Dead of night. Guns out, New York cops clatter into a noisy backstreet garage. Cars jacked up, hunched arc-lit underneath, men in greasy overalls point metal tools.
Lead cop shouts:
"You called the cops?"
Preoccupied oil-streaked whitefaces look round.
"No. You're called the cops. We're called the mechanics."
Alternative Dialogue:
"Someone here called the cops?"
"Yeah. You're called the cops."
