WHITE JAZZ
Written by
Matthew Michael Carnahan & Joe Carnahan
9/16/07
Based on the novel "White Jazz" by James Ellroy
Legend: Recife, Brazil, 1983
1 INT. HILLSIDE VILLA - MORNING 1
Stare at my broken face in a gilded mirror. The breaks
occurred a lifetime ago, healed uneven. I wear a white
tropical button-down, a Republican-gold Rolex, a pirate-patch
over what was my left eye.
ME (V.O.)
I'm old. And all I have left is the
will to remember...
I reach into a dresser drawer, pull out a yellowed black &
white picture of HER: this beatific blonde, sleeping. Below
me is a week-old L.A. Times with the headline: Matriarch of
Television Series, Empire Ridge, Retires.
The Matriarch's picture in the middle. *
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
...and the fear I'll forget...
Slide HER over the Matriarch's picture: the Matriarch 30
years younger now. Lift my eyes back to my reflection.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
I killed innocent men. I betrayed
sacred oaths. I reaped profit from
horror. The names are dead or too
guilty to tell. The events so
brutal they beg to be re-told...
Legend: Los Angeles, Fall 1958
2 INT. OLYMPIC AUDITORIUM - FIGHT NIGHT 2
The battered face of an Irish Pug. Same guy? No. A hard jab
bashes the Pug out of frame. And there I am: next to the
`Ring' Magazine Reporter chewing the ass out of his cigar.
ME (V.O.)
Lieutenant Dave Klein, Vice
Division. LAPD. That's what my face
looked like before.
My point of view now: Irish Pug on the business end of this
bantam Black's combos. Standing to my left: SERGEANT RICHARD
"JUNIOR" STEMMONS. Twenty-six.
2.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Junior Stemmons. A partner I never
asked for. The scowl meant to hide
a shit-scared kid who'd been
teaching evidence classes three
months ago. His Old-Man was an LAPD
lifer who never got past Sergeant.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
We should make our move now.
ME
Mid-fight? Look at the crowd: you
wanna be at the center of a riot?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I don't wanna be here when Noonan
and the Feds show up.
I point at the bantam Black:
ME
We let Sanderline finish this
beating, we get his gratitude. *
Junior eyes the exits clockwise, nervous, waiting for
`Untouchables' to break the doors down. I hate the way panic
smells when I stand this close to it.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
We gonna let Rock-a-bye fight too-
ME
-relax Junior.
3 INT. LOCKER ROOM - MOMENTS LATER 3
The Bantam Black: SANDERLINE JOHNSON. Led through the double
doors. He sees me, then his gaze shifts to Junior popping
jabs inches from REUBEN RUIZ: a muscled middle-weight, fight-
taped hands cuffed behind his back. I smile big:
ME
Sanderline, I'm Lieutenant Klein of
the LAPD and a real big fan-
JUNIOR STEMMONS
-you're under arrest.
Sanderline spooks, steps back. Turn and make sure Junior sees
the fire in my eyes, keep staring at Junior as I speak to
Sanderline again:
3.
ME
No you're not. Reuben is-
REUBEN RUIZ
-Lieutenant Dave why you arrest-
ME
-for being a ranked fighter who
still steals hubcaps. Shut up.
(off Ruiz, back to
Sanderline)
If I was gonna arrest you, I
wouldn't have let you finish: and
that hook-uppercut combo you got is
something special.
(from Reuben, beat)
Reuben's in custody. But you could
be our Guest. Whaddya say?
4 EXT. OLYMPIC AUDITORIUM - MOMENT LATER 4
Me, Junior, Reuben, and Sanderline aim for the nearest exit.
Behind the stands. Reuben and Sanderline in street clothes,
hats pulled down tight. Feature the Announcer:
RING ANNOUNCER
Ladies and Gentleman...due to
circumstances beyond our control,
Rock-A-Bye Ruiz will not fight this-
-BOOS drown the PA. Beer and lit cigars shell the Announcer.
Fights erupt in the stands. I can't stifle a chuckle. Three
exits down: day late-dollar short Feds. WELLES NOONAN, elbows-
out, surveying the scene like a half-assed Rommel.
ME (V.O.)
Welles Noonan, US Attorney. Ivy
League Crimefighter. Launching a
big boxing probe as a way to begin
prying into everything else crooked
and corrupt in LA.
Move faster.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Unaware the LAPD was walking away
with his two big witnesses.
As we near the side exit I stop. Junior pauses, less than a
foot from my face, pointing up at Noonan, pure panic.
4.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
C'MON-JESUS-HE'S RIGHT THERE!
My P.O.V.: second row, washed-up gangster Mickey Cohen with a
Blonde far too beautiful for his world, a woman you've seen
before, but only in a yellowed B&W picture 30 years in the
future. I can't take my eyes away...five seconds-
JUNIOR STEMMONS (CONT'D)
-HE SEES US!
Noonan's gaze strafes us. I see him squint.
ME
Then you can stop pointing at him.
Double-time out the double-doors.
5 INT. AMBASSADOR HOTEL - NIGHT 5
9th floor suite. All four of us. I order room service.
ME
Hungry Sanderline?
Sanderline digs the digs: sports the Ambassador robe over his
street clothes, reading the Bible.
SANDERLINE JOHNSON
If they got shrimp.
ME
(into the phone)
Shrimp cocktail.
(over to Reuben)
You want something Reuben?
REUBEN RUIZ
To know why the fuck I'm here-
JUNIOR STEMMONS
-mind your tone, Shitbird...
REUBEN RUIZ
Shitbird went out with Vaudeville.
You get your badge in a cereal box?
ME
You're here because we want you to
remember where you live.
5.
SANDERLINE
(grade-school mind)
City of Angels.
ME
Excellent Sanderline.
REUBEN RUIZ
What?
ME
You live in LA, Asshole. You do not
live in `Federal Government.'
Ruiz turns `caught-me' pink...I nod to Junior: split `em.
Playing adjoining hotel rooms like sweat boxes.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
We get to spend time alone now.
REUBEN RUIZ
Want some perfume?
Junior shoves Ruiz through the inner-door connecting the
rooms. Sanderline giggles. Close the door behind them. Sit
down inches from Sanderline, change my tone:
ME
Stop laughing.
Instant quiet.
ME (CONT'D)
What were you gonna tell Welles
Noonan?
(watch as he flinches)
He has a subpoena with your name on
it, Sanderline. Why would someone
like you need to talk to the U.S.
Attorney?
Sanderline staying silent...
ME (CONT'D)
You're a legbreaker for the Mob. I
know the Men that pay you for that
will murder you if they hear you're
about to talk to the U.S.-
SANDERLINE JOHNSON
-but they don't know...
6.
ME
(beat, small smile)
And they don't have to. Now tell me
what you were gonna tell Noonan-
-phone rings. Sanderline flinches for the second time.
SANDERLINE
Bet you they ran outta shrimp.
I stand, step, answer it:
ME
Yeah.
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE (O.S.)
The Spook with you?
Mild shock. Catalogue potential "who's"...
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE (CONT'D)
C'mon, we know he is. We're just
trying to be mysterious-
ME
-who's `we?'
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE (O.S.)
Me and Sam G.
ME (V.O.)
G for `Giancana.' I owe him favors
for the rest of my life.
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE (O.S.)
We're out at the place in Palm
Springs. You should come out for
the weekend.
ME
Tell Sam if I get minute-
UNIDENTIFIED VOICE
-yer gonna have to make a minute
for him. Now. See, we think the
Spade might testify that Sam owns
him and how we was grooming him for
a title shot he was gonna tank. A
fight everybody woulda' got flush
off of, including the Spade. *
(beat, quieter)
Have him look out the window Klein.
7.
Click. A breath. Drop the phone on the cradle...step to the
window...open it...then I chuckle genuine:
ME
Sanderline, you gotta see this...
Trusting puppy Sanderline steps to the window:
SANDERLINE JOHNSON
What'm I-
-smash his head against the frame using his forward motion.
He loses muscle control for the split-second it takes me to
pitch his legs up and out. My face a quick-change evil mask.
Feature Sanderline's nine-story fall. That Ambassador Hotel
robe billows behind him like a cape. He detonates an overhead
streetlight with a bomb sound, then hits the driveway.
Unzip my fly, hustle into the bathroom, screams from outside
now. Flush the toilet as Junior and Ruiz pile through the
door. Step out, play it baffled: look at the bed where
Sanderline sat, then the open window, screams floating up...
ME
DID THAT MUTT JUST JUMP?
Lunge to the window: Sanderline post-mortem. Head shattered.
Valets sprinting. Junior on the phone. Ruiz steps-up next to
me: horrified. I keep staring at the smashed body...whisper:
ME (CONT'D)
Remember where you live.
Reuben has to use both hands to steady himself.
6 INT. POLICE HEADQUARTERS - BRADLEY'S OFFICE - MORNING 6
Spartan space appointed with high-ticket items like the
mahogany table around which we sit. Outside: echoes of a
protest filter through the windows:
MUFFLED PROTEST AMALGAM (O.C.)
MEXICAN BROTHERS SI! IMPERIAL
DODGERS NO!
Four of us at the table glued to the T.V, watching U.S.
Attorney Welles Noonan lambasting the LAPD.
ME (V.O.)
LA's version of the Young Turks,
only meaner.
(MORE)
8.
ME (V.O.) (cont'd)
Boyce Bradley, Chief of Detectives.
Smartest man in town. And one of
the richest: Dad was a Real Estate
Developer who owned a strip of land
that's now known as the Santa
Monica Freeway. On either side,
Bradley's book-ends: D.A. Bob
Gallaudet, not the smartest man in
town: `Gas Chamber' Bob cribbed my
notes at USC Law. And Tom Bethune,
running for a City Council seat
that'll decide if this Mexican slum
called Chavez Ravine gets bulldozed
and renamed `Dodger Stadium.' *
BRADLEY
Turn it off.
Bethune leaps like a lapdog, hits the power.
ME
I was pissing. He was jumping.
Bradley picks up a newspaper:
BRADLEY
`US Attorney Noonan is accusing the
Los Angeles Police Department in
general, and Lt. David Klein in
particular, of murder at worst,
gross incompetence at best...'
ME
Noonan had Sanderline scared. After
he sang to me he panicked & jumped.
TOM BETHUNE
He did spend a month in Camarillo
Mental Hospital last year-
GAS CHAMBER BOB
-and wearing that hotel robe over
his clothes makes him look even
more looney-bin.
TOM BETHUNE
Plus, Reuben Ruiz recanted. So
Noonan's Boxing Probe is dead. He's
got nothing-
BRADLEY
-but time, a mandate and new
targets...I need to speak to the
Lieutenant alone.
9.
Bob and Tom nod, pat my back on the way out: proud uncles
lending support before Dad drops the hammer. Door closes. I
stand, step to the window, big Pro-Mex protest below: Geeks
and placards: `BASEBALL IS AS AMERICAN AS THE TRAIL OF TEARS!
BRADLEY (CONT'D)
Describe to me your duty, as you
understood it, regarding Sanderline
Johnson and Reuben Ruiz.
ME
Take both men into custody before
Noonan and the Feds could, and find *
out what they were going to tell-
BRADLEY
-and why did I choose you for this?
ME
Because I'm a Cop with a law
degree, and you thought my legal-
BRADLEY
-because your a thug with a law
degree. Because I thought by now
you'd be so indebted to this
Department for not indicting and/or *
imprisoning you, that diligent,
honest discharge of duty would be
assured.
(beat)
And I made a horrible misjudgment. *
ME
Bethune and Gallaudet don't think
so.
BRADLEY
Bob's happy because he wants to be
State Attorney General and his most
likely opponent will be Welles
Noonan. Tom's happy because Morton
Diskant, who's leading their City
Council race, is endorsed by
Noonan. Thus, they're not seeing
the larger play.
(with calculated emphasis)
Noonan's new target will likely be
the LAPD itself.
ME
How do you know that?
10.
BRADLEY
Because that's where I would aim: a
subpoenaed Federal witness plummets
to his death in the company of two
LAPD detectives?
(beat)
This screams Police Corruption. *
This offers Noonan the possibility
of payback in the form of national
headlines.
I wave it all off:
ME
Johnson did that stint at the Nut
House -- leak his file to your
friends at the times-
-and Bradley drops his bomb: Coroner's file. I stare...guess
the contents...try to keep my heart rate in-check...
BRADLEY
My friends would be more interested
in this.
(beat, flipping file open)
Coroner's preliminary: white paint
chips found embedded in Sanderline
Johnson's scalp. A matching dent on
the white window sill. I checked
with the hotel switchboard and
found a call was patched to your
room at about the same time Johnson
flew out of it.
(beat, proclamation:)
It shocks and sickens me that your
allegiance to the Chicago mob would
take precedence over the LAPD.
ME
(fuck drawing this out)
Alright. Where's this going? *
(pull my badge, table it)
Gun? Shield? What?
BRADLEY
The appearance of disciplinary
measures taken against you are
mandated post-Sanderline Johnson, *
so your suspension will be recorded
but sealed...and kept quiet for now- *
11.
ME
So if the papers or Noonan come
sniffing around-
BRADLEY
-we can provide adequate proof of
your dismissal.
ME
But you're not dismissing me.
BRADLEY
Just on paper.
(closes the file)
Since I misjudged the Cop I thought
you were, I'm going to leverage the
Cop that you are.
Bradley slides the morning paper over. Front page: `Candidate
Diskant Hears The Hue and Cry of The Underclass...' The photo
shows a smiling Diskant, rolled shirt-sleeves, in the middle *
of a sea of LA Immigrants, all smiling back. *
BRADLEY (CONT'D)
Morton Diskant is to be removed
from the City Council race. The
means and methods implemented to
that end I will entrust to you.
ME
(throw a thumb at Bethune)
You want me to torpedo Diskant so
your buddy Bethune can win a City *
Council seat uncontested-
BRADLEY
-or spend the next month in lock-up *
before being arraigned on charges *
of gross misconduct and dereliction *
of duty. The preamble before you *
face life in prison for murder. *
I stare back. Feel myself getting fitted for strings...
BRADLEY (CONT'D)
Diskant works Saturdays. Late.
Bradley waves me out. I intentionally drag my badge back
across the desk, scratching his Mahogany heirloom. *
12.
7 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - MORNING 7
Hollywood Hills loom in the distance.
ME (V.O.)
Bradley's stooge now. A smart play
suspending me: a built-in shield *
for him if things go sideways.
Traffic teeming up Fairfax, tourettes-like glances in my rear-
view...a Black Buick...maybe mirroring my lane changes.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Black Buick...five Cars
back...feels like a tail...
Brake hard. They hang a left on Fountain.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
...or maybe I just need sleep.
Cruising up Nichols Canyon to the pad, cameras and
copywriters loom on my front lawn.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Press camped out post-Sanderline,
looking for quotes to hang me with. *
Slouch in the seat, accelerate, keep looking back...dig that
geek from the Hearld pissing in my hedges.
8 EXT. WESTWOOD COTTAGE - MORNING 8
Up the walkway.
ME (V.O.)
Retreat to Meg's. My kid sister and
only living family. Mom and Pop
died in `51 when their first plane
ride became their last.
Scoop Meg's LA Herald of the ground. Headlines condemn me.
Tuck it under my arm as Meg opens the door:
MEG
(glances from paper to me)
I already got the Times inside.
13.
9 INT. WESTWOOD COTTAGE - MOMENTS LATER 9
Silver tea-pot over blue flame on olive-drab stove. The Times
open on the table between us...Same shitty headlines.
MEG
How much is true?
ME
How many times have I lied to you?
MEG
Zero.
Shrug. Play aloof. Hope it suffices.
ME
You've always liked your Men mean.
She looks up at me. Feels the shame I shun... *
ME
What would Mom and Dad say?
ME
Nothing. That's where I learned it.
She stands, goes to the stove.
MEG
Poor you.
ME
Yeah, pour me...a cup please.
Black, no sugar.
Meg stares darts. I smile to defuse.
ME (CONT'D)
Pretty please.
She fetches cups and saucers.
ME (CONT'D)
How's work? *
MEG
It's work.
ME
How's Pete?
14.
MEG
More work.
Quiet while we wait for the pot...and quiet always means
creeping sleep: an Enemy I never stop fighting. Force my eyes
open, shift in my seat: I've been exhausted for years.
I drift despite my best efforts and for a split second you
see the Hell I see when sleep wins:
10 INT./EXT. NIGHTMARE 10
Fire where the clouds should be -- POP -- in a backseat,
point-blank Tommy-gunning two smiling men -- POP -- Marine
fatigues soaked in blood, plunging my bayonet into a
cheesecake-white belly -- POP -- that beautiful blonde from *
the Olympic, smiling -- POP- *
11 INT. WESTWOOD COTTAGE - SAME MOMENT 11
-awake. My leg jerks, kicks a big Wing-Tip. A cup of coffee
pipes in front of me. Then voices. I turn: PETE BONDURANT has
his hands on my sister's shoulders.
ME (V.O.)
Big Pete Bondurant. One-time LA
Sheriff. Bounced when he beat-dead
a Prisoner who spit at him. A duly
impressed Howard Hughes hired him
on as his full-time muscle. My
Sister's new Hump. My oldest living
Friend.
PETE
(turns back at me)
You look like Death taking a shit.
Meg cackles.
MEG
He's still got that MGM-face.
PETE
You're still the only guy who ever
traded movie-potential for Police
work.
MEG
Because in the movies they make you
pull your punches.
15.
Drain my mug. To Pete:
ME
Wanna do LAPD a favor tonight?
MEG
No. We're going to the Cocoanut-
-Pete puts an extended index finger in front of Meg's lips,
which she bends backwards.
PETE
'Favor' mean `free?'
ME
Means $500 an hour.
MEG
Gimme the phone so I can find
another Date-
ME
-you're the only Woman I know who
calls Men-
MEG
-you're the only Man I know who
doesn't call Women.
Pete laughs, then: *
PETE
What are we doing?
12 EXT. LOW RENT OFFICE BUILDING, EAST LA - NIGHT 12
Me and Junior in the car. Pete street-side, tucked into the
shadows -- mimes jacking off, checks his watch. Everybody
bored. Glance again at the file in my lap:
ME (V.O.)
Morton Diskant, a man who preferred
migrant workers to million dollar
ballparks. Beating Bethune in their
City Council Race despite getting
outspent 10 to 1.
(beat)
If he wins, the Dodgers don't get a
Stadium, Mexicans get to keep
raising chickens two miles from
City Hall and Bradley makes sure I *
burn for Sanderline Johnson. *
16.
Junior in the backseat, penning in a steno, mouthing
something to himself.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Junior brought along because he
begged. Already hip to how many
ways you can make money with a
badge.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
You got a birthday coming up.
ME
What?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
On the 16th, right? How old?
ME
Old. What are you writing? *
Head down, scribbling mid-sentence, makes me wait a beat.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Just notes...about work-
ME
-what `work'?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Mostly compare and contrast stuff.
Street work versus textbook-
ME
-chapter 1: don't write shit down.
Chapter 2: or other Cops might kill *
you.
Junior's look practiced in a mirror: clicks the pen, slides
the steno away.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
So you think Noonan will come after
you for the Sanderline thing? He
seems like a real hard charger.
Bait him, see if he bites.
ME
(the deadest deadpan)
I heard he was coming after both of
us.
17.
Feature real concern from Junior.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
What?
ME
Indictments. Prison time. Whole
nine.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Holy Jesus. Is this true?
ME
I'm seriously thinking about
turning Junior...testifying against
you.
Junior goes sour...gets he's being goosed. I laugh, glance
out the windshield: see Diskant finally exiting the office.
ME (CONT'D)
Here we go.
I start the car, slow-roll up the street. My Hamilton says
11:04 PM. Streets deserted. Pete walking in Diskant's
direction now as I continue to roll toward both. Pete close,
dig his giant head nodding `hello.'
ME (V.O.)
