

BAILEY: When Rory brought you to me,

he said he couldn't tell if you were

the good guy or the bad guy.

- DIARRA: Danger? - Hmm?

- Are you dead? - DANGER: Nah.

Get Deonte out.

Focus.

DIARRA: We told them we were making a documentary

on the Detroit Flamingos of Eden's Ethiopia.

"Cinnamon" spelled the regular way.

Wakey, wakey. I got you a parting muffin.

- Do you like this guy? - No, I'm not you.

I think you're trying to figure out how to unlock that desk.

ROYCE: I'm not bringing y'all fake-ass niggas in there!

And the Masons do not play, Dee.

DIARRA: Duncan Duckett.

I'll trade Booker his key

for the testimony that frees Chris.

I'm a private investigator.

It's like a treasure map.

AJA: This is Detroit.

So, what, you think this is just some kind of practical joke?

Diarra, yes!

Who the hell did you piss off?

DIARRA: Confession.

Crazy as it was, I was ready to embrace my PI era.

But I was also ready for my mom era.

I felt like the explosion broke me into fragments,

split me in two,

both sides of me in a dangerous competition.

My mind was everywhere all at once.

[overlapping] The baby blew up? Hey, I want a baby.

The Coney Killer's trying to kill you.

Are you a mom or a PI?

Do not leave this room. This is all my fault.

Stay safe. You have to keep calm. Treasure? What the fuck?

- Is the map even real? - DANGER: Stop.

Get Deonte out.

Focus.

One thing.

DIARRA: But how was I supposed to solve a triple homicide

on the fucking bus?

I needed wheels.

Ugh, this motherfucker.

But wait, was the Coney Killer trying to kill me?

Do not leave this room. I'm scared.

Focus. Focus on the clues.

DIARRA: But the only clue I had was the stuff of urban legend:

a treasure map hidden in an antique desk.

So I had motive...

but no suspect.

I had no idea what to do next, when...

- [pounding on door] - Shit!

Since the explosion, I'd become a bit paranoid.

RAQUEEBA: It's me, you crazy bitch. Open up.

DIARRA: Apparently I'd become cause for concern

- on the family group chat. - Come in.

Cousin! Somebody blew up your car.

Your boyfriend locked up.

You need prayer, alcohol, and fellowship.

DIARRA: Urban legend says relatives will always pick

the worst possible time for a visit.

- What is that? - A suitcase.

Sela's at Camp Personality for two weeks.

- Okay... - Trying to turn up!

Get some D. Get some sleep.

But first, I got to make sure you straight, boo.

So I'ma spend my little mom-cation with you.

Raqueeba, hell no!

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

Raqueeba, only time anybody see you

is when Sela at Camp Personality.

Now you wanna turn up and fuck everybody else's liver up.

No, thank you. I love you, but you gots to go.

Mm-mm. I know what you need.

- What? - You need cousin love.

Come here, baby. Come here, baby.

- No, stop it! - Let me hug you, baby.

Oh, my God. That's really good.

RAQUEEBA: Mm-mm. Mmm.

Can you squeeze me just, like, a little bit tighter?

Like it or not, there was a particular kind of healing hug

only another Black woman could give.

[phone ringing]

- Is that me? - Who is that?

I don't know. If you would back up!

- Why are you so sensitive? - Stop it, you crazy!

Girl! Jesus Christ.

I'ma get a couple margaritas in you.

A little alcohol always leads to the truth.

Raqueeba, it's unknown.

It's Chris. Have you talked to him yet?

Sound upbeat. You know them niggas locked up

be going through shit. Put on your sexy voice.

Hello there.

BOOKER: This the lady with the baby?

I heard you can find my key.

- Is this Booker? - Who the hell is Booker?

Shh! One sec.

He was my witness,

the guy who could free Chris.

That's what I was betting on.

I did better. I got your key and I opened your little desk.

I need you to tell me what you saw

the night of the Coney killings.

I'm not talking till you tell me what you found inside.

[sighs]

- A map. - A map?

No money, jewels? Nothing?

No. I guess the map leads to some kind of treasure.

Leads to? Come on, man. Fuck!

Booker, I know that things are complicated for you right now.

But Chris didn't do this.

And if you saw who did, then I need your testimony.

I am begging you.

Please.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

I know your boyfriend wasn't there that night.

- [exhales] - And I know who was.

But I need my inheritance.

Or treasure, or whatever the fuck.

Find it,

and I'm your star witness.

[line beeping]

What-

And so I filed away everything

I couldn't afford to think about.

[tense music]

It was a lesson in compartmentalization, really.

I had just learned the masonic tenet of focus,

and it was already time to put it to the test.

One thing.

***

Duncan Duckett, you cheeky bastard.

[sighs] How do I read your map?

