Retired wiseguys are molested by know-nothings at their Miami hotel, the Raj Mahal. To repel the curious, a stiff is found, shotgunned to look the part, and left in the lobby. Tenants scatter, the wiseguys get new leases, cut-priced.
But the stiff has family, a Latin druglord who ships cocaine in by freighter and compares himself with “the frickin’ President of the United Estates”.
The wiseguys’ new prosperity bids them out of their shell, despite the need to lie low, with a new car, a Rolex and a hooker, whose silence can only be bought by killing her Jewish stepmother.
The druglord intervenes, kidnapping several of the party. One of the wiseguys has sent Christmas cards over the years to his fellows around the country, and now calls in those markers. The gathered throng storms the ship as misdirected Carnival Cruise Line passengers.
A satire of Scorsese’s Goodfellas, with a touch of Malle’s Atlantic City and a flavor of Cassavetes’ Big Trouble.