Seen Pete do this a dozen times and
every time the same thought:
Pete suddenly puts his back into an left hook: hammers
Diskant from nowhere as they pass. Instant-ugly crumble.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
God help me if he ever hits me like
that.
Pete hoists Diskant by his waist-band, tosses him in the
backseat. I accelerate out, obeying every law.
CUT TO:
PITCH BLACK. Then a series of strobe-flashbulbs: maybe flesh,
maybe two bodies, maybe both hairy/pale. Then groaning, then
flickering fluorescent lights make it all look jaundiced.
13 INT. LOW RENT FUCK-TEL ROOM - SAME MOMENT 13
Lights now. Diskant awake, trying to loosen his jaw.
18.
ME (V.O.)
Junior picked up this Quiff jocking
other Fags in a Men's Room. But
Quiff was a Law Student who wanted
his record kept clean.
Quiff nervous but cooing, dick out, on Diskant's thigh.
Junior just as nervous...reloading a camera.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
He should suck his dick. Y'know?
Put the icing on it.
A baffled moment as the comment registers.
PETE
What?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Tell me that wouldn't sell
it...plus he's a Communist.
ME
We're ruining his career, not his
soul. Reload the camera.
Diskant finally speaks: marble-mouthed. Pushes Quiff away:
MORTON DISKANT
Off me!
Don't waste a second: grab Diskant by the hair, narrate his
immediate future.
ME
Drop out of the City Council race
or I send these pictures to the
papers.
Diskant rips his head free. Rage. Blood from his mouth. *
Scanning the room, sizing up the situation, then: *
MORTON DISKANT
I'll fight you rotten-
ME
-and maybe salvage something that's
a close cousin to `respect.' But
what about your wife and kid
getting hold of those pictures?
19.
Wait for the big futile scream/struggle. Keep waiting.
Diskant just sits. No words. And now I wish he'd cry, throw
punches, anything...but he doesn't. I turn to Junior:
ME (CONT'D)
Take the Quiff home.
QUIFF
My name's Franklin-
ME
-of course it is.
Junior pulls Quiff out the door. By his hand. Just Pete, Me,
and Diskant now. Silent moments drag sour...
ME (CONT'D)
I need a nod from you Morton, let's
me know you get it-
DISKANT
-don't say my name...
PETE
He gets it.
ME
Someone from the Times will call
for a quote. Whatever your reason
for dropping out make it real.
As Pete and I turn to leave:
DISKANT
(not looking at us)
You eventually lose the ability to
reconcile the things you've done to
people. That's Hell.
A long moment on me and Pete. Blunted by what we just heard.
14 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - NEXT MOMENT 14
Pete driving. Silence. Tune to an all-night Jazz signal, turn
up the volume loud enough to jumble doubts. Toss Pete his
cut. A $500 roll.
PETE
(pocketing the money)
Y'know Hughes has a job you're
tailor-made for. I already gave him
your-
20.
ME
-no thanks.
PETE
Stop pretending you're not a pig
for all this, Klein.
ME
I still got a day job, Pete-
PETE
-tossing more Bantamweights out *
windows?
I wait too long, answer in too high a voice:
ME
The Mutt jumped.
PETE
(laughs small, then:)
Not even the people who don't know
you believe that. If somebody from
the DA's office decides to dig, you
could fry Boy-o. Be nice to be in
with a billionaire who's got a
fleet of planes, fly you outta the
country on a moment's notice.
(beat)
C'mon -- it's a cake legal gig. He *
just wants you to burn some actress
that stopped fucking him.
Stop in front of Meg's place. Pete leaves the engine running,
jumps out.
PETE (CONT'D)
Tomorrow. Hughes Aircraft, 7pm *
It'll be worth it.
I watch Pete go into Meg's place. Drive on. Stop sign. A
block away: Black Buick parallel to me. Exhaust plumes. Like
they're waiting. I keep my eyes on the rear-view as I
pass...but it just stays put...idling.
15 INT. MY HOME, HOLLYWOOD HILLS - MOMENTS LATER 15
Lights off but something grabs my eye instantly. Kitchen
table: a manila envelope. 100 $100-bills. USC season tickets.
A note: `Thanks for proving Flying Monkeys only live in Oz.
Sam G.' Exhale. Flip to the same jazz station. Sit. Start
another futile fight with sleep.
21.
The last thing I see before I nod black: my War Trophy, a
Japanese Officer's Samurai Sword mounted on my mantle.
SMASH CUT TO:
16 INT./EXT. NIGHTMARE 16
Artillery barrages from Hell: Okinawa, 1945. A hate-fueled
frenzy hacking up half-starved Jap Soldiers. They dive off
the Cliffs to escape me: this massive, gray-eyed Marine.
I dive after them. Bombing toward a world below already
ablaze. Falling. Gaining on a figure in a bathrobe. This
guttural scream turns mechanical, like a ring as I recognize
Sanderline Johnson: his pieced-together face smiling up. Snap
awake. My phone ringing. 1 AM. Rip the phone from the wall: *
ME (CONT'D)
Klein-
BRADLEY (O.S.)
-you know who Hector Magdalena is?
ME
(as cobwebs clear)
...yeah...Narco's Snitch.
BRADLEY (O.S.)
He's missing. His home was broken
into at some point within the last
hour.
ME
So send Robbery.
BRADLEY (O.C.)
The only thing taken was him.
Wilshire Station is on-scene. Get
over there right now.
ME
Why me?
BRADLEY
Call it penance.
ME
I thought that's what Morton
Diskant was-
BRADLEY
-that makes one of us. 1284 South *
Tremaine.
(MORE)
22.
BRADLEY (cont'd)
(edge to his voice)
This kind of timing makes for
disasters, Lieutenant.
I hear the first split-second of Bradley smashing his phone
down. Click my own cradle. Wipe my face. Dial another number.
ME
Junior. Meet me at 1284 South *
Tremaine. 20 minutes.
17 EXT. 1284 SOUTH TREMAINE, MAGDALENA RESIDENCE - LATE NIGHT 17
Police abound. Mostly work-a-day Blues pounding coffee. They
part as I approach: Dave "Enforcer" Klein half-legend here. A
plain-clothes breaks through, aims right at me: DAN WILHITE.
ME (V.O.)
Captain Dan Wilhite, Head of the
LAPD Narcotics Division. A Michigan
Catholic poisoned by 25 years in
this desert. Recently divorced
despite seven kids with his Ex.
WILHITE
Why are you here?
ME
You smell like bourbon Wilhite-
WILHITE
-fuck off. This is handled. And
pull your idiot partner out of
there-
ME
-Junior's already here-
WILHITE
-Magdalena was my Snitch, so it's
my scene.
-push past him, toward the house.
ME
Then get Bradley on the horn, so
you can relay that order. I'm here
on his word. Now, what happened?
WILHITE
(dragged out of him)
Guard dogs are dead. Magdalena's
missing.
23.
ME
And presumed what?
WILHITE
I could give a shit. I just want to
this case to get a quick burial.
ME
I'll bet. Who made the call?
WILHITE
Some old broad heard an `argument'
and buzzed Wilshire Station. *
ME
Where's the family?
WILHITE
The wife and daughter were in Santa
Barbara. Just got back.
ME
(check my Hamilton)
At 2 AM? *
WILHITE *
The Wife said she got into a fight *
with her Parents, left ASAP. *
ME *
Why wasn't Hector with `em? *
WILHITE
What do you think they were *
fighting about? Santa Barbara Wasps *
don't fancy dope-pushing Wetbacks.
ME
What about the Son? *
WILHITE
(sneering hatred)
Tommy. Make him your #1 suspect.
ME
Why's that? *
WILHITE
He's got a mean streak. And he and *
Hector had been at each others
throats for months. Have Tommy *
picked up. He likes to loaf at *
those nigger jazz joints in Watts. *
24.
ME
Alright, you better cut out before *
people start asking why the head of
Narco is at a missing persons.
Wilhite gets close, still sneering:
WILHITE
Get a conviction. Grab Tommy and
pin this thing fast or you'll have
a whole division of disgraced cops
at your front door.
ME
What are you talking about Wilhite?
WILHITE
You queered the Fed's Fight Probe
by killing that boxer and they
already had a hard-on for the LAPD- *
Bradley sent you down here as
damaged goods...think about it.
Everybody sees what's coming.
(beat, closer)
Now close this quick.
Wilhite bolts. I pause. Clarity finally dissolving the *
bloodshot: this is the disaster Bradley was talking about: *
ME (V.O.)
The God-sized problems I triggered
tossing Sanderline take shape: the
LAPD's sanctioned dope-pusher
vanishes -- that's a pretty juicy *
spot to stick a new probe. *
18 INT. MAGDALENA RESIDENCE - MOMENTS LATER 18
All money, no taste. In the foyer: a Wilshire Station six-
pack interviews the old BIDDIE in a threadbare bathrobe. Dyed
orange hair and a burnt-butter grin. Leans-lunges as she
relays her story. I zoom in to catch the performance.
BIDDIE
(mid-sentence)
-shifty...colored...y'know Negros
are planning an invasion! After our
white women and our water supply-
OFFICER
-where was this Peeper you saw?
25.
BIDDIE
Bushes. Spyin' on Lucille. Seen him *
there before! He's a black saboteur *
looking for fertile white wombs.
Wanna breed a mulatto master race- *
-cut into the crazy:
ME
Officer.
The Six-Pack crosses to confer.
ME (CONT'D)
Besides bat-shit insanity, is there
anything else about her that rings
true?
OFFICER
Heard an argument, loud, maybe a
minute or two, then silence.
ME
What's this `Peeper' riff she's on?
OFFICER
She saw someone in the bushes
earlier. She's reported that kind
of thing a dozen other times. She's
also reported flying saucers, so...
ME
See if any of the other Neighbors
can verify this `Peeper' thing. *
Roam. A hallway. Junior the grim-faced professional, He's got
that damn steno out, scribbling like he's on a deadline.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
No one touch a thing `til I say.
He's hovering over a lake of blood, drag marks originating in
that lake lead out to the garage. Junior sees me. See him
startle, then jut his tough-guy chin on reflex:
JUNIOR STEMMONS (CONT'D)
Dave-
ME
-Lieutenant Klein. I said `meet me'
in twenty minutes' not `go in
without me.'
26.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
All I've been doing-
ME
(hard/harsh/low)
-is stepping on dicks. You don't
know the history, the players or
the play.
Pull Junior aside, impart the following tightly:
ME (CONT'D)
The Department gave Magdalena a *
monopoly on the LA dope trade
decades ago-
JUNIOR STEMMONS
-what Department?
ME
Us Pollyanna -- LAPD. We bullet-
proofed him in exchange for 60% of
his profit and a promise he only
deal drugs in Darktown and East LA- *
JUNIOR STEMMONS
-Black and Mexican-
ME
-give the man a prize. He'd also *
rat his competition and kill the
ones we couldn't convict.
Now keep your mouth shut and stay
on my hip.
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
Fine. *
I want to bounce his head off the wall. I continue my tour
instead. Follow the blood-trail out into the garage where it *
ends in another smaller lake of blood.
JUNIOR STEMMONS (CONT'D) *
Loaded him into a car-
ME
-are all the Magdalena vehicles
accounted for?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Except for the Son's: Tommy. *
27.
Continue the tour. Kitchen. Two Dobermans, shot dead. Feature
matching bullet wounds right between their eyes -- yell to *
the Officer with the Biddie: *
ME
OFFICER.
As he pokes his head around the corner:
ME (CONT'D)
The old lady hear dogs barking? *
Gunshots?
OFFICER
No, I asked. Just the yelling.
Examine the wounds closer. Catch myself petting the deceased
pooches. To Junior:
ME
She didn't hear barking...so they
were either lousy guard dogs...or
they knew the Killer.
(point to the wounds)
You can't hit something this clean
unless you're point blank. He
could've been petting them when he
fired: look at the burn pattern- *
(point)
Like when you shoot something with
a silencer.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
How do you know that?
ME
(stare so he gets it)
I've shot things with silencers...
And the old lady didn't hear any *
gunshots.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
You make a family member for it?
Tommy?
ME
Maybe... *
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Do you want to issue an APB?
28.
ME
I want to talk to Bradley first.
Where are the Mother and Daughter? *
19 INT. FAMILY ROOM - CONTINUOUS 19
Feature this old Matriarch hanging by the thinnest thread: *
MADGE MAGDALENA, fifty-plus, dyed blonde bouffant pulled at
and picked. Sad clown tears smearing too much mascara. She
pitches a boo-hoo in between belts of wine to a bored stiff
Wilshire Station six-pack.
LUCILLE MAGDALENA, 20's: Daughter. Big bedroom eyes. A top
two sizes too tight. Pops a palm of pills. Doesn't look too
shattered about Daddy's demise. I make eye contact. I catch *
bruises on her arms. She sees me see, tries to cover *
nonchalant. The wall phone rings. Grab without asking. *
ME
It's Klein.
BRADLEY (O.S.)
Update.
ME
Hector's gone. Blood that may or
may not be his leads out to the *
garage. Two guard dogs shot dead
but no other signs of a struggle.
The house is intact.
BRADLEY
Family?
ME
Wife and Daughter are here.
BRADLEY
Describe their state.
ME
Mother Madge aggrieved. *
(aim my gaze at Lucille)
Daughter Lucille...indifferent. The *
son is persona non grata and a
strong early suspect.
BRADLEY
Alright, kick everyone out.
Including all police personnel.
29.
ME
How's that?
BRADLEY
Don't question me. Is your partner
on hand?
ME
Yeah... *
BRADLEY
Have him bag and seal everything
and bring it to Wilshire Station.
Find Tommy Magdalena post-haste and
take him into custody. No APB's,
nothing to alert Noonan and the FBI
to this situation.
ME
You want me to-
BRADLEY
-no more information over an open *
line. I'll be at the Bethune event
later on today. Find me there.
Click. Second time he's hung up on me in an hour. Pull Junior
to me just as he's going through a stack of mail:
ME
I'm giving you on-scene command. *
Bradley wants everyone removed from
the premises and the entire house
bagged for evidence and brought to
Wilshire Station.
(more of a dare)
Can you handle this?
Big brown-nose nods from an aim-to-please Junior.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Entirely. Where are you going?
ME
To find Tommy Magdalena.
20 INT. CAR - EARLY MORNING 20
Rolling up Hollywood to Highland.
30.
KLEIN (V.O.)
Big yawns. Half haze from no sleep.
Buzz dispatch. A message from Pete.
`Reminder: Hughes aircraft, 7 PM. *
Glance street-side: Sanderline smiling blood in a wind blown
bathrobe. Blink and he's gone, replaced by a kid hawking the
Times.
Pull-over. Toss the kid a coin. Front page: LEADING CANDIDATE
BOWS FROM CITY COUNCIL RACE, next to a picture of Diskant.
Pissed for reasons I won't name. Back to the Car. A Black
Buick passes, slower than the rest of traffic, act like I'm
oblivious. It turns. I slide in, start my Pontiac.
ME (V.O.)
Another Black Buick. Call it a Fed *
Tail. Noonan already up my ass. *
(beat)
Let's see if they got guts enough
to keep following me South.
21 EXT. DARKTOWN - DAWN 21
Cruising the Crenshaw district, up through Central Ave.
ME (V.O.)
Dispatch gave me Tommy's make and
model: A `32 Ford Deuce with a bent
eight. Hot-rodder Tommy liked to
goose the cops into giving chase.
Check my mirrors. That Black Buick hangs way back. Cruise
past jazz clubs: The Savoy, Joe Morris's Plantation, Shepp's
Playhouse, the Down Beat...no sign of a Ford Deuce. Pull up
to the Club Alabam. Valets stare: a white man in Watts at
this hour can only be Cop. Park. *
Half-a-block back: buzzcuts in that black Buick.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Noonan tail confirmed: Fed faces *
glow like Martians this far down
Crenshaw.
Smile big, give `em a thumbs-up.
22 INT. CLUB ALABAM - DAWN 22
Barely sober patrons sport Cop-hate stares, some on reflex, *
some because of Sanderline Johnson. *
31.
Doorman escort the bewildered, strong-arm the belligerent. *
Almost 6 AM and the club is still half full.
Press on, scan the stage: A Bebop trio toils over an Erroll
Garner tune as a beautiful black girl sings in a satin soft
lilt. This whispering falsetto that makes your hair stand on
end. I stop and listen. Get my only smile of the day from *
her. Smile back because her voice reminds me to.
Hear beer bottles rattle behind and break. Turn. Squeeze that
smile into a sneer, stare down this massive BARTENDER. *
ME
(flop badge on bar)
Get Lester and get me a scotch *
straight. *
The bartender glowers, grabs a bottle, pours, hands the size *
of catcher's mitts. He slides the glass. I sip. *
BARTENDER
Sanderline Johnson was my second *
cousin, Peckerwood. I wouldn't *
drink that with my gun hand.
He vanishes behind a stained curtain. Feel those voodoo *
stares from behind...and I switch the scotch glass to my left *
hand as nonchalant as possible. Bartender reappears, motions
me back. I follow. Backstage. I see a figure stretched prone,
ice-pack pressed to his face, rolled reefer between his lips.
ME (V.O.)
Lester Lake. One-time velvet voiced
crooner. But a dabble in the dope
trade cost him a set of slashed
vocal cords at the hands of none *
other than Hector Magdalena. *
Only as I get closer do I see the badly swollen black eye. He
looks up at me. A voice like sand-paper left out in the sun: *
LESTER LAKE
Lieutenant Dave Klein. Slayer of *
Sanderline Johnson...y'got stones *
showing up this far South. *
ME
What happened to your face?
LESTER LAKE
(beat)
Tommy Mag wanted to make sure I
understood something he was saying.
32.
ME
Where is he?
LESTER LAKE
Left an hour ago. Emptied my safe.
ME
Shit. He's wise.
LESTER LAKE
To what? You looking for him?
Lester hands me the reefer, take it, toke geeky, belch smoke.
ME
(at the reefer)
Just never got this...
Lester takes it back, draws deep.
LESTER LAKE
Too white to appreciate good grass. *
Now watch Lester's attitude improve toot sweet:
ME
Hector Magdalena is missing,
presumed dead. Tommy is our sole
suspect.
He spurts smoke, sits up like a shot, beams. *
LESTER LAKE
Muthafucker -- there is a God.
If only I'd known this an hour ago.
ME
Heartbreaker, huh? You let him gig
here last night?
LESTER LAKE
I don't let him, he just does.
Nails on a chalkboard too. He
rushed the stage last week when we
had Charlie Mingus drop in for a
set. Mingus looked at this half-Mex *
greaser kid trying to play `Round *
Midnight,' said that fool couldn't *
find them keys with a flashlight.'
ME
Tommy's playing days are over.
33.
LESTER LAKE
Hallelujah.
ME
What time did he show up?
LESTER LAKE
Around four. Him and these Pachucos *
poppin' switchblades like punks.
(mops his brow of blood)
The only thing that was keepin' him *
`untouched' was Hector... *
(beat, hopeful-prayer)
Is he really dead? *
ME
There's blood all over his house,
seems to belong to him. There's
just no body. Not yet.
LESTER LAKE
(a toke, a thought)
I don't feature Tommy for it. *
ME
(my head kinks a bit) *
How's that? How many times has he *
been in here, busted you up?
LESTER LAKE
Yeah, but he ain't got the salt *
to truly take a Man's life. *
Especially not Hector's...he was *
scared of him. *
ME *
Why? *
LESTER LAKE *
`Cuz Hector been whippin' Tommy's *
ass from the time he could talk. *
ME *
What about the Wife? Beat her too? *
LESTER LAKE *
We used to call that old bitch `the *
Burglar'...eyes were so black, it *
looked like she had a mask on. *
ME *
And the daughter? Lucille? *
34.
