Written by: Ted Humphrey
Directed by: Harry Winer
Episode Number: 108
Original Broadcast Date: November 19, 1999
Guest Stars: Brian Tarantina (Tommy Madden), Erik LaRay Harvey (Cyrus Jones), Mark Margolis (Nicky Vordogov), Ronald Guttman (Curator), Albert Makhtsier (Diplomat), Edward Furs (Interpreter)

"So, what do you think, Mom?" Heather asks, looking over a bin of frozen turkeys. "The 12-pound or the 16-pound?"

It's the day before Thanksgiving, and Lisa and Heather are cruising the supermarket. Lisa sighs. "I think I want to go out to dinner."

Heather is shocked. "It's Thanksgiving! We never go out to dinner on Thanksgiving! You always make a turkey, and we stay in our pajamas and watch the football games and parades until just before the guests arrive and the house fills up with that smell. I mean, that's what we do. We have to do that."

"Fine, darling,it was just an idea." Lisa selects one of the frozen turkeys. "Never let it be said I denied you a smell."

"Besides, what about Uncle Roger and Aunt Ruth?" Heather adds as they continue on. "If we don't have Thanksgiving, where will Uncle Roger go to cook his yam surprise? What about Aunt Ruth? Where will she find a piano so she can sing those creepy Neil Diamond songs? I mean, come on, Mom, it's Thanksgiving. You're supposed to be thinking of others."

Lisa agrees. "Roger is coming, but there won't be any Cracklin' Rosie this year. Ruth has gone to visit Amanda at school in England."

"You see? Already there's stuff to be thankful for." Heather stops to pick up a couple of bags of pecans, but Lisa puts them back. Heather insists that if they're going to have to have Thanksgiving like they do every year, Lisa has to make her famous spicy pecans. "And you can't make spicy pecans without raw, un-spicy pecans."

Again, Lisa puts the bags away. "Heather, you know as well as I do that nobody ate the spicy pecans except your father. I didn't eat them, you didn't eat them, none of our guests ate them. So there really is no point to..." She trails off, and after a pause puts the bags of pecans back in the cart.

Heather smiles. "Thanks."

Meanwhile, Michael enters his room in the townhouse, having just finished his workout for the day. As he sits down on his bed, unlacing his shoes, Dr. Morris enters. "Mr. Wiseman, before I take off, I need to talk to you about tomorrow." He explains that technically, he and everyone connected with this project is a federal employee - which includes Michael.

"Where you heading here?" Michael asks. "Did the government fail? Am I on my own? Where will I get my bulgur wheat?"

"As it happens, tomorrow is a federal holiday."

Even without calendars or television or the paper, it dawns on Michael what holiday he means. "Thanksgiving." Dr. Morris adds that he won't be there for Thanksgiving. "Of course," Michael sighs, leaning back on the bed.

"I'll be spending the day having dinner at the home of my sister," the doctor continues.

Michael looks up. "You have a sister??"

"Yes. Incredible, isn't it?" Dr. Morris deadpans. "Now I don't particularly like what I'm about to say to you, Mr. Wiseman. In fact, it's fair to say it goes against everything I believe to be in the best interest of this project. But union rules and federal law have conspired against me."

"I'm gonna get time-and-a-half for overtime?"

"No," Dr. Morris replies. "You'll be joining me, my sister, her husband, my niece, my nephew, and my Grandma Pearl for Thanksgiving."

Michael sits up, surprised. "That is so nice of you... and Grandma Pearl."

Dr. Morris gets to his feet. "You'll be dressed and ready to go by noon. Shirt, tie, jacket."

"Should I bring my last report card?" Michael jokes.

"Like everything else, Mr. Wiseman, there are rules governing this excursion. My sister knows I work for the government. She does not, of course, know anything about the specific nature of my work or about you. You'll be introduced as my associate Mr. Newman. You will do what I tell you. You will eat what I tell you. And most importantly, you will not eat those things I forbid. And of course, you will say nothing about the nature of our work or about your real identity. Is that clear?"

"Yeah," Michael says quietly, nodding.

Morris turns to go, but stops. "Oh, yes. If you sass my Grandma Pearl tomorrow I will personally open up the stitches in the back of your skull and pull whatever's left of your personality out. Do you understand me?"

Nervously, Michael rubs the back of his head. "I'll make you proud, Doc."

"You'd better."

