"THE PUBLIC EYE" Screenplay by Howard Franklin SHOOTING DRAFT FADE IN: BEGIN TITLES In murky light, a piece of paper sinks in a shallow tin tub. By degrees, faces and forms appear on the page: a swooning woman, (circa 1940) a cop who tries to catch her, a crowd of onlookers standing in the shadows of a tenement house in the aftermath of a murder. Before the photograph has completely developed, it seems to fade in a dreamy DISSOLVE TO: Another submerged page. A new images begins to appear: a thick-ankled stripper (again, 1940) sleeping between shows in her dingy dressing room. Before it has fully developed, this photo also DISSOLVES TO: A new page on which appears a billboard attached to a burning building. It advertises a 1930's sunburn medication: "Put out the flames with SunzoCaine!" Painted flames rises from a sunbather's burnt back, mixing with the real ones. We continue sensuously to DISSOLVE THROUGH black and white, high-contrast photos as they come hauntingly to life (all of them depicting New York, at night, in the late 30's or early 40's) till we END TITLES. We PAN TO the dim red darkroom bulb, under which we begin to hear a faint siren and DISSOLVE TO: ...another red bulb, this one atop a patrol car. EXT./INT. POLICE CAR [APRIL, 1942] - NIGHT We hear a Dispatcher's monotonous voice over a hissing police radio. DISPATCHER (V.O.) Signal 30. Two-three-six Thompson Street. Inside the car, the Young Cop who's driving angles forward in his seat, pressing heavily on the gas. His older partner stares forward, blankly. CUT TO: EXT. 236 THOMPSON STREET - SAME A respectable working-class block. Neighbors are clustered by the stoop in robes, pajamas, undershirts. A woman with young children holds them to her nightgown. All watch as The Cops pull up by the curb and rush from their squadcar. They push their way through the crowd. TEENAGER (in an undershirt, grinning) Third floor. The Cops continue into the building. INT. STAIRWELL - 236 THOMPSON The Cops move stealthfully up the dim stairwell, guns drawn. On the third-floor landing, a door is ajar. Light spills out onto the floorboards. As they ascend, the Cops can see the corpse of a smartly dressed young man inside: It lies face down, its features rudely pressed and bloody against the floor. A freshly-blocked hat lies a few feet from the dead man; he was shot as he came home. On the landing, the Cops move carefully to the door, hugging the wall. They hear someone moving inside the apartment. They freeze, barely breathing. The older Cop cocks his gun, crosses himself, wraps his hand around the doorframe. He jumps into THE APARTMENT crouching, gun drawn. A crackling, blistering sound is heard as a flash of light fills the room, blinding him. COP (blinking as he stands) Jesus. REVERSE: A flashbulb hits the floor hollowly. BERNZY (whose real name is Leon Bernstein and whose professional name is "The Great Bernzini") inserts a new bulb in the giant chrome flash attachment of his Speed Graphic press camera. A cigar is planted in the corner of his mouth. Bernzy cuts a curious figure: He wears an oddly oversized suit that has capacious pockets to accommodate camera lenses, film plates and flashbulbs. His thick-soled shoes are sensible to a fault. He wears a hat but no tie. His face is alert and ironic, his movements rapid and purposeful. BERNZY (to the Cop, deadpan) You scared me. He reaches into his jacket to extract a new 4 x 5 glass film plate (from a bag of plates hung over his shoulder) with a well-practised, unhurried speed. The older cop, O'BRIEN, is annoyed; his comment sounds like an accusation. O'BRIEN We weren't six blocks from here when it come over the radio. Bernzy is lining up another shot; he speaks from behind both cigar and camera. BERNZY I killed him. To get the pictures. The Young Cop has entered. Bernzy waves him back. BERNZY You're casting a shadow. He backs up, obligingly. Bernzy takes his shot. The Young Cop kneels by the corpse. He finds a gun in the waist-band of its suit trousers. YOUNG COP (to O'Brien) Second one this week. O'BRIEN (to Bernzy) Who'd this guy work for, Bernzy? But Bernzy hears a car pulling up outside, a car door slamming. He peers down into the street through the window. BERNZY'S POV: Another Photographer is arriving. He crosses the street, lugging a press camera. O'BRIEN Bernzy! BERNZY I think Farinelli. But he's not lookin' his best tonight... Could you move his hat closer? O'BRIEN What? BERNZY His hat. The hat. People like to see a dead guy's hat. O'Brien grudgingly picks up the hat, drops it closer to the corpse. The flashbulb fires. CUT TO: EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT Bernzy, in the alley alongside the building, is hunched over the open trunk of his sedan on a camp stool. The car trunk has been turned into a darkroom. The truck lamp has been replaced with a darkroom bulb. A drying line is suspended over a shallow tub. (Also in the trunk are two dozen boxes of Wabash super-flash photo lamps, an open box of cigars, a pot of glue, various cameras and lenses, and a tiny, battered typewriter.) Bernzy looks up into the apartment window as the explosion of a flashbulb-fills the window. Bernzy unpins four nearly dry photos on the line, fans them in the air, lays them face down on the trunk floor, and stamps their backs with his identifying imprint: Deco lettering is surround by the stamped outline of an eye, like something on an optometrist's sign. Around the upper and lower lids of the eye it says "CREDIT PHOTO TO - THE GREAT BERNZINI". In the center of the eye it says "THE PUBLIC EYE" He slams the trunk shut. CUT TO: INT. DAILY NEWS BUILDING - NIGHT CLOSE ON a Daily News check, made out to Leon Bernstein. On a stub, the check is carefully accounted for. 1 Corpse (2 bullets @ $1.50 each)............