Lester can't quip that one as quick. Tokes. Shaking his head. *
LESTER LAKE *
Things up off the street. Rumors. *
ME *
Like? *
LESTER LAKE *
Hector had turned her out. Using *
her the way the Romans used to use *
their daughters when they did *
business: Some pussy to sweeten the *
pot. Rumor was she got picked up in *
this trick sweep few weeks back. *
ME *
Hector was whoring her? *
LESTER LAKE *
Hector was an evil Muthafucker. *
...Lester tilts his neck back, points to a long keloid scar *
that stretches across his throat... *
LESTER LAKE (CONT'D) *
...born with ruthless bones. *
(sitting up) *
And if he really is dead and gone, *
this game `bout to explode. *
ME *
What game? *
LESTER LAKE
Drugs. Especially here in South
Central. Hector ran it uncontested.
Lotta cats gonna rush in now, try
to plant a flag. *
ME
Tommy can't hold the throne? *
LESTER LAKE
Tommy couldn't hold his pecker
without Hector's help and he knows *
that. He's gonna bury himself like *
a tick. Good luck turning him up, *
he took six or seven grand out the *
safe tonight.
35.
ME
Eyes and ears for me Lester. He
turns up, you get in touch.
LESTER LAKE *
If I don't kill him first. *
23 EXT. UNION STATION BALLROOM - DAY 23
Bethune Campaign Fundraiser turned Victory Bash. Big smiles
beam above sunburned double-chins. Bethune the nucleus of a
Press circle-jerk. I weave around, lack of sleep and a
miserably wrinkled suit make me look like something dug up.
REPORTER #1
Councilman Bethune, was Mr. Diskant
dropping out the only way you could
have won this race?
TOM BETHUNE
Not at all. My message of civic
advancement manifested in that
beautiful blue baseball team was
starting to hit home.
Bethune's beam twitches when he sees me weaving past. Give
him a quick nod, get nothing back: he can't be seen this
close to the turd in the punch bowl. Moving by:
REPORTER #3
Anything you'd like to say to
future constituents?
TOM BETHUNE
I like my Dodger Dogs with mustard
and relish!
Bradley at one of the front tables confabbing with DA Gas
Chamber Bob Gallaudet. As I aim their way, one of my favorite *
men aims at me, wearing this Great White grin: FRITZ KOENIG.
ME (V.O.)
Fritz Koenig. German born. Former *
US Spymaster, current Head of the *
LAPD's Intelligence Division. He *
and Bradley in the middle of their
own Cold War -- each fighting to be
the second most important member of *
the LAPD behind Chief Parker. *
36.
KOENIG *
These functions aren't normally *
open to Jews. *
ME *
Someone with your accent should *
never be allowed to say `Jew' *
again. *
KOENIG *
That accent allowed me to execute *
many a Nazi. *
ME *
Then we're both Traitors: Ellis *
Island said Grandpa's `Kleinsasser' *
was two syllables too long. *
KOENIG
I wouldn't have expected so public
a showing after Sanderline Johnson.
ME
He jumped Fritz.
Koenig flashes that grin again.
KOENIG
I'm sure he did. And where is your
young partner this day?
ME
Working his first big job.
KOENIG
Might the job involve the LAPD's
most important missing Wetback,
Hector Magdalena?
My eyes narrow but stay smiling:
ME
It does.
Koenig nods, casts his gaze out over the crowd.
KOENIG
I've known Stemmons since the
academy. He was a top pupil. A *
peculiar little pain in the ass,
but very good with details.
37.
ME
Kid might have some climb in him.
(look back at Bradley)
Reminds me of another pain in the
ass.
Koenig roars this big frightening laugh of his.
KOENIG
I'm puzzled as to why the Bradley
would assign you to the Magdalena *
case when you're neither Homicide
nor Robbery...
ME
There's no body, and nothing was
taken except Hector.
KOENIG
He does know how to delegate
doesn't he...and also I'm sure that
poor Negro's nosedive has put you
squarely in his debt.
ME
Something like that. *
KOENIG
Keep me abreast will you? Chief
Parker is understandably nervous.
Situations like these tend to yield
grief...and we've the FBI poking *
around our garden patch. *
ME
My ass first Fritz, yours second.
Koenig's big laugh again. Moving toward Bradley now. Then
flashbulbs pop-blind. Panic: snapping pix of me? Relief: not
me. Hollywood types: this Buff McMan Meat-type and Her. I go
slack inches from the Press that yesterday wanted to roll in
my guts...but now they're just as entranced with her as I am.
She and McMan Meat continue past as I stare, she answers his
questions for him. I think her eyes see mine. Then I realize
where I'm standing. Bradley waiting. Focused on me and not
her -- God-damned Eunuch. I step over, speak without preface:
ME (CONT'D)
Tommy Magdalena has gone to ground
and he's got a war chest to keep
him there. The only way we take him
quickly is to issue a citywide APB-
38.
BRADLEY
-no. We can't risk that. Do you *
make him for the murderer?
ME
Yeah. Hector's disappearance is
definitely an inside job. That
whole family feels hinky. The
daughter was all bruises and no
tears and Hector's hop-head wife *
looks part punching bag.
BRADLEY
Do you suspect either of the women? *
ME
According to Wilhite, they were in
Santa Barbara at the time.
BRADLEY
Verify that. Where is your partner?
ME
Vouching in evidence at Wilshire
Station.
BRADLEY
Keep him on that. He had excellent
ratings as an evidence teacher and *
I trust him more than you.
(beat)
Find Tommy Magdalena. Focus
everything on that effort & I want
him apprehended Klein, not killed.
ME
What about Hector? Still missing.
BRADLEY
And most likely dead. Find the Son. *
Stakeout the residence. Put tails
on both the mother and daughter --
I want this investigation working
quietly, and around the clock.
ME *
And what do we do if Hector turns *
up? *
39.
BRADLEY *
If he's alive, bring him to me. If
he's dead, have him John Doe'd at *
the morgue until Noonan can be *
drawn off and this FBI situation *
sorted out. *
ME
Wilhite. He was operating Hector-
BRADLEY
-don't worry about Dan Wilhite. You
deal directly with me. Now go out
the back. I don't want the press
recognizing you.
Swallow my sneer. Push through the service doors. Hard.
Headed back toward the kitchen, an exit sign. I pass an
alcove: Her. Alone. Smoke break. Beauty you almost never get
to examine up close. I stop, stammer, she gives me a once-
over, thinks I'm a Reporter...
ME
You got a light?
WOMAN
(searches my empty hands)
You got a cigarette?
I fumble for a Chesterfield. She pulls a Zippo slow.
WOMAN (CONT'D)
If you snap a picture of me, I get
to set you on fire. Fair?
I smile too wide -- fuck. I kill it, try to gather up the
bits of `cool' that shattered with the sophomore smile.
ME
It didn't look like you were all
that upset with the attention.
WOMAN
Good thing you're not a cop.
ME
(beat)
How's that?
WOMAN
Your power of observation leaves
lots to be desired.
40.
Lights my cigarette. I hold it in my mouth to hide shaking
hands.
ME
Thank you.
WOMAN
Don't thank me: these things are
bad for you.
ME
You believe everything you read?
Stubs her cigarette.
WOMAN
You believe anything you read?
She starts walking back the way I came.
ME
(hail-mary)
Do you eat Dinner?
WOMAN
No.
I can't stop watching her, even after she pushes back through
the double doors, re-entering the fray head-first. I step
after her. A reporter finally makes me. Random catcalls of
`Klein! `Hey, Enforcer!' Shutterbugs beeline my way, firing
flashbulbs from the hip. Close the door quick and bolt.
ME (V.O.)
Make a note: steal Bethune's guest- *
list, then go door-to-door until *
you find her again.
24 INT. WILSHIRE STATION - DAY 24
Stroll. Sidelong stares on the periphery. Muted whispers from *
desk cops. Feature this rookie chump clear a path as I pass. *
Down a flight of stairs to the evidence lockers. Junior
writes seizure abstracts, sealing materials in green-banded *
evidence bags. A pile stacked neatly on the table next to
him. That red steno pad in full view.
ME
This everything from the house?
A beat. He makes me wait as he finishes writing.
41.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Everything worthwhile.
ME
What did you tell the Watch
Commander upstairs?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
(schoolboy proud)
That this was a random drug
seizure. I'm not using names and
I'm number coding everything.
A load of interesting stuff too.
(points to each stack)
I got unregistered fire-arms, more
dope than I've ever seen, and some
mail from business associates that
seems hinky. We should follow up- *
(grabs an envelope) *
-here, this one, `Hurwitz Holdings' *
Hector had some real estate
dealings-
ME
-bag it until Bradley orders us
otherwise.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
(like I'm speaking Greek) *
How do you solve a case when the
evidence is in bags?
ME
You don't. Our job is to find
Tommy.
(point to the red steno)
And why is that out?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
(like he's caught)
I'm making notes separate from-
(gear change off my glare)
-I thought we were investigating
Magdalena's disappearance-
ME
-Don't write shit down. What do you *
need Kid? A little bouncing ball, *
bottom of the screen? *
(brace him harder)
Magdalena is twenty years dirty
with this Department...do you think *
a word of that exists on paper?
42.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
...No.
ME *
And there's reasons. Respect them. *
Junior tucks the steno away, chastened.
ME (CONT'D) *
Now we need surveillance set up on
the house and revolving tails on
both Madge and Lucille Magdalena.
Their alibi is they were in Santa
Barbara when Hector vanished. Find
out if that's real. The tails and
the stakeout start tonight.
(beat)
Can you manage this?
Junior jacks his chin just high enough to save face, tucks
that steno away, this X-Ray stare.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Sure, Lieutenant. *
25 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - DAY 25 *
Rolling. Crenshaw south. Darktown. *
ME (V.O.) *
Police blotter gets me bupkis. Buzz *
dispatch. Looking for license hits *
on that `32 Ford Deuce. Nothing. *
Zoom Darktown again. Zilch. Tommy *
dug in deep. *
Startle, check my watch: 7:17 pm. *
ME
Shit.
26 INT. HUGHES AIRCRAFT HANGAR - EVENING 26 *
Cruise in, crossing the hangar to Pete.
ME (V.O.)
Howard Hughes. Billionaire germ
freak. Boob man. Pete's prime
benefactor. Nobody had seen him in
years.
(MORE)
43.
ME (V.O.) (cont'd)
Now he only communicated through a
small standing army of lapdog
lawyers he kept on staff.
A small, effete blonde man: GEOFFREY MILTEER extends his tiny
hand, plastic-cordial, rubbed raw from waiting... *
MILTEER
Gregory Milteer. Attorney-at-Law. A
pleasure Lt. Klein.
ME
Dave. Sorry I'm late. *
MILTEER
Indeed.
(motions to sit)
Please.
We sit at a huge drafting table. I shoot a sidelong to Pete.
MILTEER (CONT'D)
Thanks for your time on a Sunday.
ME
(a wink for Pete)
Where's Mr. Hughes?
MILTEER
Unavailable. Unfortunately. But
I've been given full authority to-
ME
-I'm not contagious...if that's
what he's worried about.
Pete hate scowls me: have your fun, Asshole...
MILTEER
I don't find that the least bit
humorous Lt. Klein.
ME
Yes you do. What's your pitch Mr. *
Milteer?
Milteer looks at Pete. Pete half-shrugs. Back to me now:
44.
MILTEER
An `Actress' named Glenda Bledsoe
signed a Service Contract that
she's now willfully violating by
acting in a Z-grade horror picture
presently `shooting' in Griffith
Park. Despite entreaties for her to
cease participation in this
absurdity, she continues to revel
in her outlaw status with us. Thus
we would like her destroyed.
ME
What makes you think I can do a
better job than your people?
MILTEER
Mr. Bondurant says you're one of
the smarter people he knows-
ME
-dubious honor if you knew the
other people Pete knows.
(beat)
So you want to catch her in
violation of her Service Contract?
Something like that?
MILTEER
Exactly. The morality clause in
particular as the damage to her
reputation would be most
devastating: Nymphomaniac,
Criminal, Communist...anything
along these lines. Once you visit
the set of her `Attack of the
Atomic Vampires,' you'll see the
void that is her character. We
haven't a photograph handy, but
she's playing the lead female role. *
ME
I'm happy to help. But my price is
$10,000. Not 5.
Pete laughs out loud. Milteer goes frigid.
MILTEER
$10,000 should buy more than help.
45.
ME
For 10 give it any name you want.
I'm a salaried employee of LAPD, *
that means I'll have to find time
off hours to do this.
A long, cold moment drags... *
MILTEER
Agreed. Start tonight. Someone's *
been stealing groceries from our
talent domiciles. There's no proof
that it's her, but it's her. Peter
will provide you addresses.
ME
(faux fey)
Thank you Peter.
MILTEER
We look forward to your updates.
27 INT. PAY PHONE ON SEPULVEDA - LATE AFTERNOON 27
Dialing the Station:
ME
Sergeant, pass a message to
Stemmons: I want him to meet me at
the one-thousand block of South
Tremaine tonight at 11 and at some
point between now and then, I'll
need him to do a preliminary work-
up on a woman named Glenda Bledsoe.
(beat, check spelling)
B-L-E-D-S-O-E. Thanks.
I hang up, step out, yawn.
28 EXT. ATOMIC VAMPIRE SET - DUSK 28
Two-fisting coffees. On top of a hill overlooking the `Atomic
Vampires' shoot. Pure schlock. The spaceship: a totaled
Cadillac replete with home-made canopy and cardboard
extensions on the fins. Crew: homeless winos. Extras:
homeless drug-fiends. Scan the assembled `talent'...and see:
HER. My black and white picture. The Beauty at the fight. The
starlet I threw a Hail Mary dinner pass to at Bethune's
victory party: GLENDA BLEDSOE. Emerging from a small trailer.
46.
ME (V.O.)
Twice in a day doesn't happen. Not
in a city like LA. Not like this.
(beat)
This is fate. This is Cupid firing
his whole fucking quiver. Move.
Make sure she's real.
HER laughing. Melodic. I hike down through the bramble.
29 EXT. ATOMIC VAMPIRE SET - DUSK 29
Walk past a pair of beat Airstream Clippers. Watch her
propping up this silver-haired junkie. She grabs a sound
blanket, drapes him, hands him her coffee before siting down
next to another Woman and rehearsing.
I eyeball the rest of the `set.' Winos in werewolf masks and
capes, holding wooden ray-guns spray-painted silver: One
pisses, bottle in one hand, cigarette/dick in the other.
The "Director" is a fey manic, fingering a snuff-box.
DIRECTOR
This is the big Armada landing, so
I need everybody's energy up, up
up! Where's my Alien Commander?
The Pissing WEREWOLF careens back to set, pulling at his
zipper, mask askew, covering his eyes.
WEREWOLF
RIGHT HERE GOD DAMN IT.
MICKEY COHEN, 62, former mob boss. He boils eggs on a hot-
plate and slings hash to extras lining plywood picnic tables.
ME (V.O.)
Mickey Cohen: one-time LA crime
kingpin and West Coast Mob heavy
who now trawls for loose change.
Winos vibe LAPD, make a hole as I approach:
ME (CONT'D)
Cecil B. Demoted.
MICKEY COHEN
Where Klein goes tsuris follows.
This is what I hate about being
down, lip from the likes of you.
47.
ME
If this is `down' I never want to
see `out.' How the mighty have
fallen.
MICKEY COHEN
(gives it right back)
Which one of us are you talking
about Klein? Word is the Federal
Bureau is all hot and bothered with
you Gonif. Hey, I hear J. Edgar
schtups his personal assistant and
makes him wear ladies hose.
ME
What else are you hearing?
MICKEY COHEN
That this Welles Noonan character
has developed quite a crush. That
you might want to consider
relocating to Dogdick, Delaware.
ME
Been a marked man for years Mick.
MICKEY COHEN
But the bullseye on your back's
never been quite so big...if you
need a new line of work, I got this
faygele leading man needs replacing-
-follow Mickey's gaze over to ROCK ROCKWELL. Buff McMan Meat- *
the guy with Glenda at the Bethune party. He's primping with *
other boys decked in surplus SS uniforms, checking the side *
mirror of one of the `Alien craft' before his big close-up. *
MICKEY COHEN
His agent told me he could play
straight.
ME *
His agent lied. *
MICKEY COHEN *
You interested? *
ME
No. But I am interested in your *
leading lady. Bradley sent me. Saw *
her at the Bethune-
48.
MICKEY COHEN
-not a chance. I'm still trying to
play hide the submarine.
ME
You want Chief Bradley angry?
MICKEY COHEN
Ten years ago I could call for that *
little Pisher's head on a stick.
(looks around)
And now...
ME
And now the only thing you're
putting on sticks are corn dogs.
What's her name, Mick?
MICKEY COHEN
Glenda.
ME
(still looking for HER) *
Why was she there?
MICKEY COHEN
Low-budget strategy: I send Glenda
and Rock to any event where there's
cameras -- Glenda gets guest-a'-
honor treatment everywhere with
that shape a' her's...
ME
What she drive?
30 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - NIGHT 30
Following the tail-lights of a 56 Corvette. Top-down,
whipping Blond hair split-second visible under passing street
lights. Glenda pulls into what I guess is her place: tiny-
tidy Glendale flat. I roll past: no eye contact.
Around the block. Park on the next street over. Waiting until
I think of what comes next...get out now...
31 EXT. GLENDALE - NEXT MOMENT 31
Up to a fence. Scratch it: make sure a nuts-hungry Pooch
isn't slobbering on the other side. Nothing. Vault the fence.
Dodge a pool. Over another fence and into-
49.
32 EXT. GLENDA'S BACKYARD - NEXT MOMENT 32
-creep to a window: curtains pulled. Creep to another: there
she is. Watch her: elegant fingers emanate from hands only
now beginning to betray age. Watch her shake her sandals off.
Arranging three coffee cups on a tray: company coming.
On cue: another car. A `53 Cadillac: the Director and Rock
Rockwell. I crane my neck to get as much of her as I can. She
leaves the tray, cups steaming. Muffled greetings. Check the
window, open. Slide it up gentle.
33 INT. TINY LIVING ROOM - SAME MOMENT 33
Glenda clearing seats.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Coffee's in the kitchen. Let's go
over this quick because I'm beat.
DIRECTOR
We're set on a place where we can
stash you and Rock. It's in Topanga
Canyon, two weeks-
ROCKWELL
(petulant)
-two weeks? My body'll fall apart-
GLENDA BLEDSOE
-think of it as 14 days of push-ups-
(to the Director)
Are you sure about this Sid? Seems
shaky. Was this Mickey's idea?
DIRECTOR
And I think it's brilliant!
Inspired! The two leads of Mickey
Cohen's magnum opus get kidnapped!
The press'll eat it up! They'll
write about `Gangster Mickey,' the
glory days. Couple a' headlines
like that and interest in Atomic
Vampires will go through the roof!
(to Glenda)
Who's gonna grab you?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
A charmer I knew in another
life...George Ainge.
50.
Pat myself down for a pen, scribble on my hand: "A-I-N-G-E"
SID FRIZELL
Is he okay with making it look real-
ROCKWELL
-he can't hit me in the face! *
That's a deal-breaker!
GLENDA BLEDSOE
He'll be thrilled to knock me
around. Plus he's holding something
of mine, so we can kill two birds.
He'll grab us Tuesday in front of
the Pacific Dining Car. *
ROCKWELL
What about Hughes?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
What about him? That angle can only
help us.
SID FRIZELL
I'm dying to know...was he the
Spruce Goose between the sheets?
34 EXT. GLENDA'S BACKYARD - SAME MOMENT 34
My face folds up -- jealous-sour frown. I reach in, steal one *
of the steaming cups, bolt. Audible as I retreat:
GLENDA BLEDSOE (O.C.)
Hung like a newborn and he called
my tits `propellers.'
Belly laughter from inside.
ME (V.O.)
The real howler: fake kidnappings
always bomb.
35 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - NIGHT 35
Parked. Tepid pulls off the stolen mug. Done. Toss it to the *
passenger side: lands on a bed of crumpled Styrofoam. Look
up: the Magdalena residence looms a few doors down. Glance at
the passenger seat: an envelope lined with fifty $100 bills.
The name: BLEDSOE written across the front. Pick it up.
51.
ME (V.O.)