TEA: Okay, Dee, what's the big announcement?

You can call me Michigan motherfucking Jones,

'cause we going treasure hunting, bitches.

- Um, okay. - DIARRA: Or...

do we like Detroit Jones better?

I won't be using either.

Yeah, I think I'ma stick with...

[theme music]

Treasure hunting a white pastime. Open up.

DIARRA: I let her stay, even though I was sure

she was a spy for the family group chat.

And since I was on Chris's no-contact list

as a potential witness,

Mac was my spy at the arraignment.

Shit was brutal. Aunt Vonda got this expensive-ass lawyer

- trying to push a deal. - He cannot take a deal.

TEA: I mean, maybe call Swa.

After all he put you through, he owes you.

MAC: Auntie Vonda don't even want me talking to you.

I doubt she'd take some legal advice from your ex.

The only "ex" that we need to worry about

is the one that marks the spot.

Trust me, we can fix this.

- With a treasure hunt? - N- Mm-hmm. Yes!

- Mmm. Shit, that's good. - Mm-hmm. Yeah.

We make Booker happy, he goes to the cops,

maybe even breaks us off a little finder's fee.

Look, "To find my fortune you must get lucky,"

which means... there's a fortune!

Left by an old Black man.

The fortune could be a corncob pipe and a dusty top hat.

Or an old-timey puppet and a slave shackle.

When is the last time you heard of three people getting killed

over an old-timey puppet and a slave shackle?

Shit, every day. Did you watch the news?

In order to understand the map,

we need to understand the man who made it.

- The dead guy at Tommy's Gun. - His name was Duncan Duckett.

But who the hell knows about a man that died 100 years ago?

I know about every damn thing.

And yes, you may film me.

Listen, I have been consulting

with the top experts on my bus route.

That's why I ain't never going to jail.

I know their secrets.

See, Detroit was built on an Indian spirit portal.

Which is why Detroit ain't no real place.

Yes, crackheads can travel by portal.

Which is why they seem so fast-moving.

What?

- What? - THE PROFESSOR: To resume.

The legend of Duncan Duckett is truer than true.

Dunc was a gangster, rum runner,

all-around bad motherfucker.

Worked for the Purple Gang.

Robbed those crackers blind.

And that's why we still call cold, hard cash...

Ducketts.

- Huh? - Dee, that's your source?

A vagrant with a bow tie is still a vagrant.

And crackheads move fast 'cause they on crack.

- I confirmed his theory. - ERMA: That's false.

Records show Duncan Duckett was an established business owner

in Paradise Valley.

Devoted family man. Prominent deacon.

And there is no evidence that any Black man

was working with the Purple Gang.

Complimentary snow globe.

That's not confirmation. It's the exact opposite.

Well, Dunc was still killed in a Purple Gang hideout.

So whether he was a cold-blooded gangster

or an upstanding citizen, he had schmoney, okay?

So the treasure's real either way.

But why would Dunc have the treasure to begin with?

Jesus Christ! Who fucking cares? Okay?

If Booker needs it to testify, then we're gonna find it.

So everybody, gather the fuck around

and look at the map either through the eyes

of a cold-blooded gangsta or a businessman

until we can figure out how to read it.

I'ma look at it like a gangster.

OTHERS: Businessman.

BAILEY: Oh, shit.

Well, I guess we know how the cow died.

She ate all this damn hemlock.

Look, there's bite marks everywhere.

That's a rough way to go.

DANGER: Shit's Darwin, I guess.

I'll run back, grab the Roundup.

You trying to get away from me?

You haven't said two words since the run the other night.

I'm sorry.

I was in a bind. I figured you could handle yourself.

It's all good.

I know I owe you.

I wasn't calling in a chip, Om.

Everything I said about this place is real.

Sustainability. Community.

The spirit guiding us to a new Earth.

So meth is gonna help you heal the world?

You believe that story?

The revolution has to be funded.

I know you're not na�ve, Om.

Once Homeland can stand on her own two feet, she will.

[ominous music]

MAC: Hmm.

Maybe dude's fortune is that cocktail recipe right there.

Can you read that? What does it say?

DIARRA: One ounce strong spirit. One ounce grape juice.

- Turmeric. - Hmm. You got any turmeric?

Mm-hmm. Pantry.

All right, bet. This shit better be good, man.

This dead nigga put us through enough already.

This is typical Dee psychology.

You say "treasure hunt," I hear "avoidance."

Should we discuss the fact that someone's trying to kill you?

Hey. What you doing, Raqueeba?

'Cause if any of this leaks to the family group chat,

you gon' be spending mom-cation at the mall.

I am not avoiding my feelings.

I'm compartmentalizing them.

That's very different.

- BOTH: Okay. - MAC: All right, y'all.

Check these out.

Try these. Bam. A Dunc for you.