The next morning, in front of the New York Museum of Military History. Camera zooms in on a banner for the new exhibit, "Military Treasures of the Romanovs." An armored car pulls up to the museum, followed by a black sedan. Two well-dressed men, a Russian consul and his interpreter, get out of the sedan as the armored car drivers get out, carrying a small gray case between them as the group enters the museum.

They meet the curator inside, and show him the valuable pin in the case. The consul wants to be assured that the piece will be safe, and the curator insists that it will. "Additionally, we are enjoying a long-term relationship with one of the most reliable insurance companies in America, Grand Empire, whose representative is on his way here even as we speak."

Above them, a thief, Tommy, watches the scene through the skylight. He opens up an air vent and climbs in, working his way through the vents. Down the street, a paramedic is sitting in an ambulance... but in his lap is a schematic of the museum's floor plan, so we know he's actually the getaway car.

Meanwhile, the representative is on his way to the museum. It's Roger, of course, his stereo blasting "Wives and Lovers" as he pulls up in front. He goes up to the doors and rings the bell - the museum is technically closed. A guard shows him into an empty wing and leaves him there to wait for the curator. Tommy is still crawling through the vents, and is in earshot when the curator comes out to meet him, carrying the valuable pin. "I need it insured immediately."

"That's fine," Roger says, "but it's Thanksgiving."

"Not in Russia."

"But before we can insure it, it has to be appraised," Roger protests, "and I couldn't possibly get an appraiser capable of evaluating such an item out here today."

The curator basically issues him an ultimatum: "Do you wish to remain our insurance company?"

"Of course!" Roger insists.

"Then what do you suggest I do? I cannot possibly keep this piece in the museum if it is not insured."


"I'm glad you agree." The curator nods to one of the guards, and the next thing Roger knows, he's handcuffed to the locked briefcase containing the pin. "Let's plan on meeting here tomorrow at 9 a.m.," the curator says. "You bring the appraiser, I'll bring the key." He turns and leaves Roger holding the bag - or briefcase, such as it is.

Tommy has heard enough, and starts his ascent to the roof. He gets down to street level and jogs around to where the ambulance is waiting. He yells at the driver to stop before he can peel off. "Just wait a second," he says as Roger's Mercedes pulls past them. "Follow him." The driver, Cyrus, is confused, until Tommy explains that they gave Roger the pin before Tommy could even get to the safe he intended to crack. Reluctantly, Cyrus follows the Mercedes.

Meanwhile, Michael and Dr. Morris are on the highway, this time in a vintage white Mustang that Dr. Morris is driving. "Thank you," Michael says.

"For what?"

"Look, I got to believe somewhere in the vast reaches of the federal government you could have found a couple of soldiers to stand guard over me at the townhouse while you went to your sister's."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting you've done something nice. I'm suggesting I'm grateful. I'm suggesting..." Michael stops at the look Dr. Morris gives him. "I'll never say 'thank you' again."

"I would appreciate that," the doctor replies.

Tommy and Cyrus are still tailing Roger. "So, does Nicky know?" Cyrus asks.

Tommy hasn't bothered to call their employer. "I didn't see the point of ruining his Thanksgiving with that information, particularly in light of the fact that as soon as this guy in front of us stops we're going to get the piece from him."

Cyrus gripes that this is completely messing up his Thanksgiving. The deal was to drive Tommy to Brighton Beach, not head towards Westchester. Tommy assures him that Roger will stop soon. "It's Thanksgiving. Everyone's got somewhere to go. I got somewhere to go, you got somewhere to go, and he's got somewhere to go."

"I hope you're right," Cyrus sighs.

Michael and Dr. Morris are still on the road. "You know what I love about Thanksgiving?" Michael says. "It means Christmas is right around the corner." The meaning of that sinks in, and he wonders what's going to happen to him on Christmas and all the other federal holidays. Dr. Morris ignores his jokes, and Michael gets nostalgic as he recognizes his exit, or, he corrects quickly, "my ex-exit."

"I wonder what's going on at the house?" Michael continues. "They're probably in their pajamas watching the game. Lisa's just put the turkey in. The place is getting that smell." He sniffs the air, remembering. Dr. Morris continues to watch the road.

Michael's prediction is correct, for as we switch to the house, Lisa's in her bathrobe and just putting the turkey in the oven. "Mom, come on!" Heather calls from the living room. "You're missing it!"