Thinking I could tip Milteer off to
the kidnap plot and pick up the
other half of my payment...
(stare at that money)
Thinking I should just give the
first half back now...'cuz I know
right now I'll never hurt her.
Toss the envelope into the glove-box, slam it shut. Scan. Two
heads in one of the unmarked patrol cars I ordered. Cursory
nods as they pass. Tail-lights fade. Dead quiet save my low
Jazz. Fighting my drift. Check my Hamilton. 10:00. Grimace. *
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
No sense of time. Exhaustion steals
it. A full hour earlier than I told *
Junior to meet me. I need sleep. *
Yawn. Look up...Lucille Magdalena at her window. Sudden. *
Startling: no blouse, pig-tails, big silver-dollar nipples
touch/steam glass. Pushes the curtains back even further.
Adrenaline cuts through the lactic acid: wide awake now.
I see her eyes aren't sex-placid or rolled back -- they're
scanning -- hopeful to glimpse someone outside looking back. *
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D) *
This routine had been done before.
That old broad babbling about a
Peeper. The only other link to
Hector Magdalena's disappearance. *
She holds her scan for a blink, a different smile, eyes sex-
placid now, rolled-back now -- she just saw what she was
looking for: hidden eyes staring back at her. I look to where
I saw her gaze kink...unholster my .45. Get out quiet.
36 EXT. 1284 SOUTH TREMAINE, NEIGHBORHOOD - NIGHT 36
Cold for LA. Walking/scanning, .45 flush against my leg.
Sticking to shadows. Cross the street: two homes down. Quiet
steps. Closer: a snubbed cigarette smoulders in the gutter...
Glance back up at the window, Lucille gone -- a forearm
shiver flashes from nowhere blunts/blasts the back of my
head. Nose-first into asphalt. Too angry to black out. Spit *
blood and scream at the same time so it sounds like drowning:
ME
STOP-
52.
Still unsure what hit me. Pick-up my gun, clear my nose of
gouting blood, stand, weave: a figure in black, sprinting
away: PEEPER. Wipe away impact-tears, aim, realize my trigger *
finger is dislocated -- bent back ugly. Tuck the gun use my *
left hand to pop it back in -- deep growl -- re-aim:
POP-POP-POP. The Peeper pitches. Visible in the streetlight:
a red puff off his right shoulder. Headlights at end of the
block, behind me, come to life now- Baritone of a big V-8. *
Peeper fighting for balance, keeps running.
I sprint heedless, round the corner: follow a blood-trail,
panting, bleeding my own trail. Lift my eyes to see the
Peeper shoulder through a fence, vanish into a backyard.
Neighborhood mutts yelp a chorus. I cross the street-
-those headlights swerve hard in front of me: Black Buick. I *
look down in time to watch my knee detonate a quarter-panel.
I bounce off like someone yanked a leash. Crumble-yell. Hands
pick me up. I fight back before I even see at whom I'm
swinging: square-jawed types, eyes hidden by Bureau derbies. *
Welles Noonan gets out of the passenger-side of the Buick.
Punches me as hard as he can without provocation: nothing to
write home about. My gun clatters to the ground.
WELLES NOONAN
That's for Sanderline Johnson.
ME
(nod at the Peeper trail)
ARE YOU BLIND-
WELLES NOONAN
-what were you firing at?
ME
The only lead on Magdalena -- we're
after the same guy you idiot!
WELLES NOONAN
(to one of the goons)
-write that name down: `Magda-LEE-
na' or `Magda-LAY-na.'
(back to me)
No, we were after you. But thanks
for the name.
Sag under the weight of my own insomnia-fed stupidity. *
53.
ME (V.O.)
Assumed the Feds were smart.
Assumed they were ready to stick a
new probe into the LAPD's deal with
Hector, like Bradley warned, like
everyone feared. But they had no *
clue and I just handed them the
whole God damn thing.
(beat)
Like I said: I need sleep...
Raise my face now, eyes intent, chin out.
ME (CONT'D)
First punch you ever thrown Noonan?
Your Mom have to teach you how
because Dad was the same no-chin,
Connecticut Faggot you are?
Noonan stops, turns back to me: blazing.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
I think I hit the Noonan family
dynamic, dead-on.
He winds up an overhand right: a big-bright flash, then *
darkness that feels like lying down on a sunlit lawn.
FLUTTERING BLACK:
WELLES NOONAN (O.C.)
Drop him.
DERBY #1 (O.C.)
You don't want to take him in?
WELLES NOONAN (O.C.)
I only want to bring him in when I
know he'll never leave.
BLACK dissolves to something LIGHTER, then:
37 INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - TIME UNKNOWN 37
Horizontal. Someone pushed a table and two chairs to one
side: space for the cot I'm on. Look up. Junior looking
down: `Concerned' isn't strong enough. In his undershirt. He
slips the red steno pad into his back pocket. Sit up. A
balled dress shirt in my hand, blood sopped.
Gaze at my Hamilton, face cracked, `5:16am'-- Fritz Koenig
walks in, silver pitcher in hand. I gape up, still punchy.
54.
ME
Coffee?
KOENIG
Ice. Bradley's on his way down.
Toss the dress shirt to the floor.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
That's mine...you needed some *
mopping up.
ME
Who found me?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I did. I got there at eleven like
you said, right as two black &
white's pulled up: you were out *
cold in a gutter `round the block. *
(this blithe little grin)
Did Noonan knock you out?
ME
He hit me with his car first.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
(a nod to Koenig)
The Captain was the only one here
at this hour... *
Look from Junior and Koenig to the window behind him --
Bradley steam-rolling our way. To Koenig, conspiratorial: *
KLEIN
If I need your help later on, can I
count on it?
KOENIG
Of course you can.
Take the pitcher from him, drop my head, douse myself, the
cold cuts cobwebs. Bradley walks in, imperious. Koenig moves
past -- ice forms between the two. *
KOENIG (CONT'D)
Chief.
BRADLEY
What are you doing here?
KOENIG
The Lieutenant was thirsty.
55.
Koenig closes the door. I refuse to look up at Bradley.
BRADLEY
Progress on Magdalena.
I point to Junior -- happy to play teacher's pet: *
JUNIOR STEMMONS
No fingerprints. Clean crime scene.
Canvassed the neighborhood. A
senile neighbor did report a
possible Peeper-
-rubbing the back of my head where the Peeper bashed me-
ME
-confirmed Peeper.
Bradley turns to me:
BRADLEY
Is that who knocked you out?
ME
Noonan knocked me out.
BRADLEY
(beat)
He's having you tailed then...
ME
And he knows the Magdalena name and
that I was chasing a suspect -- the *
Peeper Lucille strips for. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS
She knows someone watches?
ME
And who he is. She has to.
(back to Bradley)
I want access to her juvie sheet or *
whatever arrest records exist. *
Rumor was Hector whored her out to *
dealers he did business with. *
BRADLEY
That's immaterial. *
ME *
(as my teeth grit) *
It is if you're eliminating her as *
a suspect- *
56.
BRADLEY *
-did you confirm their alibi? *
Point to the ever-studious Junior. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
I spoke with a Mr. and Mrs. Preston *
Mott of Santa Barbara, the parents *
of Madge Magdalena nee Mott and *
they've confirmed their visit and *
also corroborated the argument that *
resulted in them leaving early. *
BRADLEY *
(back to me now) *
One alteration to my previous
orders-
ME *
-previous orders being what? Assign
the Cop Noonan blames for his dead
boxing probe to the case that's
becoming his new crusade? *
Bradley conjures the Roman visage...then slowly opens the *
door, staring holes in me. *
BRADLEY *
Step out Stemmons. *
Junior balks, looks my way: tries to mimic my sneer. I stand *
and shove him toward the door. His look back at me: Judas. *
Bradley closes the door behind him. *
BRADLEY (CONT'D) *
No direct approach on the mother or *
the daughter. *
ME
No. Madge was a battered wife and *
Lucille was a suborned whore. If *
that's not motive, what is? You *
want answers then we brace those *
two hard.
BRADLEY *
If you do so directly, if they're *
formally questioned then Noonan may *
find out and go after them with
Federal warrants.
57.
ME
Noonan will figure out who and what
Hector was sooner or later. *
BRADLEY *
Yes he will, so we buy time, keep
him busy-
ME
-until when?
BRADLEY
Until Tom Bethune votes on the
floor of the city council in two
days, ratifying the official start
of construction on Dodger stadium-
ME
-this is bigger than a fucking
ballpark! Hector Magdalena and
Narco is the powder-keg, blows the *
whole Department to hell. *
BRADLEY
Don't be dramatic, it looks weak.
Right now, Noonan needs a pursuit,
so I supply him with one- *
ME
-me. You want me to draw him off- *
BRADLEY
-you've been drawing him off. And
the more he sees you the less he'll
think of anything other than
getting you. Now find Tommy and *
take him alive. Do not let Noonan *
get to him. As a potential major *
case witness against the LAPD, *
Tommy Magdalena isn't just a powder- *
keg, he's an atom bomb. *
Bradley walks. Watch him disappear down the hall.
ME (V.O.)
Bradley has a bigger angle and I'm
getting close to it...I just
haven't hit home. Yet. *
58.
38 INT. SQUAD ROOM - DAY 38
In a clean T-shirt from my locker. Heading toward Junior's
desk. All eyes on my wounds. I toss Stemmons his shirt.
ME
Seltzer will take the blood out.
Junior bitchy, like some broad you stood up:
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I give you the shirt off my back *
and you bash me! *
ME
When a Superior Officer tells you
to leave the room, you leave the *
fucking room. *
Junior balls the shirt, stuffs it in his desk drawer. Takes a *
deep breath. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I made a file on the Bledsoe broad.
The one you asked about.
ME
Thanks. But forget it.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I spent a whole day putting it
together and this skirt's got
skeletons.
Reminded, glance at my hand: "A I N G E" in smeared ink.
Junior rips open a file, blathers Bledsoe preliminaries:
JUNIOR STEMMONS (CONT'D)
Shoplifting in Bakersfield at 17.
Prostitution arrest at 21. Known
associate of a Kern County homicide
victim, this convicted pimp named
Dwight Gillette, probably her pimp.
Stabbed to death in his home,
weapon never recovered-
ME
Forget it. Burn it, s'not important
now.
Take the file from him, flip through; thorough, detailed.
Glenda priors scream back instant conviction.
59.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Why is it not important?
Plant the file in his chest as my answer.
ME
I need an address on a guy named
Ainge, George Ainge- *
JUNIOR STEMMONS
-what about Magdalena?
My temper turning threadbare.
ME
-after you get the Ainge address, *
get back to the Magda-
JUNIOR STEMMONS
(picks up Glenda's file)
-is Ainge related to this Cunt?
Snap-grit-grab him: buttons from his shirt pop, bounce.
ME
We're partners in name only. You
want to stay in the room next time,
Junior? Do something to impress me:
like finding that address.
Dig Junior trying to hide tears now behind that mad-dog
glare: makes me want to break the bones in his face.
39 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - MORNING 39
Driving, running parallels to avoid Fed tails. No Black
Buicks...But a Gray Packard shifts behind me on a cadence. *
ME (V.O.)
Noonan replaced the Buick with a *
Packard and a better Shadow-Man. *
But I could still spot the tail. *
Run a red light at Rossmore, leave the Packard behind. *
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
This jet-engine urge to see her.
Needing it like a junkie does. No
logic. Just the push.
60.
Driving past Glenda's house now. No Corvette. Driving past *
the Griffith Park `Vampires' set: addicts/crew rolling up
sleeping bags. No Corvette. Pull the address list Dandy
handed me: Talent Domiciles.
Pasadena. Howard's Fuck-Pad supreme: A tudor mansion with
airplane-shaped hedges. A Corvette in the drive. Stop at the
curb. Open shades. Flashes of her. Gathering something. Check
my Hamilton, look up as: KNOCK-KNOCK on my window. Her face,
inches-close. Bags of groceries in her hands and this wry
little smile: watch me kill Hughes's new Dick with kindness. *
Roll the window down, stay blank-slate. She features my
cuts/bruises. Her quiet, deep voice is like medicine:
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Better looking than the last guy
Howard hired. Once you heal.
(she recognizes me)
Wait a minute. You were there, the
other night, the Bethune Party... *
My heart jammed up into my throat. Push past it. *
ME
Yeah. *
GLENDA
Mickey told me this `Bent Cop'
everybody used to call-
(mocking, I love it:)
-`The Enforcer' was asking about
me. Told me to be careful. So
you're LAPD after all...
ME
In theory.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
You're going to arrest me for
breaking and entering?
ME
Depends.
(nod to groceries)
Those Howard's?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Everything's Howard's.
ME
Except you.
61.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
That's why I left.
ME
You just shop here now?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Some of our extras haven't had a
vegetable since Truman.
ME
Attack of the Atomic Vampires...
GLENDA BLEDSOE
(smiles, no flinch)
We can't all be Audrey Hepburn.
Plus it pays bills.
ME
Better than a billionaire does?
Go make amends and finish out your
service contract Ms. Bledsoe.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Not if there was just one day left
on it.
ME
Why?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
I'm better than that.
ME
You're also better than a starring
role in schlock horror flick
that'll never see a screen,
regardless if it's leading lady
gets `kidnapped' or not. *
Drop that coffee cup from the other night into her bag. She's
beat, but bluffs by.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
This isn't the first time you've
spied on me.
ME
Nor the second.
62.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
(beat)
Well you've got me all giftwrapped,
Enforcer-
ME
-Dave. You're on Hughes' bad side
Ms. Bledsoe. It's not a bright
place to be. So please go-
GLENDA BLEDSOE
-Glenda.
(this smile just for me)
And tell Howard I'll take my
chances with the fake vampires.
And she twirls off, gone...watch her go...my radio buzzes.
ME
Klein. Go ahead... *
DISPATCH
Message from a Lester Lake: asked
that you contact him immediately.
Ignition. Gas. Tires catch smoke as I peel away.
40 EXT. PASADENA PAYPHONE - DAY 40
Out of dimes, drop slugs instead. Three rings, somebody snags
it before the fourth. Background reverb blares, bar racket.
Hear a muted male growl `Club Alabam...'
ME
Get me Lester. This is Lieutenant
Klein, LAPD-
-click. Fuck. Fish for another slug. Redial. One ring. Picked
up, same background din-
ME (CONT'D)
(push this out pronto)
-this is LAPD-put Lester on the
phone or I'll have your liquor
license and after-hours permits
yanked inside the hour...
A muffled back and forth before Lester comes on the line:
LESTER LAKE
Dave?
63.
ME
Got your message.
INTERCUT: *
LESTER LAKE
Girl that works here, gigs the late
sets, the torch stuff Fridays and *
Saturdays, name of Tilly Hopwell. *
ME
I saw her singing the other night.
LESTER LAKE
I think she's been truckin' with
Tommy Mag. Got pipes like Ella but
she's a junk fiend: caught her *
mainlining in the ladies room a
month back. *
ME
Heroin? Tommy get her hooked?
LESTER LAKE
Dunno, but when he'd get drunk, *
he'd trade Horse for blowjobs out *
back a' the club. *
ME
Where's this girl now? *
LESTER LAKE
Didn't show up for work last night. *
Called a friend of hers, a waitress
that works here too, said she was *
at Bido Lito's in Hollywood. Said *
she was `hiding out.'
ME
She actually said `hiding out?' *
LESTER LAKE
Then she got off the phone. Fast.
If Tilly's running with that demon, *
you gotta get her out of there. She *
got a lot more good in her than not- *
-Hang up. Paw the phone book. Tear out the address for Bido *
Lito's.
64.
41 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - DAY 41 *
Driving.
ME (V.O.)
Smart Tommy. Dodging Darktown
altogether. Holed up in Hollywood.
Hiding in plain sight.
42 INT. DINER - DAY 42
Back booth with a view of the street. Bido Lito's across the
way. Eyeball the entrance and adjoining alley. On the table
in front of me, mugshots: known Tommy Magdalena associates. *
Mostly greaser kids with low-rent juvie sheets. *
Stare at that photo of Tommy.
ME (V.O.)
Stakeout work. Browse mugs. Match a
face out front if I get lucky. Wait
till Bido Lito's gets busy before I
make my move.
43 INT. DINER - NIGHT (LATER) 43
Snub my last Chesterfield, stifle a yawn, check my Hamilton.
9:20 PM. Bito Crowd bops out front. Valet ballet. *
Scanning...spot a face...pull my mugshots...Steve Wenzel, *
Okie white-trash from El Monte, shoving his way through the
crush out in front of the club, hits the side alley.
I'm up. Dump a pocketful of coins on the table. Hit the door.
44 EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS 44
Cross fast, play the wall and the shadows close. Watch as
Wenzel climbs steps to a flop overtop of the club. Get deeper
into the alley: a padlocked two-car overhang at the rear.
Grip my .45, stock down, swing, split the lock. Chain spools
at my feet, slide inside the overhang...a car concealed under
a tarpaulin, peel it off slow...revealing a red `32 Ford. *
ME (V.O.) *
Tommy's Deuce. *
Pull the pig-sticker off my ankle, stab the Driver-side tire. *
65.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D) *
Now he's on foot. *
45 INT. SECOND FLOOR FLOP - CONTINUOUS 45
Jimmy the door, slide inside silent. Muffled sounds through
the floor, some jazz combo wailing away at Bido Lito's below.
Voices down the hall, male, laughter, goofball guffaws.
George Gobel on the tube: `Well, I'll be a dirty bird!
Creep in a crouch, my .45 at the hip, safety off. Move toward
the flicker at the far end of the hall. Sounds of pissing *
nearby, ease around a doorjamb .45 first: bedroom barren,
dust-caked mattress, a half dozen bottles of Old Crow lie
scattered among sash cords & used heroin spikes.
Light from the bathroom...a pair of legs visible, female.
Dark but pale, splayed from inside the bathroom...the right
foot slowly moves back and forth like the heel is trying to
gain some purchase on fast-draining life. Somebody flushes,
zips up, steps over the two legs.
Duck back into the hall as this Greaser stinking of pomade
wafts past, weaving back toward the TV room.
46 INT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS 46
Inside. Move fast now. A fist-sized lump swells mid-chest,
blossoms into my throat. I don't want to see what I know is
there. Turn the corner:
Club Alabam songbird Tilly Hopwell. Three breaths from death.
A spike snapped off in her greyish, motionless left arm. Her
right hand claws at tile. These beautiful dark eyes stare up
at me like she was hoping for someone sooner. Throttle marks
on her neck, one breast exposed, bra pulled down for a grope.
I don't want to touch her face but I do...she closes her eyes
the moment my fingertips hit. That gases my hate. Choke back
sudden tears.
VOICE BEHIND ME
FUCK YOU DOIN'?
Turn back. GREASER in the doorway, brown-bagged T-Bird hits
the floor as he reaches for his waist -- stand and shoot him
in the throat. Drive the .45 into his sternum like a blade
before I fire the second-third-fourth shots. He falls/flails. *
Jump-shock from the other room. *
66.
ME *
POLICE! *
Bodies scramble. No words. Just Pistol fire through the half- *
rotted walls -- punks taking potshots. No compliance means I *
hit the hallway shooting back. Firing dead-bang at a couple *
fleeing silhouettes -- see them pop-stumble-fall- *
-the archway above my head shreds, collapses. Somebody firing
a sub-machine gun. Flat on my ass, my back finds the wall, *
cough up plaster, sleeve my eyes to see. Then quiet, save the *
rattle-clap of changing clips. *
ME *
PUT THAT GOD DAMN GUN DOW- *
TOMMY MAGDALENA (O.C.)
-YOU SET ME UP YOU COCKSUCKER!
Machine-gun fire lights up my left side. Roll. Taste floor *
grime as subsonic zips snap close...bullets miss by inches. *
TOMMY MAGDALENA
-RAT FUCK COP! YOU KILLED HIM *
WILHITE!