- Okay. - A Dunc for you.

- Hey! - And you.

I should just Dunc on you.

RAQUEEBA: Well, come on, then.

'Bout time. Whoo!

- To freedom. - Prohibition.

[all chuckling]

Mm-mm. Mmm!

- Mmm! - Ugh!

So we're gonna add bartending to the long list of shit

that you're not allowed to do.

That's your boy Dunc. I'm trying to help y'all niggas out.

TEA: Okay, listen. I wanna help Chris.

But this ain't it. Okay?

The map has no street names.

We have no way of knowing what's the truth and what's fiction.

A little alcohol always leads to the truth.

Professor said Dunc was a bootlegger.

Which means he would have trafficked in secrets.

[intriguing music]

Oh, shit. Wait a minute.

He was using invisible ink.

DIARRA: Booker and Duncan Duckett

were definitely related.

Oh, shit.

MAC: Oh, my God. It's all making sense.

DIARRA: And that's how the street names came into focus.

TEA: Deerlick Lake?

This is very old Detroit.

But the X that marks the spot is right off Fenkell and Burt Road.

- Good Lord, that's the hood. - Shit. That's Brightmoor.

They say the stars don't even come out at night in Brightmoor.

I'm not scared of Brightmoor.

- Shit, I am. - We are going, Raqueeba.

We just- we just need a plan.

And a decent cocktail.

[rap music]

I don't know why,

but something about proximity to Dunc

made me think better.

Um, Dee? We got a problem.

X marks the spot at the former Brightmoor General Store.

That's now the Vulture Biker Bar.

- It's owned by Cartier Kelly. - Oh, hell no.

Who the hell is Cartier Kelly?

[rock music]

Cartier Kelly became a legend

the day he walked into a bar full of Nazis.

***

He wanted the bar for himself.

[shouting]

- And he got it. - MAN: Get him, boys!

DIARRA: If he had stopped at killing Nazis,

that would have been one thing.

But he left a trail of bodies behind

in pursuit of his true passion.

He collected his gangster memorabilia

by any means necessary.

Hoffa's watch, Pontiac's hatchet,

and the Vulture Bar itself.

The former general store was

a known Prohibition-era stash house,

and with every new artifact he assembled,

tales of his savagery grew.

Head of the Fenkell Mob? De facto mayor of Brightmoor?

Famed Tubi movie producer?

This nigga's got a lot of hobbies.

How do y'all even know all this stuff?

Well, you hear about everything down at the plant.

Stitch told me all about this dude.

He's got the largest collection

of gangster memorabilia in the D.

So this nigga's crazy. Perfect.

You know what else? I like him for those Coney murders.

- Absolutely. - Well, clearly.

You know, maybe the Professor was on to something.

- Nah, he was on to nothing. - Think about it.

If Dunc was a gangster, then Cartier would've wanted

his desk for his little collection.

So he shows up to the Coney and he wilds out.

Nah. Like you said, nobody kills three people over a desk.

This was always about the map.

So Cartier kills for a map that leads back to his own bar?

Maybe his dumb ass don't know he's sittin' on a goldmine.

***

The next morning, we needed a little hair of the dog,

and the only place to get it?

- The Vulture Biker Bar. - No. No. Mm-mm.

I don't like this, Dee.

Queeba, you were never going in.

If you die, the family group chat will eviscerate me.

Just meme after meme of Viola Davis picking up

that handbag for the rest of my life. You stay here.

If you are not out in ten minutes,

- I'm driving through the wall. - Okay!

TEA: All right, so what exactly are we looking for?

- Anything not renovated. - So treasure might be

in the walls, buried underneath.

- Mm-hmm. - Oh, forgot to tell you.

One of my guys on the inside is getting Chris a phone.

Supposed to be calling you today.

- I'll get my jacket. - DIARRA: This is all my fault.

Stay safe. It was too much. Are you a mom or a PI?

- This is all my fault. - We should try again.

DIARRA: Emotional landmines were stacking up like Legos.

One thing.

Thank you. I will be expecting that call.

- Okay. - [exhales] Okay.

Now let's go get Booker his treasure.

I'm Chopper. You Rabbit. You Pablo.

I'm Mexican? Hell yeah. What kind of bike I got?

What are you, Daniel Day-Lewis? Who fucking cares?

Act tough. Blend in.

See? It's working.

None of us were prepared for what waited for us inside.

BIKER: Hold it right there.

Ain't no way you walking out of here alive.

How was that? Was it believable?

'Cause I could also do it like this.

[shouting] Ain't no fuckin' way

you walking up out of here alive, motherfuckers!

Hold up. Wait a minute.

You the dude from Rumble, Biker Gang, Rumble.