Lisa joins her daughter in front of the TV set, where a football game is playing. Heather is sitting with a box of cereal in her lap. "Mom? Do you understand what's going on?"

"Not in the slightest."

Heather sighs. "This is nice." Lisa smiles and grabs a handful of cereal from the box.

Dr. Morris and Michael are still on the road. Michael comments that he's never seen the doc drive before; they're always riding around in a limo. "Truth is," Dr. Morris answers, "I love to drive. I love cars." Michael nods. "I liked to tinker with motors when I was younger."

"I'm not talking about changing the oil, tightening the fan belt," Dr. Morris replies. I'm talking about an appreciation for great engineering and beautiful design. A car like this is a piece of sculpture, a work of art."

"That makes me feel bad," Michael says.


Michael is looking at the dashboard. "I think your art's overheating."

He's right, and Dr. Morris has to pull over. Smoke pours out of the hood as Dr. Morris opens it. Dr. Morris reaches for his cellphone, but it's not in his coat. He goes to open the door, and stops. "Oh, my."


"I think I locked myself out. My wallet, my keys, my phone... everything in the glove compartment."

Michael suggests smashing the glass, but Dr. Morris stops him. His car is a classic, with "original everything." He says it'll cost him a fortune to replace the glass. "We need a locksmith."

"And a mechanic," Michael points out, "on Thanksgiving, without a phone, in the middle of the highway."

Dejected, Dr. Morris closes the hood. "Mr. Wiseman... I don't know what to do."

"Wow," Michael says.

"Next to you, this car is probably the most precious possession I have. I can't abandon it, I can't let you hurt it. I'm sorry, this car means everything to me."

Michael joins him at the hood. "Have any idea how pathetic that sounds?"


Patting him on the back, Michael suggests they walk to the next exit and call for help. But Dr. Morris isn't about to leave his car where it could be vandalized. Michael has an idea, and asks if the doc left it in gear. Fortunately, he did, and Michael figures he can push the car; there's a service station off the exit ramp.

"A service station?" Dr. Morris is appalled at the thought of entrusting his car to a gas station attendant.

Michael is running out of ideas. "Okay, then... let's go to my house."

"Your house? Your house. Who's going to fix my car at your house?"

"No one," Michael answers. "Once we get to my house, you can call a locksmith, call a mechanic, and you can call your sister and tell her what happened."

"Make no mistake, Mr. Wiseman, we are not going to your house."

"Okay. Why don't you stay here and guard the car and I'll run the seven or eight miles up to the exit and make the calls?" Michael says sarcastically. "We can get a locksmith out here in eight, maybe ten hours." Dr. Morris glares at him. "It's a good idea. Come on, what's the downside? She thinks I'm Mr. Newman from the I.R.S. and you're my boss, and look, I promise I won't leap tall buildings in a single bound while we're there." Dr. Morris doesn't answer. "Come on, hop on. Just shout right or left when you need the car to steer and I'll nudge it in the right direction."

"I haven't said yes yet."

Michael is already down by the back bumper. "Then say it."

"I happen to know you kissed her that night on the subway."

"Yeah, so? She's my wife."

"Not anymore, Mr. Wiseman. Not anymore."

Michael straightens up and walks over to him. "What are you trying to say?"

"No turkey, no stuffing, no pie," Dr. Morris replies. "No nooky. Happy Thanksgiving."

With that, he gets onto the hood and sits down. "Hold on tight," Michael tells him. "It's going to be a bumpy ride."

Lisa is all dressed when the doorbell rings. Thinking it's Roger, she asks Heather to get it, but Heather insists she's not dressed yet. Sighing, Lisa opens the door to see Michael and Dr. Morris standing there. "Hi," Michael says. "Happy Thanksgiv--"

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence before she slams the door in his face. The doorbell rings again as Heather comes down. When Lisa won't answer it, Heather sighs and opens it herself. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, I don't know if you remember me, but..." Michael begins.

"Kissing, eggs, car roof surfing? Yeah, I have a vague recollection."

"Right," Michael sighs. "Listen, we've had some car trouble and we were wondering if we could se your phone. Please."

"Is that all you have to say?" Heather demands.

"To you?"

"To anyone."

Lisa is standing in the other room, pretending to ignore them. "No," Michael says. "When an appropriate opportunity presents itself, I'd also like to apologize to your mother for not showing up to dinner when she invited us and especially for not calling and letting her know."