Every part of me pauses...`Wilhite'...back door gets blunted
open, frantic footfalls recede. That big bent V-8 on Tommy's
`32 Deuce roars to life. Up now, plow through the cloud of
cordite. See one of Tommy's Pachucos propped up against the *
wall, unhit, unhurt. Point my .45 and pull the trigger a I *
pass. Hit an empty chamber...this punk's lucky day.
47 EXT. ALLEY - CONTINUOUS 47
Out the door reloading as the `32 Deuce barrels away. Tommy
fires shots into the air to clear traffic. Wenzel in the *
passenger seat, screams to do the same. The Driver's side rim *
sparks fireworks. *
Pandemonium out in front of Bido Lito's as the crowd
stampedes ass-over-elbows. Sprint to my car, inside, key *
dispatch fast as I wheel rough off the curb: *
ME
Shots fired, 1600 block of Ivar. *
Suspect fleeing scene in red `32 *
Ford Deuce travelling westbound on *
Wilcox, vehicle impaired, intercept *
at Hollywood Blvd-
67.
-horns blare as I slalom club-goers scrambling across Ivar.
Punch it over-top Sunset, parallel to the Deuce. Rip a left *
on Selma. Stay on my radio:
ME
-and I need an ambulance to respond
to 1607 North Ivar, second floor,
female negro, possible overdose.
Up ahead I catch a fireworks show: the Deuce gouges pavement *
across the 4-way. Clip 90 MPH catching up. Squeal onto Wilcox *
as Tommy hooks a right onto Hollywood. *
Two prowlers pass the next second, sirens lit, full scream. *
48 EXT. HOLLYWOOD AND VINE - CONTINUOUS 48
Haul ass up to Hollywood, round it: See Tommy and Wenzel
sitting upright, the Deuce spun sidelong, firing M3 `Grease
Guns' into the approaching prowlers. Both cars go helter-
skelter under fire. Six-packs spill to the street, belly *
crawl, brandish .38 service snubs and pop flimsy return fire.
Tommy jumps down, runs, rifling his jacket for clips. Wenzel
stays atop the car -- gun my engine, split the abandoned *
prowlers. Wenzel looks up mid-reload as I T-bone the `Deuce' *
at speed. The impact rockets him rag-doll end over end before *
he bombs back down to the street, wet sack, multiple
bruises/fractures/breaks...blood pooling in pints.
Tommy wide-eyes the heap that was Wenzel. Kick my driver's *
side door open firing. Tommy cuts loose with that Grease-Gun, *
sprays wild. Crouch-move as bullets thump wreckage and whiz
by overhead. More sirens approach. Tuck behind the front end
of the mangled `Deuce.'
Another salvo from the Grease-Gun skips up off the pavement *
in front of me. The six-packs have regrouped, start laying *
down fire on Tommy. Tommy running now -- I'm up on one knee, *
aiming, tucking into the .45: take his legs but don't kill h- *
-that Gray Packard materializes across the intersection in
front of Tommy: shotgun blasts from the driver's side *
backseat obliterates Tommy's mid-section. *
My mouth gapes at what just happened...then I remember to *
fire at the Packard as it continues down the street, running *
lights extinguished, no plates visible.
Get to Tommy. Crying. Fading. Roll him on his back. *
68.
ME (CONT'D) *
Where's your father!? Did Wilhite *
kill him!?- TELL ME!
-bubbling blood in place of words. Mouth moves like a *
grouper's...get close...his last gasp...pray it's profound. *
He breathes out...nothing. *
49 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - NIGHT 49 *
Driving. Pissed. Radiator steam from under my crunched hood. *
ME (V.O.) *
That Gray Packard: not the Feds. *
Make them Magdalena rivals. I left *
Bido Lito's too fast to catch a *
tail. So where did they come from? *
50 EXT. 1284 SOUTH TREMAINE - DAY 50
Magdalena home. Pull up onto the front lawn. Grab my brass *
knucks from the glove box. Out of my car. Growling. A pair of *
Narco brims, Wilhite's boys, break wide on my approach. *
Junior stumbles from the stakeout car, rushing up the street
toward me.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Dave?
(when I don't respond) *
Dave! *
51 INT. 1284 SOUTH TREMAINE - CONTINUOUS 51 *
Inside. Madge, this vacant glaze, tear-smudged, mock mourning *
with more booze and pills...word of Tommy's demise has *
reached her. *
ME
Where's Dan Wilhite?
Nothing from her. Music upstairs. Climb the steps two at a *
time. Beeline Lucille's room. Shoulder the door off the jamb. *
52 INT. LUCILLE'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS 52
Wilhite and Lucille in the middle of some close conversation.
Giant startle from both: *
69.
WILHITE *
KLEIN GET OUT OF HERE! *
Grab Wilhite. He reeks of bad scotch. Present him like
Exhibit A to Lucille:
ME *
Did he kill your piece-a'-shit pimp *
Dad?
Wilhite rips free. Beet-red.
ME
Or was it that Peeper across the *
street that jacks off to your sad *
little shows- *
WILHITE
-GOD DAMN YOU! *
Junior behind me. Urgent: *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
Dave, please! CHIEF BRADLEY! *
At Wilhite:
ME *
Where's Magdalena's body!? *
LUCILLE *
FUCK YOU COP! *
ME *
(step to Lucille)
HOW MUCH -- OR ARE YOU GIVING IT UP *
FOR FREE NOW? *
Sucks her steam: she knows I know. Her eyes shoot to Wilhite. *
Grab Lucille's bruised arms. Wilhite grabs me in return. Hear *
footfalls coming hard up the steps, Wilhite reinforcements. *
WILHITE *
YOU FUCKING THUG! LET GO OF HER! *
ME *
You murdered him! That's why the *
dogs didn't bark: they knew you- *
-hands on me, ripping/hauling. Bull-rushed back into the hall *
by Wilhite's boys. I spin free. Wilhite flinches-trips. *
Junior too-close, plant my shoulder into him -- push off. *
70.
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
(reeling back) *
NO DIRECT APPROACH ON MAGD- *
-grab Wilhite hard, haul him into a hallway bathroom, slam *
the door, lock it. *
WILHITE *
What the fuck are you- *
-shove him, show him the brass knucks- *
ME *
-you're gonna shell it out for me *
or I'm gonna kick your teeth in... *
Junior beating on the door. *
ME (CONT'D) *
(at the door) *
FUCK OFF. *
Wilhite tries to push past. Gut-punch him hard, trying to *
rupture something. Shove him back into the wall. Drywall
implodes. He squeals/shrieks, seizes his shoulder. *
WILHITE *
I outrank you Klein! Are you out of *
your mind?
Brass knucks gleam, get close, kow him completely. *
ME *
You fingered Tommy for his father's *
disappearance and pressed me to do *
the same to cover your ass! *
WILHITE *
He was the prime suspec- *
ME *
-he was screaming about `set-ups,' *
and about how a `Cop' killed Hector *
--he thought I was you Wilhite.
(get closer, growl this)
The gray Packard that gunned him *
down showed up three minutes after *
my dispatch call... *
WILHITE *
-so cops killed him too, is that *
the kind of bullshit you wa- *
71.
ME *
-not just cops. Narcotics Cops. You *
clip Hector, then his kid becomes *
collateral & you gotta clip him *
too. *
WILHITE *
-you're paddlin' air pal. *
ME
Am I? Where's Hector? You can't
file murder charges without a
corpse. Who knows this? Cops know
this- You would know this.
WILHITE
-I'm going to the review board and
have you cited for-
-keep him off balance. Big curveball- *
ME *
-When'd Hector start pimping *
Lucille? *
Read it: that stung him... *
WILHITE *
What- *
ME *
--When did he start whoring out his *
own daughter to sweeten business *
deals? *
WILHITE
I have no fucking idea what you're-
ME
-he ever offer her to you? *
Watch his face. Something flickers. *
WILHITE *
I'm married! *
ME *
And about to be divorced. Have you *
ever fucked Lucille? *
Stare it out of him...already pink features go fuchsia. *
72.
ME
I don't care where you get your *
dick wet Wilhite. I care that *
you're covering. Twenty years dirty *
with this fucked-up family...your *
secrets must stink like rot. *
Red and blue light strobe from outside. Look: an unmarked *
caravan arrives. Bradley leading the charge, leaping from his *
sedan. Wilhite gets a split-second's worth of gloat/glee. *
WILHITE *
You're worried about every wrong *
thing Klein. Bradley's tee'ing you *
up to take a big fat fall- *
ME *
-then we'll hold hands on the way *
down: look further up the street. *
(directing his gaze) *
The Black Buick. *
Wilhite focuses, sees the Feds inside, snapping pictures of *
the Magdalena home... *
ME (CONT'D) *
Feds. They're all over this. You *
think I'm the only one that burns? *
Two decades worth of twisted shit *
between your division and the *
biggest dope dealer in LA? *
Wilhite wide-eyed. Slouching/sinking down onto the toilet. *
Somebody beating on the bathroom door hard. Bradley's voice *
behind it. *
ME (CONT'D) *
I know I'm going down Dan...that's *
the difference between you and me. *
Open the door. *
53 INT. MAGDALENA HOUSE - HALLWAY - NIGHT 53 *
Shoulder past, start down the stairs. Bradley follows. *
BRADLEY *
Klein! *
Hit the front door, moving toward my car, Junior and the *
Narco brims cagey, primed for another atomic outburst. *
73.
Bradley still behind -- a prissy, patrician gait as he *
catches up -- spooked by that Black Buick up the street. *
BRADLEY (CONT'D) *
I said `no direct approach!' *
ME *
(my back still turned) *
Then what are you doing here? *
BRADLEY *
You were instructed to take Tommy *
Magdalena alive. Do I have to *
remind you of the coroner's file- *
ME *
(turn on him, fierce) *
-enough of your `Sanderline' *
bullshit. *
(nod to the Black Buick) *
I'll checkmate with an admission of *
guilt to Noonan himself. *
BRADLEY *
(sharp, shrill) *
Keep your voice down! *
ME *
I'll bargain immunity in exchange *
for testimony on how the LAPD *
really runs: Magdalena dope profit *
kickbacks, Diskant run out of the *
city council race on your word, *
suspended cops pulling shakedowns. *
I'll give Noonan a dozen new probes *
for the one I killed. *
Bradley stoic, assessing me...sees only `fuck-you' resolve. *
BRADLEY *
I'm assuming command of this *
investigation myself. *
ME *
What investigation? Tommy's murder? *
Hector's disappearance? What are *
you investigating? *
BRADLEY *
You're on one month's unpaid leave *
as of this moment. *
Go right at him, cut his steam. *
74.
ME *
You're scamming something big. *
BRADLEY *
-if you make any further inquiries *
into this case I'll strip you of *
rank, have your pension revoked and *
walk that coroner's file into the *
Times myself...stay away from this. *
See red. Launch. Try to wrap my hands around his throat. *
Watch him feather back just out of reach. Junior and a pair *
of six-packs restrain me. *
ME *
What's your fucking angle Bradley!? *
His eyes beam back doom. *
BRADLEY *
You're done Klein. Soon. *
54 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - CONTINUOUS 54 *
Reach the car, slide in, anger in aftershocks rattle across *
still balled fists. Junior at my window blathering white *
noise. He might as well be speaking Greek. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
Dave listen: don't do anything else *
to jeopardize yourself...I can *
protect you...I've been putting *
some things together- *
Rip my radio, punch the call button.
KLEIN
Central, this is Klein, I need an
update on that overdose I called
in. What's the girl's condition?
Static. Wait. Anger make my eyes ache, fuzz my focus.
DISPATCH
Lieutenant Klein, the girl, Tilda
Hopwell was pronounced D.O.A. at
Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital-
Rage flares, slam the radio into the dash console, crushing
it- fists flex, blood seeps from a battered knuckle, look at *
my hands: blood drool over the faint remains of the pen- *
scrawled `A I N G E'...Glare up at Junior: *
75.
ME *
(God-like import) *
George Ainge's address. *
55 EXT. ROW HOUSE - CULVER CITY - NIGHT 55 *
Up the walk, Junior tailing, feel his stare. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
You're in no state to conduct
yourself as a Police Offic-
ME *
-shut up. Don't identify yourself, *
don't badge him, don't talk. *
BLACK. Then a light turns on somewhere: my gun in a round *
man's face just through his front door. GEORGE AINGE. *
56 INT. GEORGE AINGE'S PAD - NIGHT 56 *
Tough Ainge: He doesn't flinch. Drops his lunch-pail slow. *
Takes off his jacket: jail-house tattoos abound. He sits. *
ME *
How do you know Glenda Bledsoe? *
Junior's `betrayed' look: this guy is tied to that Cooze. *
GEORGE AINGE *
Knew that whore'd try to muscle me- *
ME *
-don't call her a whore again. *
Laughs in my face: *
GEORGE AINGE *
If you gave her as many paychecks *
as me, you'd know `whore' fits *
like a fuckin glov- *
-I grab a chair cushion, put the .45 against it, fire a *
muffled round that blows Ainge's hair back as it passes. *
Junior twitches hard enough to spot himself. Ainge jabbers: *
GEORGE AINGE (CONT'D) *
She fucked for a fee! Jesus Christ *
she's a pro! What is she paying to *
get that blade back- *
76.
-get the gun in his face, burn his nose with the barrel. *
ME *
What? What `blade?' *
GEORGE AINGE *
What's she paying you to recover *
her knife?
Just then Junior banana peels it -- deliberately: *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
Lieutenant! *
A hate-scowl for Junior: trying to put enough heat behind it *
to melt his head. Ainge lights up. *
GEORGE AINGE *
Y'all are Cops!? *
ME *
Shut your mouth. *
Ainge sees me bent on Glenda. Looks past me, past the gun in *
his face, aims right at Junior. *
GEORGE AINGE *
Back in `50, Glenda the Good Witch *
put a blade in her pimp `bout as *
deep as I put my pink in her, this *
mongrel named Dwight Gillette. *
Junior fixes me, pulls that steno, starts scribbling openly -- *
I grab it, shred it. Ainge grins at the voodoo between us. *
GEORGE AINGE (CONT'D) *
Could use a couple LAPD favors, and *
ain't guttin' a pimp still a crime? *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
(aimed at ME) *
Capitol crime. *
GEORGE AINGE *
Guess who she asked to hold the *
knife? Guess why she brought me in *
on this kidnap thing? It was her *
way a' buying it back- *
ME *
-show it to me. *
77.
GEORGE AINGE *
I'll have my lawyer take a picture *
of it for you- *
-throw his TV at his head: legitimately trying to kill him *
now and he knows it. Off his chair, crawling. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
STOP! *
(more question than *
statement) *
YOU ARE NOT BENT ON AN EX-WHORE! *
I grab the shattered tube: throw it again. Big POP inches *
from Ainge. Angry at myself for missing twice: *
ME *
GOD DAMN IT- *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
-HE'S A MATERIAL WITNESS TO A MURD- *
-grab Junior, sharp jab him, push him out a door for the *
second time- *
JUNIOR STEMMONS (CONT'D) *
-YOU WILL CEASE AND DESIST KLEIN- *
-final push with my foot gives me enough room to dead-bolt it *
behind him. Ainge can't fit under his bed. *
GEORGE AINGE *
I AIN'T RESISTING YOU! *
ME *
I'm not arresting you. *
Flip the mattress. Teen Tit mags and jack-off socks fly with *
it. Ainge under pine slats. Panic. I put my foot through, *
bash his gut -- rip him out from underneath. *
ME (CONT'D) *
(hissing) *
Where is it? *
Ainge unable to speak, gasping for air. Step to his closet: *
shred hinges when I open it. Rip the clothes rod down: *
nothing. Pull shelves from the wall: a Louisville Slugger *
falls at my feet. I smile. Ainge goes frightwig. Step to him. *
ME (CONT'D) *
WHERE?! *
78.
Swing it into a wall. Gaping holes in holster. Bring it back
like Babe Ruth over his head.
ME (CONT'D) *
-that blade or your life. *
Door bashed open behind me -- deadbolt assembly pops, pieces *
hit me -- then something big/black-metallic ends my night: *
Junior, tear-streaked cheeks, Ainge's mailbox in-hand, pulled *
free from the stucco. I drop. Ainge turns cheerleader: *
GEORGE AINGE *
NICE! *
Roll to my knees: guttural groans I can't place because *
they're mine. Junior rips a radio cord from the wall, wraps *
it around my neck, pulls my head back, feel his tears hit my *
shoulders. Veins in his arms go Pop. Eyes in my head go Pop. *
JUNIOR STEMMONS *
Last time you push me out a door! *
For a dirty split-tail! You're- *
(cinches hard)
-not dragging me down! If Bradley
doesn't get you, Noonan will! And-
(through gritted-teeth) *
-you're gonna burn all by yourself!
-go black. Then eyes open...out for hours/days/months...what? *
Feel. Hangman's bruise forming around my neck. Junior and *
Ainge gone. Floorboards under Ainge's bed pried-up. Crawl to *
the hole: a hiding spot, empty of whatever was in it. *
ME (V.O.) *
Call it: the knife was here. Ainge *
was crawling under his bed not to *
escape me, but to hand it over. Too *
hate-wired to see it. *
I check my watch: 11 PM. *
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D) *
Junior the Player. Junior the *
Underestimated. Junior the Former *
Evidence Teacher: a murder weapon, *
a witness, a two-hour head-start. *
57 EXT. AINGE'S PLACE - NEXT MOMENT 57 *
Few looks from few neighbors. No sirens. Thank God gunshots *
and screams are school-nights in this slum. Get into my car. *
79.
58 INT. MY 1955 PONTIAC - NEXT MOMENT 58 *
My glove box ripped open, contents gone. *
ME (V.O.) *
Junior the Flush: my $5000 down- *
payment from Hughes gone. Junior *
the Merciful: He should've put a *
bullet in my brain. *
59 INT. PRECINCT - LATE NIGHT 59 *
Nobody around this late. Only a desk sergeant on the doze. *
Zero-in on Junior's desk, search it: files squared, pencils *
in precise alignment, evidence books arrayed alphabetically. *
ME (V.O.) *
Everything inspection neat. No *
mail, no personal items. Eagle *
scout perfect. *
Rip at a locked return, jimmy the desk drawers, feel the *
underside for a key -- zilch. Slide under, looking...nothing. *
Sit up, grab his phone, dial out... *
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.) *
What? *
ME *
Meg wake up Pete. *
MEG (O.S.) *
...Jesus Christ... *
Rustling and whispers. *
PETE (O.S.) *
Take some pills, will you? *
ME *
I'll give you a grand to locate and *
tail Junior Stemmons. *
PETE (O.S.) *
Your partner? *
Find a letter opener, fuck it -- pry the drawer loose. *
ME *
Past tense. *
80.
PETE (O.S.) *
Two grand. *
Pop. The lock snaps. Ease it open... *
ME *
Done. Tell me what he does, who he *
talks to, where he goes, and if *
he's got this mutt named George *
Ainge stashed somewhere. *
Look inside. Red steno pads. A small orderly pile. Pull one, *
thumb it-- blank. *
PETE (O.S.) *
A-I-N-G-E?
ME
Yeah.
PETE (O.S.)
What's Stemmons' address?
ME *
I'm working on it. *
Hang up. Voices arrive. Hustle to my desk, sit, grab a *
reverse directory, fake flip through it as Fritz Koenig and *
two Robbery Blueshirts arrive, seizure bags over their *
shoulders. I clear sweat and leftover blood with my sleeve, *
trying to look busy as Koenig sidles up. *
ME (CONT'D) *
(nod to shoulder bag) *
You moonlighting?
KOENIG
Doing some ad hoc dope seizures for
Dan Wilhite.
(that shark grin)
Still love taking the occasional
door down.
ME
You were born for the street Fritz.
I never featured you for the suit
and tie set.
KOENIG
We're of a common bloodline Boy-o.
ME
Where'd you get that haul?
81.