- Ah! Shit! - DIARRA: Because inside,

we stumbled upon Daniel Day-Day-Lewis

on the set of a very ghetto indie movie.

And, action!

DIARRA: Gangs in the D were big into making indie films.

It was the ultimate flex to spread their own urban legend

through the magic of cinema.

BIKER: Take one or take two?

Take two. Fuck that. Denzel who?

- BOTH: Take one! - BIKER: Queen.

Extras holdings over there.

- Thank you. - You're very welcome.

DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut!

How many times I gotta say the boom is in the shot!

CARTIER: Film School says keep it grounded.

DIRECTOR: Back to one!

Chimney looks original.

TEA: Fireplace is probably on the other side.

- Mm-hmm. - DIRECTOR: Quiet on set!

Excuse me. Um, one of the extras said

if they don't get a line, they gon' kill somebody.

Um, red hat.

CARTIER: Film School says push in on this.

[tense music]

DIARRA: Cartier's office.

The ridiculous amount of Buffs

and the smell of crazy in the air gave it away.

I was trying to focus,

but new questions tugged at me like a mad dog on a leash.

Was Cartier collecting trophies from his Coney victims?

First and last warning, nigga.

One thing.

DIARRA: But I had to stay on mission.

I was about to unlock Booker's fortune.

***

X marks the spot.

[sighs]

[click]

***

- Oh. - [click]

[sighs]

Dunc, what the fuck, bruh?

I hear something jiggling,

so it's gotta be...

- [Diarra screams] Oh- - [yelps] Shh!

Shh! You shh! You shh!

- Shh! Hey, who are you? - Who the fuck are you?

But I wasn't prepared for the last item

Cartier had added to his collection:

a human being.

I'm sorry, is this some type of rehearsal, or...

Does this look like a fucking rehearsal?

Being chained to a fucking radiator? You seeing this shit?

This is not a fucking rehearsal. This is real life!

I don't know what the fuck is going on in here.

Bunch of Spike Lee-ass gangsters.

I've never seen no shit like this in my life.

Do me a favor, go to that mantel and get the key.

- There's a key up there. - Sir, why are you chained

to the fucking radiator?

I'm a director, and these niggas are fucking crazy.

- They won't let me leave. - A director?

- Yes. - Then how come you're not

out there in a fucking beret telling people what to do?

Please get the goddamn key for me. Please!

How do I know if I can trust you?

You can trust me. Just get the goddamn key.

- Can do you do that? - Shit!

- Where is it? - Right up there.

- Right there. - Ugh. Here.

- [door thuds] - [Film School screams]

- We gotta go. - MAC: Now.

- [gunfire] - They shooting.

Not without their "director," they're not.

- Who the fuck is this nigga? - TEA: Dee.

They're actually fucking shooting.

There's some YNs or film critics that showed up

- and now it's a showdown. - Oh, shit!

- Okay, let's go. - FILM SCHOOL: Wait for me!

- [gunfire] - Wait a minute, damn it!

I'm coming with you!

- [gunfire] - [overlapping shouting]

[tires screeching]

BIKER: Stop those guys! They're stealing Film School!

Hey! They're stealing our director-

- Let's go, let's go, let's go! - Tea, kick it open!

BIKER: Take our director,

you'll never make it out of Brightmoor alive!

No, no, no, no, no! Go your own way!

- You gon' get us killed! - No way, man. I'm with you!

- No, seriously, man, go! - [overlapping arguing]

Oh, shit!

Oh! Shit!

MAN: Come on, come on!

[gunfire]

FILM SCHOOL: Maybe they'll stop if I yell "cut." Cut! Cut!

Queeba! Where are you?

RAQUEEBA: Cousin, I had to bounce.

I couldn't even get back over there.

F-Mob closing down the street.

Okay, okay. Okay. Please don't get shot.

Fuck! We need another ride.

- FILM SCHOOL: Go, go! - Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!

- [phone ringing] - Oh, shit.

You really rolling calls right now?

It could be Chris! [exclaims]

- [brightly] Hello there! - Dee!

- What? - CHRIS: Diarra? It's me.

Talking with everybody but the fucking police!

Now is not a good time. Please call me back.

CHRIS: Dee. Dee, what is that?

Is that gunshots? Diarra, where are you?

[all screaming]

- TEA: Oh, shit! - FILM SCHOOL: They got him!

DIARRA: For the record, compartmentalization...

very hard.

We gotta get off these streets.

- Now. - Oh, my fucking God.

I know a safe spot not too far.

[game show playing on TV]

[breathing heavily]

- [bell dinging on TV] - HOST: Brenda!

[TV audience cheering]

DIARRA: There was only one safe place to go.

Well, safe for everyone except Tea.

His ex marked this spot.

His name was Xavier.

What? What?

Look, if you still butt hurt over some old shit,

- we can just go. - Hmm.