"Um, which was my fault," Dr. Morris interrupts. "I told Mister... Newman that I would take care of it, and I never did, and I'm... sorry."

Michael gives him a surprised look, adding, "We both are... sorry. We're just looking for a place to use the phone."

"So you came here," Lisa says, still turned away from them.

"Come on, Mom," Heather sighs. "We wouldn't even have a here if it weren't for them."

"Fine, use the phone," Lisa says. "Then you go."

Lisa stalks off into the kitchen as they enter. "There's a phone in the living room," Michael says absently, catching himself. "Um, isn't there?"

Heather sighs and shows Dr. Morris where the phone is. The doctor punches Michael warningly in the arm before following. Michael wanders into the living room, stopping in front of the TV, which is still broadcasting the football game. As Dr. Morris dials his sister's number, Heather comes up beside him. "So, you like watching football?"

"I used to love watching football with my little girl on Thanksgiving, yeah."

"Can't do it anymore?"

"Well..." Michael sighs. "We usually don't spend the holidays together anymore."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Michael says. "I see her from time to time, and - she seems pretty great." He notices something on the table. "Are those spicy pecans?" She nods, and he reaches for the pecans, only to have his hand slapped by Dr. Morris. "Ow!"

Dr. Morris glares at him as he argues with the mechanic on the phone. As Heather stares at him, Dr. Morris explains, "He's on a strict diet."

"I don't see why," Heather scoffs.

"Neither do I," Michael tells her.

He goes back to watching the TV, and Dr. Morris turns away as Heather grabs a pecan or two. When the doc isn't looking, she signals to Michael and throws him a pecan. Michael catches it in his mouth just before Dr. Morris turns around again. As Dr. Morris turns his back to them again, Michael points toward the kitchen. Heather nods, and throws him another pecan as he slips out of the living room to go talk to Lisa.

Lisa is cutting vegetables as he enters. "I have a knife and I am prepared to use it."

"And I was worried you'd never forgive me."

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"You can let me try and explain."

She finally turns to face him. "Oh, great, well, make an appointment. You won't be upset if I don't show up, will you?"

"You're angry and I understand that."

"You're inconsiderate and I don't."

Michael sighs. "Look, the thing you have to understand about me is because of my work... because of my life, you just can't count on me."

"Well, thank you for clearing that up, because I was a tad foggy on that one while I was sitting in that restaurant for two and a half hours waiting for you."

"But," Michael adds, "you can depend on me."

Lisa laughs. "Do you know what an oxymoron is?"

He holds open the trash bag for her to toss out scraps. "There's no reason to get nasty. I'm just trying to explain that I may not always be able to show up where you need me or where you want me, but you can depend on the fact that I will never let anything bad happen to you or Heather. Ever. And I mean that."

Lisa doesn't care. "No one is counting on you, no one is depending on you, nobody here even likes you. Personally, I suspect that you are mildly deranged and I would be so much more comfortable if you and your friend could finish your phone call and leave." The doorbell rings, and she goes to answer it. "Happy Thanksgiving."

This time, Roger is at the door, with a shopping bag in one hand and the briefcase in another. When Lisa tries to take his coat, she notices the handcuffs. "It's a long story," Roger sighs.

Michael comes up behind him. "Nice to see you again, Rog."

Roger jumps in shock when he sees who it is. "My goodness. What are you doing here?"

"He was just getting ready to leave," Lisa tells him.

"It'll be three hours for the locksmith," Dr. Morris says, choosing that moment to step into the foyer. Roger sees him and jumps again. "Four hours for the tow truck."

"Darn," Lisa says, opening the door for them to leave. "That means you're both going to miss dinner. There's always next year." She doesn't see the two men standing on her porch, and Roger, Michael and Dr. Morris stare outside. It takes Lisa a second to realize she has more guests. "Oh! Can I help you?"

Tommy smiles. "Sorry to bother you on Thanksgiving. We'd like to speak to the owner of the silver Mercedes?"

Roger steps forward. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," Tommy answers as he and Cyrus pull guns from their coats. Lisa shrieks, and Dr. Morris grabs Michael's arm to hold him back. "You can invite us in."

They invite themselves in, herding Lisa, Heather, and Roger into the living room. Dr. Morris still has an iron grip on Michael's wrist. "Please," Michael whispers.

"No," Dr. Morris replies as Tommy gestures for them to sit down in the living room across from Heather and Lisa, with Dr. Morris sitting next to Roger.