$3.00 Bernzy, riding down in an elevator, folds the check into his pocket. INT. DAILY NEWS LOBBY The elevator doors open, Bernzy steps out. The Photographer we saw leaving Thompson St. steps into the lobby. He only has to see Bernzy to know he's too late. PHOTOGRAPHER Shit. CUT TO: INT./EXT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREET - NIGHT Bernzy drives, his eyes intently scanning the nighttime street. A steady, low hiss is emitted from a police radio, that is gerry-rigged under his dusty dashboard, swaying on its wires. A metal plate on the radio says FOR POLICE VEHICLES ONLY. Bernzy's Speed Graphic, with flash, sits on the seat next to him. As Bernzy reads every shadow and doorway for potential pictures, We see what he sees out the window (buildings and people) in black and white, slightly overcranked: the POV of Bernzy's trained eye. CUT TO: INT. TENEMENT HALLWAY - NIGHT On the landing of the stairwell, a young Puerto Rican Woman wails hysterically as two Cops try to calm her down. She's in her nightgown. A flashbulb fires over her. The narrow stairway is packed with Policemen and Puerto Rican neighbors in their T-shirts, pajamas and robes. A COP leads two Ambulance Attendants, with a stretcher, up the stairs shouting as he goes. COP Clear the way, get back, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon -- Now he passes Bernzy, near the top of the stairs -- COP Bernzy, clear outta here. Bernzy is taken aback -- BERNZY But I hear this guy's walkin' around with a meat cleaver in his head -- ! -- as if it's every man's God-given right to photograph such a rare sight. COP Get the Hell out. As the Cop heads into the Woman's apartment, he speaks to the ambulance Attendants, but looks at Bernzy as he does so. COP Throw a sheet over him. The Cop is suspiciously keen to thwart Bernzy: Bernzy smells something. He turns to a Puerto Rican MAN, the next door neighbor, who watches in his T-shirt and boxers. BERNZY Who is this guy, anyway? MAN (Puerto Rican accent) Working for the Mayor. Visits at night. Bernzy sizes up the elements of the tragedy as the Orderlies bring the victim out of the apartment. He looks at the hysterical mistress and then at her victim/paramour, who is covered with a sheet, but moving (with a comically high protrusion where the meat cleaver is lodged). Bernzy -- his eyes as keen as a fox's -- takes a last look at the covered stretcher -- not a good picture -- then heads quickly down the stairs. EXT. TENEMENT HOUSE - NIGHT Bernzy opens the cavernous trunk of his car. He sorts through a cigar box containing various tools of the photographer's trade, including a scissors he uses to crop prints. He picks up the scissors. He strips off his coat. CUT TO: EXT. TENEMENT HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER The Attendants load the stretcher into the back of the waiting limousine. People watch, Bernzy not among them. One of the Attendants climbs in back, the other gets in the front, next to the Driver. The ambulance pulls out. Siren. INT. AMBULANCE - SAME Bernzy sits in the back of the ambulance. He has cut a square in the back of his jacket collar, then put the jacket on backwards, to simulate a clerical collar. BERNZY (to the Attendant) Better uncover him, son. The Attendant complies. We don't see the corpse, but the handle of the meat cleaver juts up ludicrously into the frame and it moves back and forth as the victim moans. Even Bernzy is taken aback. BERNZY Jesus. Not the thing a priest would say; he crosses himself to cover. Bernzy begins to mutter piously, indecipherably, over the ailing man. He waves something over the man, like a bottle of Holy Water when the last rites are administered. We see what he's waving: a light meter. Still muttering, Bernzy reads the meter. The Attendant looks perplexed -- a dawning realization. ATTENDANT ...Wait a second. From his oversized pocket, Bernzy withdraws a 35 mm camera. He gets his shot fast, before the Attendant can react. SHOCK CUT TO: EXT. STREET - NIGHT A Man in a hat watches as the ambulance comes to an abrupt halt. The Man watches as The back doors open and a "priest" spills out -- half leaping, half pushed. The "priest" lands on his ass in the street (careful to protect his camera) as the Attendant slams the ambulance doors. The ambulance takes off again. The "priest," unfazed, dusts himself off as he hails a cab with a cheerful serious determination. BERNZY Taxi! As the cab squeals away with the "priest", the Man in the hat wonders what he just saw. CUT TO: INT. PHOTO DESK - DAILY MIRROR - NIGHT A photo editor, EDDY, studies the picture of the meat-cleaver victim (we don't see it). EDDY This is a new low, even for you, Bernzy. BERNZY Flatter me all you want. It's still twenty