[distant gunfire]

Punk ass.

- I should've went to work. - DIARRA: Sir?

Can I just... Okay, thank you.

[inhaling, exhaling]

[breathing deeply] Oh. Oh, that's good.

Okay. I'm good, thank you so much.

- Okay, so- so what's the play? - Yeah.

So the first priority

is we need to figure out why the key didn't work.

What? No, GI Jane-isha.

First priority is get fuckin' Film School back

and get the fuck out of Brightmoor.

Well, how the fuck are we supposed to do that?

TEA: Listen, we stay put, we stay safe,

- we ride this shit out. - [knocking on door]

- Shit! - Who is it now?

TEA: X, don't get that shit!

- Don't get that shit! - No, no, no! Please!

TEA: Don't answer that shit!

- Sorry I'm late, boo. - Pandora,

you were supposed to be here yesterday!

Shit. You want your hair braided or not?

- XAVIER: Yeah. - Y'all see next door?

Brightmoor locked down. Cartier ain't playing.

He looking for somebody!

XAVIER: It's always something over here.

Since when you had all this company? Where they come from?

What, I can't have company? Come on. Let's go.

Come on.

So we really gon' let hair girl stay?

We have to! Soon as she leaves,

she'll start blabbing that it's four randos holed up in here.

Hey, Film School falling apart,

and I think Tea ex might fuck around and snitch on us.

His DJing ex was a snitch.

Ah, don't- Ah! You got a type.

Okay, listen, I'll keep X cool.

You make sure Film School is stable.

Y'all ain't hungry?

[sighs]

DIARRA: Film School. You good?

[Film School screams]

CARTIER: Put the word out to all my soldiers.

They shot up the bar and they took my director.

- Get out of here. Come on. - [woman whimpering]

- Let's go. - Where's the director?

Get on the ground. Come on.

CARTIER: A girl with two dudes.

Could be Gratiot Kings, could be Woodward Boys.

Bring them to me.

[newscaster] Authorities are still looking for

a local filmmaker who disappeared three weeks ago.

Omari Jones was last seen in the Brightmoor neighborhood.

If you have any information about his whereabouts...

- Pink denim. She had- - Where's the director?

- [indistinct] - Skinny girl.

Stay away from the windows.

- Can't believe this shit. - Okay. All right.

Let's calm down, Film School.

Let's stay calm. You wanna talk?

'Cause you've had resting PTSD face since we been here, okay?

No shit.

Okay! So tell me about it.

Talk to me.

Okay, look.

Three months ago, right?

I was at a film festival in Chicago with my short.

That's where I met Cartier.

We started talking.

He said he's from Detroit like me.

We was hitting it off.

And he would love to fund my next project.

Coppola did it. You know, Scorsese.

They took the money from the mob, right?

- Of course. - Right?

White people do it all the time.

Yes! And I was like, "You know something?

"I can take this money

"and make the greatest Tubi movie of all time."

- So I thought. - Mmm.

When I got to set, there was no budget.

Just one light.

One day off in a month.

And this dude Cartier was fucking crazy.

Man, every time I didn't take one of his notes, oh, my God,

he would beat the shit out my AD.

But then one day I mustered up the confidence to leave.

And when I tried to do that, he Fats Wallered me.

Come again?

The piano player.

DIARRA: Film School told me Al Capone

once kidnapped a piano player named Fats Waller,

forced him to perform for days.

An African warlord did the same thing to Fat Joe and DMX.

"Play the piano. Play the piano. Play the piano."

Okay, so while you were Fats Wallered,

did Cartier ever mention a map?

Well, Cartier would sit there,

and he'd be just talking to me about gangster knickknacks.

And he'd be talking to me all regular, like we best friends,

like he didn't have me chained to a fucking radiator!

But, uh, to answer your question,

he didn't mention any naps.

Fuck!

We should try again.

Jesus Christ. [sighs]

GOON: Couldn't have gone too far.

They either on this block or the next.

[tense music]

***

[engines rumbling]

***

DANGER: Michigan Vanguard.

The fucking militia?

BAILEY: Let's make it quick. It's all in here.

[indistinct chatter]

MILITIA MAN 1: You know the plan.

Don't worry. We'll be ready.

***

Hey, are you okay?

[chuckling]

[sighs] You're not the only one with problems, Film School.

I couldn't file away inconvenient thoughts

and feelings forever.

This was about more than getting him out to dump him.

I missed him. I missed Chris.

You know, I'm trying-

I am trying to compartmentalize, you know?

Just stay laser-focused on high-priority issues.

But I feel like I just ran full speed into a brick wall.

And?

And, nosy...

I missed a call from my boyfriend.

Look, focus don't always have to be sharp.

I don't know what you're talking about.