Tommy demands that Roger open the case. "Look," Roger stammers, pointing at Michael and Dr. Morris, "before you let yourselves in for even more trouble than you've already bargained for, it might interest you to learn that these two, uh..."

He is cut off as Dr. Morris promptly backhands him in the face. "The man said open the damn case and give him what's inside. I say open the damn case and give him what's inside."

"The thing is, I can't," Roger protests. He doesn't have the key to the cuffs or the combination to the case. Tommy offers to test by shooting the toe off his left foot. "If you can unlock the case and open the cuffs," Roger stammers, "you are welcome to it." Tommy obliges, managing to pick the cuffs easily. "Wow, you're a pretty handy fellow."

Dr. Morris leans over to Michael. "Maybe I can get this guy to open up my car."

Tommy manages to crack open the case, and pulls out the box containing the pin. "Everybody give thanks. My work here is done."

"Hallelujah," Cyrus says. Tommy picks up the phone to make a call.

Brighton Beach. Nicky Vordogov, their boss, is sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with his family when the phone rings for him. "Where the hell have you been?" he demands into the receiver.

"It's complicated," Tommy tells him. "I was all set, but this insurance guy showed up and gave it to him. So, I had to follow him, but everything's all right. I got it now."

He explains that he's in the suburbs, stopping to tell Roger to shut up when Roger interrupts. "No, I'm not talking to you, Nicky."

"Tommy?" Nicky asks.


"Are there people there with you now? Did you just say my name in front of them?"

Tommy hesitates. "Uh... I don't think they heard me."

Nicky demands the address of where they are, and tells Tommy to sit tight; he's coming to them. "Well, it looks like we're going to be here just a little bit longer," Tommy announces, hanging up.

A little while later, Tommy and Cyrus are watching the game. Lisa, Michael, Heather, Roger, and Dr. Morris are still sitting there. Roger has moved to sit beside Lisa. "That man struck me."

"I apologize, Roger," Lisa whispers. "If I had it my way, they wouldn't be here." Tommy and Cyrus cheer over a play, and she winces. "For that matter, if I had it my way, they wouldn't be here."

Heather leans to talk to Michael and the doc. "Hey, you guys work for the government, right? Aren't you, like, packing? Cause if you are, now might be a good time to pull out your heaters and throw down."

"We are I.R.S. agents," Dr. Morris tells her. "We do not pack."

"Well, do something!" Lisa insists. "Threaten them with an audit. Anything. So far, all you have done is strike my dinner guest."

"Let me remind you, Mrs. Wiseman," Dr. Morris answers, "that it was your dinner guest who brought thiis trouble to your door."

"I beg your pardon? I beg to differ!" Roger snaps. "You may scarcely hold me responsible for the actions of those social misfits."

Dr. Morris glares at him. "I can and I do."

"That's libel. That is actionable. And that combined with the battery that you have already..." Lisa shushes him. "You have tangled with the wrong fellow, fellow."

Theo's response is a low growl, and Michael finally intervenes. "Okay, that's enough. This isn't getting us--" here he stops and sniffs the air before finishing, "anywhere." He sniffs the air again. "Uh-oh."

"What?" Lisa asks.

"I think your turkey's burning."

"What?" Lisa gasps. She gets to her feet, turning to their captors. "Excuse me, guys, I know you're really busy over there, but my Thanksgiving dinner is burning in the kitchen," here she is near tears, "and I would just like to go inside and turn it off?"

"Thanksgiving dinner, huh?" Tommy asks, turning to Cyrus. "You hungry?"

"Yes, terribly," Cyrus says.

Michael jumps to his feet. "That's it. That's where I draw the line. You're not inviting yourselves to dinner."

"Excuse me?" Tommy snaps, getting up. "Is this your house?"

"No," Michael answers.

"Weren't you on your way out when we were on our way in, isn't that right?"

"Yes," Lisa replies, with a pointed look at Michael.

"What's up?" Tommy asks. "You two have some history?"

"Well..." Michael answers, just as Lisa says, "Please."

"That's all right. Enough with the Dating Game. You," here he points to Lisa, "get some food on the table. And you," he tells Michael, "button it up until dinner is served."

"'Dinner?' You kidding?" Michael says. "There is no way that I am going to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with you."

"Fine," Tommy says. "Have it your way."