KOENIG *
(dropping bag) *
Some reformed spic dope dealers *
that normally dabble in reefer. *
Koenig, his knuckles and fingernails caked with blood, pulls *
a three-pound brick of heroin from the bag. *
KOENIG (CONT'D) *
Seized from Chavez Ravine. Thirty *
pounds. The City is cracking down *
on the dreaded to make room for *
their beloved Dodgers. They remove *
the Mexicans, we remove the rest. *
Scramble a joke to keep Koenig from looking at me too
closely...
ME *
Why? They could hawk heroin right *
along with peanuts and hot dogs. *
Have the whole bleacher section *
goofing on horse. *
Koenig laughs big, re-shoulders the bag. *
KOENIG *
A new found dedication these days? *
What's prompting such odd hours? *
ME *
Playing catch-up. *
KOENIG *
The boy Chief seems to be running *
both of us ragged. *
ME *
He currying favor with Chief Parker
with this Chavez Ravine sweep?
KOENIG
Parker appreciates Bradley's
political skills...and the addition
of a professional Ball-club to our
fare city fulfills his own personal
mandate of a cleaner, brighter, LA.
ME
Sounds boring.
82.
KOENIG
Stale milk to me too. And how are
you faring? Is our visiting U.S.
Attorney still in hot pursuit?
Look up. Let him see it in my face: humorless and half lit.
ME *
Borrowed time Fritz. *
KOENIG *
Anything I can do? *
ME *
Yeah...a small favor. *
(beat) *
Stemmons home address if you have *
it. He's in a bit of a bind. *
KOENIG *
(beat)
Bigger than your own? *
ME *
A lot bigger. *
60 EXT. PAY PHONE - LATER 60 *
Drop loose change. Dial. Pete picks up on the first ring. *
ME *
3160 Rossmore. Apartment #6. *
PETE *
Did you want me to clip Stemmons? *
ME *
Not yet. By now, he's stashed *
Ainge, so he's travelling solo. *
PETE *
Who's this `Ainge' clown anyway? *
ME *
Not important. *
PETE *
Oh, Milteer wants a progress report *
on the Movie Broad -- Bledsoe- *
-hang up. Roll to my car. *
83.
61 EXT. GLENDA'S HOUSE - NIGHT 61 *
Late. Pull in, plop the dishrag loaded with ice on the front *
seat. Blood still seeping, slick it back in my hair. Step *
from the car-- woozy/weaving, the goose-egg on my head feels *
like a hand grenade. *
Up the front walk, lean on the doorbell. She answers, Silk *
chemise barring tan shoulders, her hair swept up a long, *
perfect neck. If she just woke up, she doesn't look it. *
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
I could say something witty about *
"gentleman callers at this hour, *
covered in blood" but-- *
No time to trade repartee. Out with it: *
ME *
George Ainge. *
She goes rigid, clutches her robe.
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
Is that his? *
(off my nod `yes')
Is he dead? *
ME *
No. But I know about Dwight *
Gillette and the knife you're *
trying to barter back. All of it. *
Like I punched her in the mouth. Her face: embarrassment cut *
with confusion. She recovers quick, steels herself. *
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
Then why are you here? Y'should be *
picking up a paycheck from Hughes. *
ME *
I'm not watching you for him *
anymore. *
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
(beat)
If you're planning on shaking me *
down for `favors,' go pick-up your *
paycheck Mr. Klein. Or are you *
being a policeman right now? *
84.
ME *
The good ones are called *
`Policemen.' The bad ones are *
called `Cops.' I'm a Cop. *
She steps closer. I can smell her. *
ME (CONT'D) *
Another `cop' has this information *
on you. He has the murder weapon *
too. He might use it against you *
before I can stop him. Can you go *
somewhere? *
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
You're protecting me? You don't *
even know me... *
ME *
Just the parts you wish I didn't. *
The place in Topanga Canyon where *
your going to hole up for the *
kidnapping thing. Is it safe? *
She nods, drifts somewhere, a part of her life thought dead, *
threatening everything again... *
ME (CONT'D) *
Get your coat. *
62 INT. CAR - NIGHT 62 *
Driving. Glenda close. I want to pull her closer. We wind *
along Topanga Canyon. Constant mirror checks, looking for *
Packards/Buicks/Ghosts...seeing nothing...I roll my window *
up. Light jazz on the radio gives way to the news: *
ANNOUNCER *
-KGFJ news at the top of the hour. *
U.S. Attorney Welles Noonan today *
announced his intention to probe *
what he called `widespread *
corruption' within the Los Angeles *
Police Department and promised an *
equally widespread round of *
criminal indictments before- *
-click it off. Abrupt. She notices, says nothing. After
another half mile she points to a side road: 655 TOPANGA CYN *
RD on the mailbox. I pull in. A gravel drive gives way to a *
bungalow, tucked into the trees. *
85.
ME *
Did Ainge know about this place? *
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
No. I didn't want to tell him till *
after.
ME *
Good. *
Put the car into `park.' Idle. She looks over, her eyes *
asking something. I hold her gaze, hesitate, then: *
ME (CONT'D) *
Nothing's going to happen to you... *
She frets with her hair, her eyes glassy. *
GLENDA BLEDSOE *
I don't know that. *
ME *
I'm not gonna let it. *
A beat...I want to grab her and kiss her. I convince myself *
otherwise, grab a card from my coat and a pen, scrawl. *
ME (CONT'D) *
This is my sister's number. Name is *
Meg. Call if there are problems. *
Hand her the card. We touch. I linger. So does she. *
ME (CONT'D) *
Sleep.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Impossible.
ME
Me too.
63 INT. MY CAR - NIGHT 63
Driving. Blood-shot. Slowly being squeezed on all sides.
ME (V.O.)
Looking for leverage. Figure out
Bradley's angle before I fry.
Madge and Lucille in custody. No
Hector and no Tommy equals No
leads. Save one.
86.
64 EXT. SANTA MONICA HOTEL - EARLY A.M. 64 *
Slouched in my front seat, watching a small flop-style motel *
near the beach.
ME (V.O.)
Dan Wilhite.
(beat)
Dispatch shot me his temporary
address. Some beach flop he fled to
after his wife put him out.
Check my Hamilton: 7:32 AM. A car pulls into the parking lot.
Two suits step out, ramrod straight, starched officious:
Process Servers if ever I've seen them. One of them bears a
sealed envelope as they walk to room #11 and knock. No
answer. They knock rude. I roll down my window.
Dan Wilhite answers in a robe: Groggy-pissed-hungover. Before
he utters a word, he's handed the sealed envelope and the
pair depart. Wilhite calls after, tearing open the envelope
and reading what's inside...then rereading it.
Gauge his reaction: ruined.
He puts his hand on top of his head...like he's trying to
protect it from the sky that is now falling down around him.
Another big pause staring at nothing...then he just calmly
walks back inside the room, closing the door behind him.
65 EXT. SANTA MONICA HOTEL - NEXT MOMENT 65
Out of my car. Quietly hustling up to Wilhite's door: Reach
it and hear a distinct POP -- see the flash-snap from behind
the curtains: Gunshot. I know what it is. Hit the door.
66 INT. WILHITE'S ROOM - NEXT MOMENT 66
Wilhite's service revolver a foot away from one hand, a sheet
of paper still gripped in the other. Body half onto the bed,
half off. Blood drains from a round wound in his temple.
Check behind me, nobody coming- close the hotel door. Pick up
the sheet of paper/contents of the envelope. The first word I
see: SUBPOENA.
ME (V.O.)
My first thought, pure panic:
Noonan figured the Narco-Magalena
connection.
87.
Flip the Subpoena over to see his Signature: not Noonan's.
This subpoena has been issued and signed by LA District
Attorney Bob Gallaudet. Flip it back over, wide-eyed:
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
But it wasn't a Federal Subpoena.
Wilhite was being called to testify
by Bob Gallaudet, a man who doesn't
piss without Bradley's say-so.
(beat)
Bradley trying to beat Noonan to
the punch and burn the LAPD
himself...why?
67 EXT. PARKING LOT - LATER 67
A quick check of the lot. Empty. A housekeeping cart sits
nearby. Swipe a bottle of bleach from it. Walk to Wilhite's
Studebaker Powerhawk. Pop the trunk, return to his room.
Move quick. Fireman's carry, dump Wilhite's body in the
trunk. Toss his service .38 too. Pour the bottle of bleach to
stanch the inevitable rot smell.
ME (V.O.)
Swap my car for Wilhite's. The
former head of the LAPD's Narcotics
division dead in the trunk. Call it
the leverage I was looking for --
his body can buy me out of bad spot-
-and that's when I see it: a bandage poking out from under *
Wilhite's collar...undo a couple buttons, lift the bandage. *
FLASH TO:
68 EXT. 1284 SOUTH TREMAINE - NIGHT 68 *
BAM: me hit from behind by the Peeper. BAM: me firing at the *
Peeper. Hit him in the left shoulder. BAM: Grabbing Wilhite's *
shoulder in the Magdalena bathroom, him howling in pain. *
RETURN TO: *
69 INT. WILHITE'S GARAGE - NEXT MOMENT 69 *
The kind of wound a grazed bullet leaves. *
88.
ME (V.O.) *
Wilhite was the Peeper. Bent on *
Lucille, a girl younger than his *
youngest daughter. Call it grounds
for divorce...Call Wilhite Hector
Magdalena's murderer...
Slam the trunk as Wilhite's glazed eyes stare back at me.
70 EXT. STREET - A.M. 70 *
Slow cruise, new ride means no tails. Check my mirrors *
anyway. Back to the pad, back-streets all the way. *
71 INT. MY HOME, HOLLYWOOD HILLS - A.M. 71 *
Rounding the corner -- break hard: those same process servers
leaning on my doorbell now.
ME
Bradley trying to bury me too. That
subpoena means my fifteen year
career with the LAPD just went up
in smoke.
Continue past. Those Process Geeks keep buzzing my doorbell.
72 INT. BREAKFAST JOINT PAY-PHONE - MORNING 72
Drop dimes. Dial Pete.
ME
Hey-
PETE (O.S.)
-Junior's left the fucking planet.
ME
You find him?
PETE
Yeah. I swung by his apartment, car
was out front. I scoped it: a sawed-
off shotgun in front, canned tuna
in the back seat. Think he's living
outta that car. After he left, I
tried to get inside his place: The
front door is triple pad-locked.
89.
ME
(out loud)
That knife is in there-
PETE
-the what?
Shit. Ignore it, maybe Pete will too.
ME
Meet me down the street from his
place. You got bolt cutters?
PETE
I'll bring `em.
ME
Thirty minutes.
73 EXT. APARTMENT COMPLEX - DAY 73
Junior's stucco-beige apartment building looms a block up.
Cursory checks of the rear and side-view mirrors. Sans tail
as I pull the Powerhawk in behind Pete's Caddy. Step out,
sidle up driver's side.
PETE
Who's car is that?
ME
Long story.
PETE
Junior looked real skeezed this
morning. Like he was on a dope jag.
ME
Yeah?
PETE
Sweated up like a stuck pig. And be
careful. He was fucking around with
his front door before he left. I
don't know what he was doing.
ME
Two honks if he shows. Then meet me
in the alley, back of his place.
90.
PETE
(handing me bolt-cutters)
What about this Bledsoe broad?
Milteer has called me twice.
ME
(taking the bolt-cutters)
One thing at a time pal.
74 EXT. JUNIOR'S APARTMENT BUILDING - DAY 74
Hustle across the street. Hang my badge over my shirt-pocket.
75 INT. JUNIOR'S APARTMENT BUILDING - MOMENTS LATER 75
Up three flights. Junior: #303: three padlocks:hinge/receiver
hardware extending between door and jamb. Three kicks and a
shoulder to splinter the door. Stop, look: Some kind of twine
stretched taut, just inside the door...trip-wire. Pull my pig-
sticker, extend it between door and jamb...see the twine
stretching tighter -- flick the blade, snag twine, slice it.
Stand. Put my boot into the door full. Snaps at the hinges.
76 INT. APT. 303 - NEXT MOMENT 76
Move slow. Examine close: Eye-bolt pulley system, jerry-
rigged around the door. Severed twine attached to the trigger
of a shotgun taped atop a jello mold at knee level.
Continue to look around. Sex-horror grimace: like catching
Pop fingering Mom. Junior's place a tiny, filthy one bedroom.
ME (V.O.)
Junior the Insane: You couldn't
hide what he was hiding in 1958 LA,
and not have it rot your mind.
Bear traps barely hidden under sheets. Rat-traps garnished
with razor blades across the floor. Smell rotten flowers: his
shirt that I wore/bled-on crumpled on his pillow -- yellowed
jizz stains cover black blood stains. Stifle a gag.
Card table: an empty green-banded evidence bag. Gape at it.
Then walk over, read the abstracts: 1284 South Tremaine.
ME (V.O.)
Junior stealing evidence from the
Magdalena crime scene.
91.
Then I see the bookcase. Top shelf: Police manuals. Bottom
two shelves: wall-to-wall red steno-pads, all exactly the
same brand. Shock. Step over. Flip through them: tiny,
architect-neat script covers every page. The running dialogue
of a functional fucking freak:
MAGDALENA RESIDENCE. 1284 S. TREMAINE. RECOVERED: MAGDALENA FINANCIAL
RECORDS/LEDGERS. SOME ENTRIES REDACTED. TRANSLATED `HH' INTO
`HURWITZ HOLDINGS' AFTER RECOVERING MAIL. SEEMS SUSPICIOUS. BROUGHT
TO ATTENTION OF KLEIN. BRUSHED OFF. PRESS IN SPITE OF KLEIN'S LAZINESS OR
LACK OF INTEREST.
A hand drawn cock doodled beneath that, then below:
DAVE WEARING FORM-FITTING SHIRT TODAY. HANDSOME. I WANT TO PULL IT-
-drop the steno like it might bite. Pick up another: same
drill.
WELLES NOONAN WILL WIN OUT. KLEIN NOT SKILLED OR SMART ENOUGH TO
DUEL WITH A U.S. ATTORNEY MUCH LESS THE FBI. DEEP ADMIRATION FOR
NOONAN'S CAUSE. HIS PURPOSE IS PURE. DON'T WANT TO GET DRAGGED DOWN
WITH POISON PILL KLEIN. MAKE HIM PAY FOR PATRONIZING ME.
Pick up yet another, hands shaking, turn to the last page:
MAKE KLEIN HURT LIKE I HURT. TRADE HIM. TRADE EVERYTHING. TRADE UP TO
THE BUREAU. THINK OF IT: AGENT RICHARD STEMMONS JR. PROUD-PROUD. 1
DREAM DOWN, 10,000 TO GO!
ME (V.O.)
Junior the Climber, trading me up
to Noonan. Thinks bootlicking will
buy him a Bureau gig.
Now, rifle for that knife. Systemically destroy the place.
Dump the stenos in a trash can, sift for matches, strike,
watch the pads catch and floosh, feed the fire with random
paperwork, sift -- Junior's cock-obsessed doodles scribbled
by the dozen.
Under the bed now, carpet covered in rat-traps. Spring them,
clear a space. A Box: beefcake booty, gay smut mags, gay
classified ads. First-person perspective Polaroids of
Junior's stomach being kissed by the Diskant Quiff and vice-
versa.
Open a massive steamer trunk against a far wall. Arsenal:
handguns, shotguns, a surplus M-1. Dump it, kick contents.
Only interested in that knife.
92.
Move into his kitchenette. Check the freezer even though
Junior is smarter than that: amyl-nitrate poppers, vodka,
benzedrine, cocaine. Close it. Look down. STOP: indents in
the cheap tile floor from where the refrigerator used to sit.
Pull to see what's behind. Eyes catch the bear-trap near the
bed as I tug: ugly-rusted-waiting. STOP part II: Contort,
peer behind the refrigerator: a pineapple-shaped hand grenade
duct-taped to the wall, next to a built-in safe.
MY NARRATOR VOICE (V.O.)
The safe scared me more than all of
it because a safe doesn't get
installed overnight...he'd been
working on something, planning
something...
Twine leads from the grenade's pin to the back of the
refrigerator. My bolt-cutters snap it. Pull the refrigerator
out now. The safe bolted into the drywall. Stare at it: the
dial, the black paint-job...
CUT TO:
Loading shells into the shotgun that was atop that jello
mold. Back into the kitchen. Exhale. BEGIN BLASTING. Massive
noise. Six shots. Reload fast: nothing can muffle this
clatter. SECOND VOLLEY. Eyes closed to keep chunks of drywall
out. Gagging on gunsmoke. Rip at the safe -- something gives.
THIRD VOLLEY. The Safe hits the floor, leaves a hole.
Through the ringing in my ears: something that sounds like
honks. Quick peek: Pete gone. A Black Buick with two white-
walled FEDS up front. Then Junior gets out of the backseat...
Scoop the freezer drugs, the stack of man-porn, the
snapshots, and toss a whole armful into the hallway in front
of Junior's door. Grab the green-banded evidence bag and tuck
it under my arm. Back into the kitchenette. Turn on the gas
but don't light the burners. Pull the grenade off the wall.
Drag the safe to the rear of his place: the fire escape.
77 EXT. FIRE ESCAPE - NEXT MOMENT 77
Out the window, on the escape, toss the evidence-bag down to
Pete, then push the safe over the railing. Feature it almost
crush the back of Pete's idling Cadillac. Pete jumps, yells:
PETE
Asshole!
93.
ME
Get it open if you can and meet me
back at Meg's!
Doesn't move until I pull the pin on the pineapple, drop the
pin down on him. He jumps back in, peels off-
78 INT. JUNIOR'S APARTMENT BUILDING - NEXT MOMENT 78
-Junior on the second-floor landing, heading to his place.
Bloodshot bleary wide eyes, spun on a combo of drugs, the
Feds herding him like a rabid dog:
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Stay right here. I'll get it all
and come back. Don't move.
79 EXT. FIRE ESCAPE - SAME MOMENT 79
Ricochet the grenade back into the kitchen. Leap down half a
flight: put exterior brick between my head and the-
-BIG BOOM -- the grenade goes off.
80 INT. JUNIOR'S APARTMENT BUILDING - SAME MOMENT 80
Junior knocked on his ass halfway up the last flight. Feds
come sprinting. Screaming Junior tackles one on the way up.
Juniors' front-door blown off. Terrified Neighbors greeted
with images of Sodom scattered from the explosion: drugs,
mags, dildos. The Fed that didn't get tackled picks up a
photo: Junior kissing a hairy stomach.
And Junior's mind snaps cleanly in-half. Crawls away growling
like a bear caught in one of his traps.
81 EXT. ALLEY - NEXT MOMENT 81
I step calm. Clear the alley slow. Don't let your stride give
you away. Another Black Buick arrives. More Bureau stiffs.
Keep moving. Looky-Loos pop up along the block, pointing. I'm
the only one not looking back toward Junior's now flaming
pad. The Powerhawk still another street up. Fire engines wail
close.
Shouts from behind now. Look back: a Bureau putz pointing my
way -- one of the Buicks tearing up the block toward me.
94.
ME (V.O.)
Call it. Keep going and give up
Wilhite's car and the corpse
inside, or lay back and deal with
Noonan's Buzzcuts.
Lace my fingers behind my head, turn to face them -- catch a
form tackle from this geeked up junior G-Man diving from the
Buick, drives his shoulder and takes me down sprawling.
82 INT. L.A. FEDERAL BUILDING - LATER 82
Welles Noonan staring. He picks nipped/mutilated fingernails.
ME (CONT'D)
Civil servants can't afford
manicures?
WELLES NOONAN
Breaking and entering, theft, and
willful destruction of private
property...and I'll add attempted
murder to the current first degree
murder charge I'm about to file
against you.
ME
Proof. If you had it, you wouldn't
be fucking around with shitty
shakedown routine -- you'd file.
Coercion equals confession. So
let's see you pound it out of me.
WELLES NOONAN
Where are the files you stole from
Sergeant Richard Stemmons.
ME
Junior. Your secret weapon right? I
mean, I know J. Edgar is a slanted
fuck, but traditionally `vicious
fags' don't make the best major
case witnesses.
(beat, keep pushing)
I'm worried those burning dildos
may have damaged his credibility.