If you make the focus soft in the background,

it makes the subject pop.

It's almost like it makes it-

makes it that you see a feeling.

So you can take in the whole picture.

DIARRA: I wasn't sure if Detroit Ryan Coogler was

gonna bust a nut over talking cinematography,

but at least he was stable.

Soft focus, huh?

Soft focus.

Well, let's drink to that.

Come on.

I'll race you.

Hey, hey, but seriously.

He'll call.

TEA: Xavier, what the fuck? What do you want from me?

We sitting here arguing like a bunch of chicks. What's up?

See, that's that internalized homophobia bullshit.

Nah, nah, I'm good with how I get down.

Then why did we never leave your apartment?

MAC: Tea.

Offer this nigga some closure so he don't rat us the fuck out.

Come on, man.

You took too many to-go plates.

- What? - Yeah, run that back?

At my aunt's cookout. You brought your own Tupperware.

I went into the kitchen and it looked like

you was fuckin' meal prepping.

It's a scarcity mindset. I can't do it.

- I took a doggie bag. Once. - More than once.

More than once.

Reggie, you are the one with the damn scarcity mindset!

Your daddy was withholding and now you don't think

there's enough love to go around.

You give out your little muffins 'cause you scared

that someone will give one to you.

- Fucking coward. - MAC: Damn!

DIARRA: I was talking to Film School, but per his advice,

kept Pandora in my soft focus.

And a few other things.

I knew the minute she went out that door, we were cooked.

PANDORA: Okay. I'ma head out.

Hope you like your braids, X.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Hey, girl.

Um, X's dad said he wanted some braids, too.

I want what now?

Ow. Why your fingers so thick, little girl?

[motorcycle engines revving]

GOON 1: We gotta go house to house.

Cartier wants these guys found.

GOON 2: Spread out. Check the whole neighborhood.

DIARRA: I never stopped focusing on the treasure.

But I let living in the moment in the picture too,

as a matter of survival.

And somehow, we just started talking.

But I do think Toy Story is the greatest movie ever made.

- Oh, my God. Wow! - What?

When Takers was right there?

Not Takers. The Color Purple.

- Harlem Nights. - Harlem Nights.

- Harlem Nights. - Has the boyfriend called?

- No. - PANDORA: Sorry, girl.

The world is full of fuckboys. They everywhere.

- Even he was a fuckboy. - I'm sorry, did you just call

our greatest civil rights leader a f-boy?

Well, you know, he did have a lot of hoes.

I mean, the FBI was definitely in a van

across the street jerking off.

- Damn, Dee. You going to hell. - What?

I'm not taking anything away from him.

He was a luminary ordained by God, period.

And he was on some freak nigga shit.

How is your freaky ass not able to deal with that dichotomy?

- Understood. - MAC: Man had a dream.

A wet one. But why is it the most prestigious niggas

that always be wilding out the most, though?

FILM SCHOOL: Hey, look, a man always have two stories, okay?

You know, there's the one they show, and...

the one they hide,

and at the end of the day, they both can be true.

DIARRA: That's when it hit me.

Duncan Duckett could've been compartmentalizing too.

- Gangsta. - Business owner.

DIARRA: One man, two stories.

[clears throat]

[whispering] Get rid of hair girl.

Hey, um, uh, you mind getting me another Kool-Aid?

I had red. Thank you. Thank you, beautiful.

Okay, what if the Professor and museum lady

were both right about Dunc?

Okay, so he was a church-going family man

- and a bootlegging gangster. - Exactly.

There were two keyholes in Cartier's fireplace.

So X would mark two spots, 'cause there was two keys.

- For his two lives. - MAC: Damn.

His letter did say "to my queen."

Not "to my wife."

What if the letter was to his side piece and her son?

Ugh. We missed it.

"To find my fortune, you must get Lucky."

Shit. "Lucky" was capitalized.

That's the name of his other son.

He gives this piece to his illegitimate son, right?

He tells him, "Go find your brother Lucky.

"He has the other key,

"and you need both to unlock my fortune."

Shit, we don't have the other piece.

- Right. - [sighing]

[chuckles] I've seen a queen like that before.

Yeah, in that nigga Cartier's office.

Except he had a white one.

He said he got it at an estate sale.

- Yes! - [laughing]

- Wow. - Yes! Yes, Film School!

I had no clue how I was getting back into Cartier's office,

but something more pressing entered my soft focus:

Pandora was putting on her shoes.

You sold us out.

PANDORA: Sorry, y'all.

Cartier was offering 2K for his director back.

But y'all a vibe, though.

[pounding on door]

- GOON: This is F-Mob! - Go, go!

- GOON: Open this fucking door! - There's a back door.

Take the stairwell down to the basement apartment

and then cut through the vacant lot.

Be brave.

Okay, niggas, let's go!