Their solution is to handcuff Michael to the post in the living room while they herd the rest into the dining room to eat. "Maybe we'll save you a drumstick," Tommy jokes. Michael shoots Dr. Morris a look as the doctor follows the others into the dining room. Alone, Michael strikes his head against the post with a sigh.

At the table, Tommy and Cyrus are the only ones eating. Tommy notices this and harasses the others to eat the meal their hostess cooked. "It makes me feel self-conscious to be the only one eating."

In the living room, Michael can hear the entire conversation. "Don't do it," he whispers. "Don't give them the satisfaction."

Lisa, Heather, and Roger reluctantly start eating. Dr. Morris simply sits there and glares. "That means you, too," Tommy tells him, pulling out his gun. "My toe theory applies to people's appetites."

"Oh, leave him alone!" Heather cries. "Who do you think you are that you can just come in here and boss us around. I mean, what's your problem, anyway?"

"Oh, Heather," Michael moans under his breath.

"What I have is a gun," Tommy replies. "And when you have a gun, people do what you tell them to do."

"So might makes right, that's your argument?" Heather snaps, turning to Cyrus. Lisa tries to shush her, but she keeps going. "And what about you? You ever whack anybody with that gun?"

"What?" Cyrus asks.

"You know, whack somebody. Off 'em. Ice 'em." She enunciates her words slowly. "Did you ever kill anybody?" Tommy is chuckling as she continues. "A gun's not much good if you're not willing to use it."

That sets Cyrus off. He reaches for his pistol. "No!" Lisa screams as Tommy grabs his partner's wrist.

He glares at Roger. "Tell your daughter that professional killers rarely discuss their resumes."

"He's not my father," Heather snaps. "But my father's coming home any minute."

"What? Big and strong?" Tommy chuckles. "Little girl, it's Thanksgiving. If he was going to come home, he'd be here by now."

Hearing this, Michael sets his jaw in anger. But Tommy keeps going. "You divorced?" he asks Lisa. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"Cause this is a real nice place you got here. Real nice." Tommy leans forward. "So I'm guessing... widow?"

Lisa is near tears. "Ooh, I think you struck a nerve," Cyrus observes.

"You're lucky my dad's not here right now," Heather tells them. "Because if he were, he'd kill you." Dr. Morris gets a thoughtful look on his face, anticipating that Heather's prediction might come true.

In the living room, Michael makes up his mind. "Sorry, Doc," he whispers before breaking the cuffs in two.

He heads out the window, deliberately knocking over a lamp to attract their attention. Hearing the crash, Tommy and Cyrus run into the living room to see the open window and the fallen lamp. "Find him," Tommy orders, going back into the dining room as Cyrus goes out the front door. As Tommy herds Lisa, Heather, Roger, and Dr. Morris into the basement, he doesn't see Michael sneak back in through the window.

Cyrus comes back in a little while later. "He's not out there." Tommy tells him to make sure, and they check the house, Cyrus taking the upstairs rooms.

In the basement, Heather is sitting on the steps, Roger is pacing, Lisa is toying with a bit of Christmas trimming, and Dr. Morris calmly sets up a game of eight ball on the pool table. Roger stops, remembering that he has a cell phone... but the realization is badly timed. As Heather puts it: "Hello. We're underground."

Cyrus makes his way upstairs, sneaking down the empty hallway and checking the bathroom. What he doesn't notice is that the hallway's not empty. Michael is pulling a Spider-Man impression - namely, he's hanging from the ceiling, pressing his hands and feet against the wall to hold himself up. When Cyrus emerges from the bathroom, Michael lets go and lands on top of the thief, knocking them to the floor. Cyrus drops his gun and gets to his feet first, but Michael kicks him in the stomach, sending him flying in an arc to slam into the wall by the landing.

Hearing the thud, Lisa jumps in shock. "Do you have any idea what's going on up there?" she asks Dr. Morris.

"Nope," the doc lies. "Not in the slightest." With that, he takes the cue stick and breaks.

Another hit, and Cyrus goes sprawling as Michael walks down the steps calmly. "Now see what you did? You cracked the molding." A final kick to Cyrus' midsection, and the man is down for the count.

"Ooh," Dr. Morris says, hearing the thud. "That had to hurt."

As Michael stoops to pick up Cyrus' gun, Tommy comes into the foyer. "That's not yours."

He orders Michael to give him the gun, and Michael does so. "Now if by some strange turn of events you don't die tonight, you're really going to have to show me how you got out of those cuffs."