WELLES NOONAN
Oh I don't need his testimony
Klein. I'll just force yours.
95.
ME
Not if you had the next hundred
years.
WELLES NOONAN
Sanderline Johnson, your links to
Sam Giancana to Mickey Cohen,
extortion, bribes, murder-for-hire.
I'll put you in every pair of cross-
hairs I can find. I'll torch
everything you've ever touched. You
have no idea how deep I run Klein.
And how far I'm willing to go to
fuck you-
ME
-everyone knows I'm a piece-a-shit.
What are you proving? Bradley's the
guy flanking you right now. The guy
who's vulnerable right now.
WELLES NOONAN
You're all angles and graft Klein.
Why trust a God damn word that
comes out of your-
ME
-you done anything with the
Magdalena case?
WELLES NOONAN
(thrown)
Prelims: drug pusher gone missing,
presumed dead, we're investigat-
ME
(scoffing)
-Dealing drugs for 20 years!
Arrested once. Hall a' fame career!
You photographed the head of Narco
in-front of his house...
WELLES NOONAN
AND?
ME
Jesus Christ, you need cue cards?
(sell this fucker now)
Come after me: you get me. Go after
what I can give you and you get the
LAPD's power-set on a slab.
96.
WELLES NOONAN
I don't believe you'd turn.
Treacherous yes, traitorous no.
Tell me where Stemmons' files are.
ME
I'll bring them to you.
WELLES NOONAN
You're not leaving here Klein.
ME
Then like I said: you only get me.
Noonan stands, firm:
WELLES NOONAN
I'll take it.
On his way out I speak fast -- the last ace in my deck:
ME
I give you the body of Dan Wilhite,
head of LAPD's Narcotics Division.
Proof of a 20-year criminal
collusion between his department
and Hector Magdalena and my
testimony to link the dots.
(beat, make him believe)
Then I leave LA for good.
Noonan at the door: please bite-please bite...but he just
smirks, walks out. Real panic now: no ideas on what comes
next. 15 seconds. Door opens again: one of Noonan's deputies
pushes a sheet. Scan it: Federal Witness Agreement. Noonan
back: two cups of coffee. Read it over.
WELLES NOONAN
What happened to Wilhite?
ME
Suicide.
WELLES NOONAN
Like Sanderline Johnson?
Ignore him. Sign the agreement.
WELLES NOONAN (CONT'D)
Get me Stemmons files and Wilhite's
body by noon tomorrow.
Gulp the coffee back, the burn feels good.
97.
ME
No more tails. I don't want anyone
else incriminated.
WELLES NOONAN
Agreed.
ME
(nod to agreement)
I get a copy of that?
WELLES NOONAN
After a judge signs it. Now Leave.
Stand-nod-take my coffee-leave. Door closes. Noonan shreds
the Witness agreement. Tosses it in the trash. Off the
baffled Deputy.
WELLES NOONAN (CONT'D)
We wait for him to deliver, then we
arrest him. You never saw that
agreement.
DEPUTY #1
Tail him?
WELLES NOONAN
No. Let him get comfortable...let
him believe me.
83 INT. CAB - NIGHT 83
Backseat. Suborned Cabby driving fast. LAPD on board.
ME (V.O.)
Running out of room, time, both.
Trapped between Bradley and Noonan.
Jump out of the cab, into Wilhite's Powerhawk. Slide in, slam
the door.
84 INT. MEG'S PLACE - LATER 84
Bust in shaking. Teeth chatter like I'm freezing. Pete in the
garage adjacent the kitchen, welder's goggles and a power
drill, punching holes in Junior's safe.
PETE
I know what Feds look like -- those
were Feds with Junior...
98.
ME
Yeah and they made me leaving the
scene. Had to barter out.
PETE
Barter what?
ME
My Testimony. I signed a Federal
Witness Agreement.
Pete drops the drill.
PETE
You what?
ME
It's bullshit. Noonan's got no
intention of honoring it.
(beat)
They want Stemmons files though. I
think Junior's been working angles
for awhile, doing his own
investigations.
PETE
What did you do to his place? Nice
quiet neighborhood one minute,
Nagasaki the next.
ME
(point to safe)
He had a hand grenade tied to that.
(as Pete resumes drilling)
How much longer do you need?
PETE
Few more hours. Maybe. Junior
didn't skimp on this thing. I gotta
bore right through the face plate.
(beat)
You got some time now, why don't
you get Milteer off my back and go
work that Bledsoe broad.
ME
You read my mind.
85 EXT. TOPANGA CANYON BUNGALOW - NIGHT 85
Pull in. Glenda's Vette parked behind. Lights on low inside.
99.
86 EXT./INT. BUNGALOW - MOMENTS LATER 86
The door opens. She's dressed for bed. I don't hesitate,
afraid she'll shun me. Move to her, she doesn't startle. An
arm around her waist, drawing her in, my mouth close to hers.
I take her face in my hand, check her eyes, a beat before
they tell me it's okay...I lean in, takes a lifetime...and
kiss her soft until she kisses back, her mouth moving over my
split lips, she puts her hands on my face, pulling me in.
She feels exactly like I imagined.
My coat comes off. Her camisole follows. We're moving toward
a bed in back. I stop, pull back, the moonlight moves over
her shoulders. I whisper:
ME
...tell me if I'm being too rough.
Tears squeezed through smiling eyes, she kisses me even
harder, pulls me down to her. We make love like we've never
touched another. Everything blurs, burns down: Bradley.
Wilhite. Tommy. Hector Junior. Ainge. She takes it all away.
I escape into her. Hours fall. I could stay here forever...
87 INT. BEDROOM - LATER 87
Lying there, staring at her. A silence and peace I've never
known. Not once.
ME
Tell me anything. Tell me
everything.
Label her surprise, her brow that furrows and unfurrows just
as quickly. A long moment as she waivers...commits:
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Where would I start?
ME
Why here?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Why L.A.?
(this amazing smile)
Why is anybody here? Want the rest
of the world to know who they are.
100.
ME
You?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
No...I don't think so.
(beat)
I just love it. I grew up in
Seattle. My aunt, every week, she'd
take me to the movies.
Me watching her...tucks her hair back over his shoulders.
GLENDA BLEDSOE (CONT'D) *
The idea that you can outlive
yourself...that a part of you goes
on, long after you're gone.
(beat, grins)
Sounds silly doesn't it? `Attack of
the Atomic Vampires' being-
ME
-your ticket to immortality?
Make her laugh. Swear a thousand silent oaths to protect her.
He face slowly goes dark.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Hughes told me he could get me in
for this screen test two years ago.
Movie with Gregory Peck at
Universal. He thought he was
humoring me...until I got it. They
offered me the role...there in the
room. So Howard, who I'm sure never
thought in a million years I'd land
that part, makes some phone calls
and just like that they don't want
me anymore.
(beat)
Nobody calls now. I can't get in to
see any studio casting people. He's
ruined me in those circles.
ME
And you still want it-
GLENDA BLEDSOE
-bad enough to put on a silly
cheerleading skirt and try to make
the most god-awful dialogue sound
decent.
101.
ME
Surrounded by winos in werewolf
suits.
(she laughs, I laugh)
That's...dedication.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Or desperation. Depends on the day.
The laughter ebbs, her eyes still shine.
GLENDA BLEDSOE (CONT'D)
I'll get there though.
(beat)
I'll get there.
I let the silence take...try not to shatter it with:
ME
Dwight Gillette.
She doesn't blanch.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
He asked me to take his `niece and
nephew' to their cousin in Oxnard.
These beautiful, funny little kids.
(tears she doesn't swipe)
I dropped them off. Didn't ask any
questions -- I believed Dwight. A
week later I saw their pictures in
the Post Office. A week after that
their little bodies came in on the
tide near San Pedro.
(beat, tears stream)
I'll never shake the thought that
maybe those poor kids thought I was
part of it. That I knew what was
going to happen to them. So I pray
to God that he let them look in
when I put that knife into Dwight.
(beat)
But I'll never ask his forgiveness
for doing it...
(beat, clears her eyes)
Why do they call you `Enforcer?'
She actually gets closer, I can feel her breath on me.
ME
I've killed 44 men.
102.
She blanches, but never blinks...never takes her eyes away
from mine.
ME (CONT'D)
33 for War. 2 for principle. 9 for
profit -- mostly. Why did you sign
with Hughes, knowing what he was?
GLENDA BLEDSOE
`For profit -- mostly.'
Silence. A feeling like: `and there we are...'
ME
I'm not much good.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Me neither.
She touches my quake. Two breaths with her hand on mine and
it all goes quiet: the shakes, the images, the fear. She
takes my head, pulls me to her bare breasts. The only things
audible: my breathing, a clock ticking. Both slowly fade out.
BLACK.
Wake up quiet, look at my Hamilton. 6 AM. Sit up slow.
Look back at her, sleeping, just stare. I lean down, kiss her
lightly, her taste lingers, inhale her, hold that...it's the
last good thing you'll get today.
88 INT. MEG'S HOUSE - EARLY A.M. 88
Dark. Stay quiet. Maneuver into the kitchen. Turn on a light.
On the table: safe open, it's contents laid-out neatly, short-
stacks of files, $1000 in twenties. I sit, start searching
for something else...Pete's voice behind me:
PETE (O.C.)
The Knife ain't there. File on top
of that middle pile: George Ainge
in an `undisclosed locale.'
I don't turn. Pete sits next to me. Sets a shotgun down.
PETE
Junior documented everything like a
fucking Monk.
(pulls a file)
Like here: `has evidence' you
murdered Sanderline Johnson.
(MORE)
103.
PETE (cont'd)
Kept track of `suspected contract
killings' you pulled for the mob.
Look at Pete. Dark rings, deathbed eyes.
ME
You been up all night?
PETE
In-case Stemmons made a house-call.
He's got every goddamn address of
everybody you know...
(beat, hard)
And you should've told me about the
Bledsoe broad.
ME
There's nothing to tell.
Feature Pete, righteously pissed:
PETE
Then call Milteer about this dead
Pimp Gillette. I'm no legal mind
like you, but I'll bet a murder
beef would violate her morals
clause quick.
(beat, hands phone)
Collect the rest of your money.
ME
I don't want it anymore.
PETE
Then give that five grand back.
ME
Junior stole it.
Pete pauses, scoffs, turns back toward Meg's bedroom walks:
PETE
People are gonna start lining-up to
see you bleed, Pal.
Door closes. I flip through Junior's files: the same
architect-neat block printing. Find a Glenda entry:
SUBSEQUENT TO HER FATAL STABBING OF DWIGHT Gillette, MISS BLEDSOE
SECRETED THE MURDER WEAPON WITH GEORGE AINGE. I HAVE ACQUIRED THIS
KNIFE. IT IS A SIX-INCH BLADE WITH A MOTHER-OF-PEARL GRIP WHICH
SUSTAINED RIGHT THUMB AND RIGHT INDEX PRINTS WHICH MATCH ELEVEN
COMPARISON POINTS TO FINGERPRINTS ON FILE FROM MISS BLEDSOE'S 1946
JUVENILE SHOPLIFTING ARREST.
104.
Shred it. Grab another file. Hyper-detailed: subscript
clarifications, attachments, pictures, procedural notes to
the U.S.A.W.N.: United States Attorney Welles Noonan.
Then I see the tab of the file furthest down: BOYCE BRADLEY.
Open it: Noonan's business card stapled to the front cover.
Flip forward. Scan. See Bradley's name, finger tracks across
a page. A company name: `HURWITZ HOLDINGS'
I read it all...and feel my jaw slowly unhinge...
89 INT. POLICE HEADQUARTERS - MORNING 89
Barrel down the hallway toward Bradley's office. A habitual
eye toward Junior's desk: Koenig going through his drawers.
Stop. Veer toward him...
KOENIG
(formal-frosty)
Your young partner called me at my
home, early this morning.
Teeth grit. Hide it. Let Koenig talk.
KOENIG (CONT'D)
Heavily inebriated. Speaking
inarticulately of `betrayal,' & how
the LAPD was set to be `blitzed by
justice.' Is this the `bind' of
which we spoke earlier?
ME
Yeah.
KOENIG
And his apartment -- there was some
type of disturbance? A fire?
ME
That's why I needed his address. I
was trying to help him before
something like this happened. The
kid snapped-in-half Fritz. He's
literally lost it.
(beat, deadpan)
He say anything else to you?
Koenig looks back at me. Give nothing away...one gesture that
doesn't read right and he'll know. He lets more seconds pass
than he should. Trying to shake me.
105.
KOENIG
Only that he was in possession of
materials that might deeply damage
Chief Bradley...and yourself.
ME
Like I said Fritz, he's flipped his
lid. I don't want to go to Internal
Affairs but I'm afraid Junior
might've forced just that.
KOENIG
Let me try to locate the lad first
Dave. Be a shame to ruin such a
young career so soon.
ME
Be careful Fritz. He's dangerous.
Spin, press on toward Bradley's office.
ME (V.O.)
Fritz Koenig, the best inspector in
the LAPD, digging. He'll find
Junior and when he does he'll find
Ainge...then Glenda...
Reach Bradley's office, burst in. Empty. To his Secretary:
ME
Where is he?
SECRETARY
(frowns at my informality)
Out at the Ravine Lieutenant.
90 EXT. CHAVEZ RAVINE - DAY 90
Park the Powerhawk. Downwind. Out. Walking. Check my
Hamilton: 12:10 PM.
ME (V.O.)
Noonan's deadline lapsed ten
minutes ago. An official fugitive
from justice now.
Down below, Bradley with Reuben Ruiz in-tow: glazed-fear,
following him like he's handcuffed. PROTESTORS gather,
placards hoisted, chants: "Dodgers, No! Mexico, Si!" The
group gathers steam, supporters pack in, the chorus
continues: "DODGERS NO! MEXICO SI!'
106.
ME (V.O.)
Bradley doing damage control, the
forced relocation of the Ravine's
immigrants has the press in a
feeding frenzy. Reuben Ruiz forced
along as the token Mexican
mouthpiece.
Reporters press. Bradley handles them with ease and aplomb.
BRADLEY
-this area has long been rife with
crime and venality, but with a
brand new Stadium, we can make this
horrible blight a bright spot and
give our Los Angeles Dodgers the
home they deserve.
(like Ruiz was an orphan)
Reuben Ruiz can tell you of his
travails growing up in this
horrible slum and why now is the
time to `Redeem The Ravine.'
REPORTER #2
Chief Bradley, U.S. Attorney
Noonan has promised to deliver
surprise witnesses before the
Federal Grand jury on-
-Bradley, this brilliant rebuke:
BRADLEY
-Welles Noonan is an unscrupulous
hack politician whose smear
campaign against us will fail, for
he has grievously underestimated
the moral rectitude of the Los
Angeles Police Department.
Then Bradley sees me. His press-friendly face contorts, the
shift startling: if only a flashbulb could've framed it. He
shifts back from snarl to smile...
BRADLEY
Now if you'll excuse me, I'll leave
you with Reuben Ruiz.
Ruiz begins his forced/coerced/do-it-or-we'll-fuck-you sob
story as Bradley steps away from the glare. I follow. Get
right on his heels.
107.
ME
Your subpoena hasn't caught up to
me yet, Chief...
Bradley spins back.
ME (CONT'D)
(hand him Junior's file)
Hurwitz Holdings.
Bradley blanches, buckles. I see it. Before he can play
stupid with: `What?'
ME (CONT'D)
You, Bethune, and Gallaudet bought
big chunks of Chavez Ravine over
the past two years through a shell
company called Hurwitz Holdings.
(beat, look around)
If the Dodgers move here the value
of the land booms...you could sell
it off for a fortune -- or hang
onto it and make even more. The
parking lots alone would make you
all multi-millionaires.
Bradley removes his glasses, staring at documentation that
dooms both his immediate and distant future...
ME
Word gets out that the three City
Officials who were pushing hardest
for a Stadium also stood to gain a
mint -- might color public opinion.
Might color it even more to know
that the LAPD's Chief of Detectives
was trying to purchase a huge tract
of that land from the biggest dope
dealer in town.
Slap another file over the one he's reading.
ME
Hector Magdalena owned ten and half
acres of this land.
(beat, ram him)
You didn't give a shit about
solving his disappearance. You were
worried that your real estate deal
was going south.
(MORE)
108.
ME (cont'd)
That's why you wanted Tommy found,
not because he was a murder suspect
or you were concerned that Noonan
might tap him as a federal
witness...you needed him to
finalize your fucking land grab. To
sign paperwork in place of his dead
Dad. That's why you've got Madge
and Lucille in custody now.
(beat)
Maybe I'll let your subpoena find
me now Chief, maybe I'll walk right
into it...the tales I could tell.
All Bradley can muster is:
BRADLEY
How?
ME
Junior Stemmons. The ex-evidence
teacher. His `excellent ratings'
didn't stop him from stealing the
Magdalena seizure and doing his own
investigation.
BRADLEY
Why would he investigate me?
Hand him Noonan's business card: dig the big Federal Eagle in
American Blue.
ME
That was stapled to the cover.
(beat)
Why would Noonan worry about a Turd
like me now...when a high profile
target like you can be taken down.
Silence. I smile wide at it. Bradley, scrambling.
BRADLEY
Where is Stemmons?
ME
No idea. If you haven't spoken to
Internal Affairs today, I'm sure
they've called. Junior's apartment
caught fire. Deeply deviant
material inside. Round him up-
(my angle)
-and anyone he's got with him.
Bradley readjusts his glasses.
109.
BRADLEY
I'll issue an A.P.B. saying
Stemmons is a known deviant
targeting kindergarten children.
ME
Now, quid pro quo...you subpoenaed
Wilhite too.
Bradley's reaction: Feature the angler getting angled.
BRADLEY
How do y-
ME
-don't worry `how.' Why?
Bradley says nothing. Then, like a klieg-light, it hits me.
ME (CONT'D)
You're going after Narco yourself.
BRADLEY
Exposing the corrupt parts of the
LAPD will redeem the whole. I'll
prove that Police can police
themselves-
ME
-so you show-up Noonan...co-opt his
crusade and condemn your own before
he can...Jesus Christ can you turn
lemons to lemonade.
BRADLEY
No Cop will testify against other
Cops. This is why Wilhite has
suddenly disappeared.
ME
And how.
(beat)
So where do we go now Chief?
BRADLEY
(beat, eyes flick again to
the files I'm holding...)
There are other forces at work
here...faces we need to identify.
Names we need to know. A third
party.
(MORE)
110.
BRADLEY (cont'd)
Find out who Klein and I'll
reinstate you, rescind that
subpoena & burn the coroner's
report on Sanderline-
ME
-that report is only useful to
Noonan now.
BRADLEY
No. It ensures our mutual
destruction should you choose to
share the contents of that Stemmons
file. Which I know you won't do
until you figure out how it will
best benefit you.
He walks off, imperious, impervious, gets engulfed by the
press ranks once again.
ME (V.O.)
A mistake to underestimate me now
Chief. The price to keep your
secrets is steep...and you're going
to pay up. Soon.
Back to the Powerhawk, fresh-scrubbed six-packs standing near
it, the trunk stink ripe past the point of concealment. They
see me, deferential nods. One squeaky wheel offers:
SIX-PACK
Something in your trunk smells to
high hell Lieutenant.
ME
Dead body.
Laughter. Easily amused academy types. Brush by grinning,
give `em an "Enforcer" story to tell the other rookies. I
jump in the Powerhawk and tear off.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Borrowed time burning fast. My days
are done. Only hours remain.
Whatever moves I have left...make
them now.
91 INT. MEG'S HOUSE - LATER 91
Going through files. Filling my own steno pad with scrawl.
Pete walks in from the garage, face bunched up, bit-lemon.
111.
PETE
Fucking Christ. You can't keep that
car in the garage, the smell's
coming into the house.
Meg wanders in, dressed for work.
MEG
Open the windows.
PETE
That's not gonna help.
ME
(still scribbling)
Take a couple bottles of bleach,
pour it over the trunk.