- Tea, here. - Okay. Well, come on.

I'm coming, I'm right behind you. Go, go.

- [goons shouting] - Just...

Xavier was giving us an out,

but I knew there was only one way

- back into Cartier's office. - [door slams open]

XAVIER: Hey, get the fuck off my porch!

[barking]

CARTIER: Hoffa, get gone!

This bitch the only one we found.

Except some old nigga on some oxygen.

DIARRA: 12 hours after a gang war,

it was business as usual.

Nobody had even called the cops in Brightmoor.

See, that was the power of-

Mr. Kelly. Cartier.

Do you mind if I call you that?

Ooh!

Mr. Kelly it is.

CARTIER: You know the best part about being me?

After you scalp a couple of dozen niggas,

you get freedom of expression.

You can do you.

Niggas ain't gonna say shit.

So I wrote a screenplay. It's entitled Buffs and Bitches.

Pathos like a motherfucker.

Then you roll up and kidnap my visionary director.

Disrupt my set with civilians present.

Bitch!

That's a war crime.

Respectfully...

in my defense,

I feel like your director was already kidnapped.

[clattering]

[Tea grunting]

Dee let them take her so she could distract Cartier.

But we still gotta move quick.

MAC: Film School said check the desk.

Where are you? Where the fuck...

MAC: Tea, come on, man. Hurry the fuck up.

TEA: Come on, come on, come on. Where are you? Where are you?

[Tea laughing]

You work with the Gratiot Kings?

What? No.

You with the Woodward Boys?

No. What? Hell no.

Pump ain't no Velvet.

He's weak.

The streets know it.

DIARRA: Cartier didn't mean to,

but he put me up on game.

It was clear Velvet dying had left a power vacuum.

One that he was trying to step into.

Oh, my God.

Sir, I have no idea what you're talking about.

I'm a private investigator.

Bullshit. This summer, all you niggas is going down.

You picked the right one...

on the wrong god damn week.

[glass shattering]

DIARRA: And that's when I saw it,

in the gap between the man and the legend.

- [sighing] - A genuine sadness.

A man wrestling with his personal guilt.

I knew what that looked like.

FILM SCHOOL: One day off in a month.

DIARRA: Motorcycle gloves.

And I realized he wasn't keeping a trophy from a Coney victim.

He was holding vigil.

My nigga, get the towels ready.

No. Wait, wait, wait.

- Get the thick ones. - Wait, wait.

No, no, no, no. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Sam "Big Surge" Davis was F-Mob.

You went to his funeral.

It- it was the only day that you took off from

the movie all month because, um,

because he meant something to you.

The fuck you know about it?

I know he was- he was killed over a treasure.

Wait.

So, you heard that urban legend too.

The story of Dunc's Nut.

[breathing shakily]

Old head in the joint told me about it.

Black man.

Stole from the Purples.

Stashed them Jewish nigga's gold

and left it to his two sons.

Sons end up killing each other, so...

Dunc's Nut is...

somewhere out there still.

Probably worth a hundred million by now.

A hundred million dollars?

Yes, that is- that is also-

That is what I heard also.

Surge did remind me about that old story.

Wanted me to tell it to him again a couple of weeks ago.

Surge was my wife's nephew.

She thought I sent him to that damn Coney.

Said my street shit got him killed.

I didn't even know why he was there.

DIARRA: Suddenly, I wasn't liking him so much

for all that Coney killing.

You might be onto something.

Okay.

Miss private investigator,

I can think of one reason not to kill your fucking ass.

You're gonna bring me and my wife some peace.

Hey, uh, forget the towels.

We're not gonna need them.

Yet.

[locks clicking]

MAC: Damn. Anything? What the fuck?

Okay, wait, wait.

He left these for his two sons,

but he didn't leave the pieces in the same place, right?

Right, he had his queen and his wife, like church and state.

But he wanted his kids to find each other

and work together, right?

So, what you saying?

[both] Same time.

Okay, wait, ready?

- Yup. - BOTH: One, two, three.

[mechanism creaking]

- [laughing] - Oh, shit.

Yo, this is crazy.

I'm not going in there.

I'm going in there, ain't I?

Fuck.

So this dude, Deonte, milk carton killer, he didn't do it?

No, the police have the wrong guy.

I am sure about that.

I was gonna have him shanked today.

- What? - Let me call that shit off.

Yes, call the shit off, please.

- Please. - Cancel that shit.

Please.

Hey, but that other thing is still a go.

Shut 'em down.

Okay, but the shanking thing, that's off, right?

For now.

[Diarra sighing]

But you just entered into a contract.

You're gonna find out who killed my nephew.

Or I'ma find your people...

and make you suffer.

Same way my wife is suffering right now.

- Understand? - Mm-hmm.