"Oh, that's nothing," Michael jokes. "Wait til you see the bullets bounce off my chest."

"I can't wait," Nicky says, stepping into the foyer behind Tommy, his gun drawn.

"Okay, tough guy," Tommy tells Michael, "why don't you help me downstairs with my friend." Michael obliges... by pushing the unconscious Cyrus down the steps with his foot. Cyrus flops at the foot of the steps with a loud thud.

The thud resounds in the basement. "Poor Mr. Newman," Lisa moans. "They must just be beating him to death."

Dr. Morris sinks another ball. "I don't even want to think about it."

Upstairs, Nicky orders Michael to come down and sit on the steps while they do business. Tommy hands over the pin, and Nicky gives him a bag full of money. It seems Nicky's family once owned the pin, and stealing it back is a "personal" matter. Tommy isn't so happy; the bag only contains $40,000, instead of the promised $100,000. "We had a deal!"

"It was part of the deal, you forcing me to come out and expose myself," Nicky says, "leaving witnesses, all of whom must die?"

Tommy responds by whipping out both guns, pointing one at Michael and one at Nicky. Nicky does the same, as Michael watches, bored. "Before this gets out of hand," he says, "can I show you guys something?"

"Shut up," Tommy says.

"Sit down," Nicky orders.

Michael gets up anyway, fooling with the broken cuffs. "It's a secret that nobody knows. It's kind of hard to explain, but I'm really strong, and really fast, and bullets, they sting, you know? But here, let me show you something." He takes the broken ends of the handcuffs and presses them together, exerting enough pressure on the metal to "fix" the broken cuffs and fuse the links closed.

"Nobody is interested in your parlor tricks," Nicky tells him. "Sit." Michael pretends to obey, but instead shoots his cuffed wrists forward, catching the older man in the throat. Nicky clutches his throat, stumbling back and falling to the floor.

Tommy trains the guns on Michael, and is stunned when Michael puts his fingers in the barrels. "What are you doing? You're going to ruin my guns."

"Hey, it's going to be rough on my fingers, too," Michael says. "Give them to me."

Baffled by this display - and a bit intimidated at the sight of Nicky gasping and clutching his windpipe - Tommy hands the guns over to Michael, who puts them in his jacket. At that moment, however, Nicky has recovered somewhat, tossing a gun towards Tommy. It skitters over to lie by the basement door. Glancing at Michael, Tommy dives for the gun, and Michael dives for Tommy, slamming into him just as he picks up the gun. The impact sends the two of them crashing through the door and tumbling down the basement stairs. Heather gets out of the way just in time as Michael and Tommy roll to the foot of the stairs. Tommy is out cold.

Tired, but apparently unhurt, Michael sits up and slides the gun in his hand over to Dr. Morris. "They wanted you to have these," he says, taking the two out of his jacket and sliding them over as well.

Dr. Morris picks them up. "Thank you."

"I just want you to know," Michael tells Lisa, "it wasn't me who scuffed up your floors upstairs."

Surprised and relieved, Lisa has to smile at that.

"Okay, Doc," Michael says, getting up, I guess we can go now."

Heather turns to Lisa as the two men start up the stairs. "Like I said, we wouldn't even have a here without their help."

"Are you guys really leaving?" Lisa asks, and Michael and Dr. Morris stop. "You haven't even had dessert yet."

"Dessert?" Michael asks, grinning.

"Dessert," Dr. Morris echoes. He shoots Michael a look.

Cut to the foyer, where Dr. Morris is seeing the police out. He locks the door and sits down in the dining room. "Well, I for one am thankful for the swift arrival of our friends in law enforcement."

The others sitting around the table for Lisa's pie add their agreements. "And I suppose that I, for one, am thankful that you fellas showed up," Roger admits. "Ultimately."

"I guess I'm thankful I didn't end up some gangster's moll for the rest of my life," Heather adds.

Lisa chuckles. "I'll second that. I'm just thankful that we're all safe." She turns towards the person sitting on the opposite end of the table from Dr. Morris. "And what about you, Mr. Newman? What are you thankful for? Mr. Newman?"

Michael looks up from the piece of pie he's been unsuccessfully concealing beneath the table top. Having had to eat it with his hands, he's got whipped cream all over his mouth and some on his nose. "I'm... thankful the doc's sitting over there." Lisa bursts out laughing, and Michael just smiles.

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