PETE
What do you got in there?
ME
My foreseeable future.
MEG
I'm going to work.
She kisses me on my head. I turn:
ME
You taking her?
PETE
(God damn glowering)
I'm taking her.
Meg walks out. Pete lingers. I'm starting to sour him. Not
smart. He stares. I look up.
ME (CONT'D)
What?
PETE
Hughes.
ME
This is almost over Pete -- I'll
give Milteer the five-grand back.
PETE
It's more than that.
112.
ME
I'll square it. It's my thing.
PETE
That you made mine.
ME
I'm sorry.
A beat. Pete sketches me head to toe.
PETE
Look as bad as I've ever seen you.
ME
Things are as bad as they've ever
been...
Pete exhales. Stalks off. I keep scribbling.
ME (V.O.)
Bradley's Third Party Theory.
Everything linked: Wilhite,
Magdalena, the Ravine...I've got my
own theories...and the one that
sticks is the one I pray I'm wrong
about.
Meg's phone blares, I answer it on reflex.
ME (CONT'D)
Klein.
I hear rasp on the other end, hyperventilating, unhinged.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
MOTHERFUCKER -- you better meet me!
That Cooze you threw everything
away for is still cooked! I got the
knife. I got Ainge-
Junior. Jesus.
ME
How'd you get this number Junior?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I got everything on you! AND I'M
GONNA USE IT!
ME
-you're a broom-closet Queer. Your
career is over.
113.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
The knife for MY file on Bradley.
I know you already burned that
Whore's but don't think I can't re-
do investigations.
ME
You snitch to Noonan, then what?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Fuck Noonan. I got stronger Allies.
ME
Who? The Soviets?
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Meet me in one hour with that file,
Fern Dell Park-
ME
-Where you used to snag fruits for
Vice? A volunteer gig I'm guessing.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
Be there with Bradley's file or I
scratch your scabby Bitch.
ME
Hey, did the Feds dig your pad?
The phone on the other end seems to break-in half. Hang up,
it rings a beat later. Junior still wanting to spar. Snag the
receiver, rip his shit:
ME (CONT'D)
-I see anybody near there Junior,
the deals off and I gift that file
to Bradley to fuck you with-
GLENDA BLEDSOE
-Dave?
ME
(big beat)
Glenda?
He's got her. Junior. Sick. Evil. My mind cannibalizes itself
with "where-is-she-how-do-I-get-her-back" when:
GLENDA BLEDSOE
Sorry...you gave me this number...
He doesn't have her. A sigh so big, it steals all my air...
114.
ME
Jesus...hey...
92 INTERCUT: 92
GLENDA
Who were you talking-
ME
-no, no. It's nothing. I had a
phone call, just before yours.
A beat. Glenda in a chaise lounge on a small deck overlooking
the canyon. She sits up.
GLENDA
Was it him? The Cop you were
telling me about?
ME
I don't want you to worry. I'm
handling it. But I might send my
friend Pete out there.
GLENDA
You don't think it's safe?
ME
I'd just rather have someone there
with you.
GLENDA
I wish you would've woken me up
this morning.
ME
I'm better-looking in low light, I
didn't want to blow it for myself.
She laughs. Makes me smile despite my world caving-in...
ME (CONT'D)
Stay by the phone.
GLENDA
I miss you.
And I melt. Love-struck at possibly the worst fucking moment
of my life. Hang up before your voice breaks. Grab a pen,
scrawl for Pete, post it on the fridge magnet: `PETE: 655
TOPANGA. STAY WITH HER. PLEASE.'
115.
93 EXT. FERN DELL PARK - EVENING 93
Rolling green. Half-dirt, half-asphalt path. I scan for any
back-up. Nothing. Junior already there. Astride like Gary
Cooper. His eyes bloodshot from here. My gun riding quick-
draw style. The heft feels good. Unbutton my coat to show him
the file as I approach, tucked right behind my .45.
ME
Where's the knife.
Junior, this evil little curl. He turns. Follow him over a
small knoll: that Gray Packard, waiting. A silhouette behind
the wheel. As we near it the lights come on, blind me.
ME
Turn your lights off...and just
come out and talk to me...Fritz.
A pause in the car, Junior looks at me like I'm Rasputin,
divining answers from the marine-layer moving-in over LA. The
lights pop off and I hear a tired laugh coming from the car
that we've all heard before.
ME (V.O.)
Third Party Confirmed...I fucking
knew it.
Fritz Koenig steps out of the Packard.
KOENIG
Not much with these sub-rosa
things...
ME
(a nod to the Packard)
I thought it was Noonan tailing me.
KOENIG
Bradley's greatest stroke was
enlisting you to his side.
Junior, jumpy in my periphery. I don't like it.
ME (CONT'D)
Wilhite ran Magdalena for you, not
Narco.
KOENIG
When did you know?
116.
ME
I didn't. I had a feeling. I
smelled cover-up all over Hector's
disappearance and Wilhite wouldn't
have the muscle or the mind-set to
kingpin something that big by
himself...you knew about Bradley
trying to buy him out?
KOENIG
He was offering to exonerate Hector
and clear his criminal record.
Hector met with Wilhite and I to
inform us of his decision...
FLASHBACK TO:
94 INT. 1284 SOUTH TREMAINE - PAST 94
For the first and only time, WE SEE Hector Magdalena, alive
and well...for the moment...speaking to Koenig and Wilhite.
KOENIG (V.O.)
...to accept Bradley's deal...
Koenig pets Hector's twin Doberman guard dogs.
KOENIG (V.O.) (CONT'D)
...and although the terms of that
deal worked well for him. I found
them less than favorable...
Koenig draws a silenced pistol and shoots both dogs before
shooting a shocked Hector twice in the chest. Wilhite
staggers to his feet as Koenig steps over and delivers the
coup de grace head-shot to Hector.
KOENIG
Darktown. Chavez Ravine. Hot Spots
for Human Vice. These are slums I
run & profit from. If these slums
suddenly become Stadiums, that
profit goes elsewhere...that crime
goes elsewhere.
ME
Bradley...you two got greed in
common.
Koenig grins. Junior keeps shifting. Dying to shoot him dead.
117.
ME
You knew about Wilhite and Lucille.
That's how you were operating him.
KOENIG
I was aware of his sexual
predilections.
ME
(a scowl for Junior)
...and someone else's...
KOENIG
(that great white grin )
We share an eye for human frailty
and we're both born blackmailers
Dave.
(beat)
I knew young Stemmons here had a
fondness for Lads, stretching back
to his days at the academy.
ME
And now you're his only ally.
(back at Junior)
This sad queer who fell out with
cops and flunked out with the Feds.
(back to Koenig)
So you get this file to battle
Bradley with. What's Junior get in
return?
And like he was waiting for those words: Junior lunges. I
twist to deflect but he's too fast -- feel something sink and
drag in my side. I go down, gouge/groping for my gun. Instant
trauma zaps nerves numb up the arm, fingers failing. Then a
pain like boiling oil moves through my blood.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
JUST YOU! YOU FUCK!
Look down, SEE: A mother-of-pearl knife hilt in my side, the
business end stuck deep. Junior laughing as I fall to my
knees. He pulls the file from the waist and tosses my .45.
JUNIOR STEMMONS (CONT'D)
(two inches from my face)
THERE'S YOUR KNIFE KLEIN!
Koenig takes the file, opening it.
118.
KOENIG
(turning his back)
I don't want to watch...I'm sorry
it came to this, Dave.
Junior, his own .45 pulled, put to my head.
JUNIOR STEMMONS
I hope the Bledsoe whore was worth
it...'cuz she's still fucked. For a
crooked cop, you think small.
Koenig reads the file's first page, lifts it...a blank page
behind...and behind that one...
ME (V.O.)
Whatever moves I had left...I just
made.
Koenig spins back, more blank pages spilling from the file.
KOENIG
This isn't it!
-Junior looks: that's all I need. Pull the pig-sticker off my
ankle and corkscrew it into his calf, twisting. Junior bleats
slaughtered-lamb as I reach up a wrench his gun free. Grab
his tie, pull him down as I jut his gun up under his chin and
fire two shots through the top of his head.
Haul him down dead by his tie, turn -- Koenig's gun-hand
flashes to his shoulder. Shoot him twice. He goes down
gargling `fuck'. Stand-up on me sea-legs, bad wobble/weave as
I slowly pull the knife from my side, pocket it. Feel blood
flow saturate my pant leg. This weird wooze overcomes me as I
approach Koenig.
He pulls himself into a sitting position, shaking his head.
This bemused, beaten, half-grin as he flicks blood from his
hand like his fingers had just brushed something sticky.
KOENIG
Poorly played Dave...poorly
played...
Say nothing. Keep Junior's .45 out. My intention crystal
clear: endgame. Koenig looks up, this odd squint, like a bum
about to beg for change.
KOENIG
Could I talk you into something?
Cut you in on something?
119.
Give him no hope.
ME
Won't work for me Fritz.
He nods, remorse, resignation...it at all looks the same now.
KOENIG
Give me a minute then?
I do. Watch his hands as he removes his shoes, waiting for an
ankle grab, his back-up piece...none comes. He sets his shoes
aside, gazing up at the starless sky before issuing this
short, gruff laugh...some inside joke that will die untold.
KOENIG
(with a nod)
Okay...
...and he holds his last breath and seems completely content
as I shoot him. Cross to Junior now, rifle his clothes,
retrieve a hotel key, Room 16, read it: MOTEL COMMODORE -
1195 Centinela Ave. Inglewood, CA 90302
95 INT. MOTEL COMMODORE - INGLEWOOD - LATE NIGHT 95
George Ainge, sweating on a stained bedsheet, smoking reefer,
goofing on a TV test pattern, randomly pulling at his dick.
Walk by his window, he sees me, recognition kinks -- thinks
this is a good sign...I shoot him right through the glass.
96 EXT. TUDOR MANSION - EARLY A.M. 96
Bradley, roused from sleep, silk robe, coming down the
stairs, his back door wide open. Reaches the landing, turns
on the light.
Feature me, this bobble-eyed ghoul, bloodying his settee. I
look like something exhumed. His monogrammed serving napkins
soak up blood from my knifed side. He startles school-girl.
Throw the file at his feet: marred, mangled, stained. He
inches forward, cinching his robe.
BRADLEY
Who?
ME
Fritz Koenig.
120.
BRADLEY
(going pale)
Where?
ME
Dead. Along with Wilhite,
Junior...and Hector Magdalena.
BRADLEY
Why are you here?
ME
To collect. I have the things you
need to destroy Noonan's play.
These same things can be used to
destroy you.
Bradley, prim, proper, even this early. He sits down across
from me like some fucking Duke.
BRADLEY
Things like?
ME
Stemmons files...and Wilhite's
body. He committed suicide after
you subpoenaed him.
BRADLEY
This body is in your possession?
Just nod.
ME
And it's what you need to burn
Narco to the ground...but if those
files and his body were to be given
to Noonan and the Feds, with me
providing the cherry-on-top
testimony of a rogue cop. Well. The
word `Cataclysmic' comes to mind.
BRADLEY
What will this cost?
ME
A percentage of your Dodger Stadium
stake in perpetuity. You buy my
silence for a fourth of Hurwitz
Holdings.
Bradley scoffs, pithy smile.
121.
BRADLEY
Doubtful.
ME
What'd you expect? A stick-up?
Empty your safe? I'm about to
disappear for good, and you're
gonna fund my new life. You can't
counter-punch out of this. Arrest
me and I snitch the world.
(point to the file)
I'll hold that over your head for
the rest of your life. Renege on
our deal and it won't matter if
it's tomorrow or ten years from
now...I'll fry you with that file.
(at my cracked Hamilton)
I'm officially outta time now
Chief. Call it.
Bradley: an actual, full-blown facial tic. His Adam's apple
bobs as he realizes that he's finally been beaten.
BRADLEY
Wilhite's body...Bury it.
97 INT. PETE'S CADILLAC - MORNING 97
Cruising up the Topanga Canyon. Almost home...
ME (V.O.)
Shaking to see her, touch her...
98 EXT. BUNGALOW - MORNING 98
Door locked. Knocking. Pete opens up. Standing drunk. A
pissed-off nod.
99 INT. BUNGALOW - NEXT MOMENT 99
Liquor wafts off of him.
ME
You go to bed drunk, or just been
up all night.
No answer as I follow him into the house.
KLEIN
Where's Glenda, is she asle-
122.
-round the corner: Glenda shaking but refusing to cry. I go
pale: what is this? Somebody to the left, look: Milteer. Look
back at Pete: tears in his bleary eyes as he crushes me with
a right cross.
ME (V.O.)
Seen Pete do this a dozen times and
every time the same thought: God
help me if he ever hits me like
that...
Instant-drop, moan. Glenda screaming.
ME (CONT'D)
Don't kill me.
Pete looks to Milteer, wipes blurred eyes.
MILTEER
The harder you hit him the quicker
I say `stop' -- and cease that
absurd crying.
Pete bludgeons me. I try to get closer to Glenda. Feel my
nose shatter. Another swing: right cheek detonates. A left
hook to take advantage of my momentum: left eye explodes.
Glenda's crying/screaming gets me madder than anything.
GLENDA BLEDSOE
(at Milteer)
THAT IMPOTENT SHIT-
MILTEER
-touch me and he dies.
Pete knocks me down again. My face in pieces.
MILTEER (CONT'D)
Kick him-kick him-kick him.
Pete hesitates, puts his boot into my guts: 1, 2, 3-
MILTEER (CONT'D)
(prim, official)
-you may stop.
(beat, for the room)
Howard determined that this was the
price for your time together.
Milteer produces a Polaroid, takes a snapshot of my shattered
husk, hands the camera to Pete on his way out:
123.
MILTEER
You still have a job.
Milteer gone. I spit volumes of blood. I'll talk with a slur
for the next year. Pete reaches for me, blotto, sobbing.
PETE
...I'm sorry Dave...
Pushing out words past shattered teeth.
ME
I put you here...that Powerhawk-
PETE
-there's a body in the trunk-
ME
-burn it.
Big drunk nod from Pete. Glenda panicking, trying to stanch
blood that keeps rushing. Pete, reeling drunk, leans down,
stuffs something in my jacket.
PETE
I'm so sorry....
100 INT. SHOWER - TIME UNKNOWN 100
Steaming water. Almost painful. I sit in the tub, let the
shower rain down. Drain floods diluted red. Wash my wounds,
my soul. So many bruises I look bubonic. My face still
swelling, already purple-black. My left eye more than swollen
shut. On the other side of the curtain:
Glenda naked. Beauty that catches in my chest. Try to stand,
turn my destroyed face. She gently pushes me back down. Sits
into me, holds my face in both hands so that the water hits
my lips. No nerves, no unease. Home. She closes the curtain.
101 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT 101
Post-coital. Both wide awake. Still scared.
GLENDA
Let me take you to a hospital.
ME
We'd never make it inside.
124.
GLENDA
(big beat)
I'm worried.
ME
I'm through the worst of it.
She frames my face with her hands.
GLENDA
I don't believe you.
Lies will only leak, expose. The silence makes me just as
guilty. She lets me off the hook, her head on my arm, leaning
in. I kiss her.
GLENDA (CONT'D)
(at a whisper)
Was I worth this?
ME
Whatever the cost.
GLENDA
Just like that then?
ME
Just like that.
A nod. An understanding. Another kiss, the last one I'll
remember.
102 INT. COLD WATER CANYON BUNGALOW KITCHEN - BLACK A.M. 102
Head shaved. Stopped bleeding. You clearly see what my face
will look like 25 years hence. Gauze over my left eye.
Reading the Paper: my dress-blue photo, the one that looks
nothing like me now. Headline:
`LAPD Officer Wanted in Connection with
Recent Rash of Murders...U.S. Attorney
Welles Noonan issued a nationwide warning
to law enforcement...'
ME (V.O.)
My deadline with Noonan: two days
old. He and Bradley playing chess
by press release.
(MORE)
125.
ME (V.O.) (cont'd)
Bradley relocates the deaths of
Captain Fritz Koenig and Sergeant
Richard Stemmons to Chavez
Ravine...both given posthumous
Medals of Valor. Junior dies a hero
after all.
INSERT: TELEVISION SCREEN
Bradley: Professorial in glasses and pinstripes, mid-press
conference. Watch him work...a statesman's guile.
ME (V.O.)
Cop-killings clear the way for
Bradley's "Redeem The Ravine'
mandate. Dodger Stadium
construction moves forward.
(beat)
Captain Dan Wilhite and Hector
Magdalena. Missing. APB's issued.
Bradley's press fodder cast them as
`outlaw cop and drug dealer' who
most likely fled to Mexico. Narco
under a full-blown, Bradley-led
investigation.
BRADLEY (ON SCREEN)
...police unit run amok, who's long
tradition of graft, does not extend
to other divisions of the LAPD...
103 INT. BEDROOM - BLACK A.M. 103
Just sit and watch Glenda. Listen to her sleep: rhythmic
breathing. The little natural smiling curl to her lips.
Blonde hair splayed over white sheets. Touch her.
ME (V.O.)
I haven't loved you long enough to
leave it all behind...Too many
enemies. Too many ways for you to
get hurt. Too close to me...a
decision that will haunt me the
rest of my days...
The Gillette knife, fold it in a kerchief, gift-wrap it to
Glenda. Place a letter under it on the night stand:
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
"My Heaven: the hours I had with
you. My Hell: the years ahead,
without. Someday I'll see you
before you even know I'm looking."
126.
I stand quiet, `grief' the best word but still not enough.
Choke back tears as I lift Pete's camera and take the black
and white picture you've seen before.
Put my jacket on, pull the paper out of my pocket that Pete
planted...a TWA Airline voucher. I smile small...
FLASHBACK TO:
PETE
...be nice to be in with a
billionaire who's got a fleet of
planes, fly you outta the country
on short notice...
RETURN TO:
104 INT. LAX - MORNING 104
A Times vending machine: paper blazing with front page photos
of wanted cop Dave Klein. I walk right past my old face. Past
Cops and Feds camped out, looking for me.
ME (V.O.)
Pete's penance beating built me a
brand new face...nobody gives me a
second glance...not even the cops I
recognize.
Up to the TWA counter: glance up at the departures board-
BLACK.
Legend: Recife, Brazil, 1978
105 INT. HILLSIDE VILLA - MORNING 105
I'm old. Stare at my leather-tan, once-broken face in a
gilded mirror. The breaks occurred a lifetime ago, healed
uneven. I start to pack my suitcases. Old files you think you
may have seen before. An old gun you know you've seen before.
Movements slow and steady in my advancing age...
ME (V.O.)
My will to remember. My confession
complete. Still not enough.
(beat)
Post-scripts.
(MORE)
127.
ME (V.O.) (cont'd)
Me: gringo exile rich off funds
from Stadium Parking lots. Meg and
Pete: still married. Three boys.
Boyce Bradley: Lt. Governor, then a
Gubernatorial primary loser to some
chump who acted in Chimp movies.
Welles Noonan, convicted of jury
tampering in `64. Prison suicide in
`66. Howard Hughes: a shut-in
shitting in coffee-cans at the
Vegas Hilton.
(beat)
George Ainge: body found, murder
unsolved. Madge Magdalena, liver
failure in `68. Lucille Magdalena:
Mother of five.
Look back down at HER picture.
ME (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Glenda: twenty-five years avoiding
her name. Only a photograph,
yellowed with years-passed,
reminding me of everything I never
was.
(beat)
Then a week-old Times at the place
I buy coffee. Her picture sees me
before I realize she's looking. Her
Face eternal-beautiful...
Put her photo in my chest pocket. Push the week-old Times
into a waste-basket: a Pan-Am ticket to LA underneath.
ME (V.O.)
...and it asked me to revoke our
time apart, redeem it...tell her
anything...tell her everything...
I stand, shatter the mirror that reminds me of how long. And
as I step out, an old man twenty-five years too late, and my
MGM-handsome, 1958 face smiles back at me through the shards.
WHITE JAZZ
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