I'd graduated from putting out fires with gasoline

to simply pouring napalm all over every fucking thing.

And just to be clear,

you didn't blow up my Chevelle and try to kill me before?

These are all just new threats, right?

Blow up a Chevelle.

- Good condition? - Mint.

[chuckling]

No, that wasn't me.

You're looking for a bitch-ass nigga, or a female.

[phone buzzing]

Do you have a bathroom I could use?

I think I just started my period.

Make it quick. We ain't done.

And we got an assortment of sanitary napkins over there.

We're not uncivilized.

TEA: You see anything good?

MAC: A dark hole, some spider webs.

- [gasps] Wait. - [door opening]

Okay.

We got about a minute.

- This is cool. - MAC: Here's your treasure.

[grunting]

[coughing]

DIARRA: What?

No, no, no, Mac, Cartier said it was gold.

That's all I found down there.

- [door rattling] - Doesn't matter,

- we gotta go now. - GOON: Who's there?

Open up, or I'ma bust it down.

Okay, Mac, how far does the tunnel go?

- Pretty far. - Come on, let's go.

Take that, take that.

[coughing]

[door rattling, clattering]

[crickets chirping]

[Diarra grunting]

DIARRA: That's when we learned

crackheads might not travel by portal,

but they might have discovered old bootlegging tunnels.

[distant gunshots]

[distant gunshots]

[phone ringing]

Hello there, Chris.

JOSH: Are you ready for delivery?

Oh, it's you. Yes, please.

- I am sharing my location. - This nigga really coming

- during a gang war? - Yes.

- [car approaching] - [distant gunshots]

DIARRA: In the midst of a gang war,

I'd managed to use one of my problems...

to solve another.

- JOSH: Miss Bricklin. - Hi.

It's Josh with Auto Trek. Hi. Jeep Wrangler.

- [gunshots] - Oh!

Yes, that's me. Where do I sign?

- Right here. - DIARRA: I'd come to call that

"the Brightmoor Lesson."

[rapid gunfire]

- Can I set up the Bluetooth? - Keys, keys, keys!

Thank you.

And I got party favors, pimp daddy.

Oh, shit.

"Pimp" going down one side,

"daddy" going down the other side, all diamond.

DIARRA: One of Cartier's soldiers

must have snatched it off you and gave it to him as a gift.

Detroit motherfucking Jones.

And don't you ever motherfucking forget it.

[tires screeching]

Good luck!

- [tires screeching] - JOSH: Good luck?

[gunshots]

[Diarra exclaiming]

- DIARRA: Cartier who? - TEA: I saw it.

MAC: And I'ma get a number three.

DIARRA: We was out there, bitch.

- MAC: Hold up. - DIARRA: Oh.

TEA: They blocking the road. Slow down, Dee.

- DIARRA: Oh, fuck. - MAC: Oh, no.

- DIARRA: Fuck, fuck, fuck. - MAC: All right.

Go ahead and take these off.

DIARRA: Maybe we all just...

Oh, shit.

What y'all doing out here?

Evening.

We're part of the film crew.

We do the behind the scenes stuff, like a documentary.

- Who these niggas? - The sound guy.

Craft services.

DIARRA: Maybe you've seen my work.

I did a doc called Griots on the Fringe

about the legendary strippers of Eden's Ethiopia.

Griots on the fucking fringe, are you serious?

Mac, shut the fuck up.

- You could've said anything. - Shut the fuck up!

Look like a bob.

That her?

Cinnamon say hi.

They all right.

My auntie was a Flamingo.

This girl here a director.

- [chuckling weakly] - Y'all get home safe.

- MAC: Appreciate you, man. - DIARRA: Thank you.

MAC: Oh, my God.

You are a fucking genius.

Let's get the fuck out of here.

- TEA: Thank you so much. - RAQUEEBA: You're welcome.

Damn, she threw down.

I love a woman that can cook.

- Yeah? - MAC: Hell yeah.

[Diarra coughing]

DIARRA: "My sons,

"now that you are one, let the games begin."

The painting's a clue.

This is only the beginning.

Like Dunc, both of my stories were true

and I wasn't running from either.

In one, I was an urban legend,

a PI with a murder to solve and villains to battle.

How many buffs you take from his office?

DIARRA: And I was a teacher,

riding the breakup limbo rollercoaster

while mulling over motherhood on an unpaid summer vacation.

All I knew for sure,

both parts of me were careening towards the same thing,

a pot of gold hidden somewhere in the heart of the city.

Y'all...

there's $100,000,000 out there...

and we're gonna find it.

- Hell yeah. - I'll drink to that.

I'm- I'm sorry, boss. She- she got away.

Don't trip.

I'm gonna keep this bitch on a long leash.

Now close this shit up.

I think this she's gonna help us win this war.

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