“I sold my soul for nothing.”
That’s Ray’s opening complaint, as we pick up from last week’s cliffhanger. He’s learned that the event he considers his personal Rubicon—when Frank Seymon (Vince Vaughn) slipped him the identity of his wife’s rapist—was a setup, that he was sent after the wrong guy, to put him in Frank’s pocket. He’s ready to kill over it. The two men sit at breakfast with .45’s aimed at each other under the table.
But cool-as-ice Frank talks him down. It’s been six episodes, but Frank is finally believable as the ice-cold kingpin, not quivering an inch, and like Satan himself, convincing his minion that he’s done all this for and to himself, and the devil was only an innocent bystander. This plays with Frank’s early philosophy that as a pimp and drug dealer, he’s an innocent middle man between people and their vices. “You were selling, but I wasn’t buying.” They leave as partners, with Ray (Colin Farrell) trading the Caspere sex-party info for the identity of whoever sent Ray to kill the wrong man. That’s contingent on Ray retrieving the lost hard drive of rich-people kinko sex, so we can see how the next episodes must unfold.
Ani (Rachel McAdams) and Paul (Taylor Kitsch) are working the torture cabin scene, where Katharine Davis (Michael Hyatt) keeps them focused on the blue diamonds and the party girls. Compressed once again into eight episodes, True Detective threatens to burst open, like ten pounds of story in a five pound bag, and Michael Hyatt’s iron-clad performance helps glue the story together.