dollars. EDDY You got a release on this guy? BERNZY You got a spirit medium on staff? EDDY You checked with the hospital? Bernzy nods. Eddie opens the big ledger-style checkbook, starts to write the check. BERNZY Didn't even make it to Bellvue, poor bastard. Thank God I was able to administer his last rites. CUT TO: INT. ALL-NIGHT DRUGSTORE - NIGHT In black and white, overcranked, we watch a Sailor and his Girl necking in the rear-booth of a drugstore. WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S.) That's not very polite. At normal speed, in color, we see Bernzy, sitting at a booth near the counter of the drugstore, staring at the young couple. He has a cup of coffee, a plate of eggs and his camera on the table. Bernzy, caught staring, looks up at the WOMAN. WOMAN I know what it's like. I work nights myself. She takes a seat across from Bernzy. She has plain, well-scrubbed features, and wears a raincoat. A Nurse and a Doctor are at the next booth. BERNZY Professional interest... (he puts the camera to his eye) See? WOMAN (ignoring this) Break-time comes, there's nobody to talk to, you feel lonely, right? (a beat) How much you got on you? Bernzy looks at her a beat before picking up the camera again. He shoots the Girl and the Sailor, rather than answer her. BERNZY 'Tomorrow He Sails' -- That's the caption. WOMAN C'mon, how much? There's no harm in it. BERNZY My wife wouldn't like it. Bernzy throws a dollar on the table, collects his camera: he's in a hurry to get away. Meantime: WOMAN Honey, you're not married and you don't have a girl: I saw how you were looking at those two. Bernzy gets up to go. WOMAN Your socks don't even match. He pretends not to hear her, as he heads for the door. She Calls after him, with a plaintive sweetness. WOMAN Oh, c'mon -- come back!... It's lonely out there! CUT TO: INT./EXT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREET - NIGHT Bernzy drives, his gaze unflagging. The Dispatcher monotonously intones a series of drab numbers on the hissing radio. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAY The police radio continues to hiss, O.S., without interruption, as we pan Bernzy, asleep on top of his bed. He's curled up in his clothes. Still panning, we see the apartment. It's exceedingly cluttered -- as unkempt and eccentric as its occupant. The shades are drawn against daylight. On the crowded table Bernzy uses for a desk, there is a payroll check from Time, Inc.: TWO MURDERS. . . . . .$35.00 Pinned to the bulletin board over the desk, there are covers from the New York Daily News, Mirror, World-Telegram, Post, Sun and Journal-American, all featuring Bernzy's photos of classic tabloid subjects: fires, corpses, handcuffed hoods. Piled against a wall are two four-foot-tall stacks of cigar boxes with masking tape labels across their front flaps. These are marked with laundry pencil: "Vagrants," "Drunks," "Strippers," "Rich & Poor," "Coney Island," "Gangsters - Dead," "Miscellaneous Crowds," "Bowery - Night," "Gangsters - Live." Still panning, we see a series of photos clothes-pinned to a laundry line. They show the Bum, sleeping in the box: he seems isolated and diminished in the high contrast of the Speed Graphic photo -- a bright island in a sea of blackness. Pulling back from the photo we see the photos of the curled up bum in the foreground and Bernzy curled up on his bed in the near distance, the police radio on his nightstand. We begin to hear Big Band music over the hissing as we CUT TO: EXT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT We hear the Big Band music as we see a red awning lettered LOU LEVITZ'S CAFE SOCIETY. It shows the club's trademark since the 30's: a squat coffee cup (a remnant of Prohibition, when gin was served in the guise of legal beverages). On the sidewalk outside the polished revolving doors, there is a crush of out-of-towners who wait to enter, dressed in their best. But they'll never be let in. A few Tabloid Photographers, behind a velvet rope, grip their big cameras, waiting for celebrities to come or go. One of them spots Bernzy as he threads his way through the crowd. PHOTOGRAPHER Hey, Bernzy, y'just missed Eleanor Roosevelt French-kissin' the Aga Kahn. BERNZY (still moving) I'll catch 'em inside. PHOTOGRAPHER That'll be the day. Bernzy approaches the beefy Irish doorman, in red livery, who mans the ropes. DOORMAN Behind the ropes, Bernstein. Bernzy parks his cigar in his mouth and extracts a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his ill-fitting suit. The Doorman reads a handwritten note on Lou Levitz's personal stationery. In a woman's hand: "Danny, Please direct Mr. Bernstein to my office, Mrs. Levitz." As the Doorman reads, a patrician-looking Couple in evening clothes push their way to the front. DOORMAN Evening, Mister-missus Armstrong. The Doorman lifts the rope. Mr. Armstrong slips him a bill as they pass through. Bernzy starts to follow, but the Doorman hooks the rope before he can pass. He looks over at the other Photographers, as he hands Bernzy back the note. DOORMAN Kitchen door. Check the camera. CUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT The band music swells, O.S., as the kitchen door swings open and a Waiter exits, tray in hand. It stays open as a Chinese Bus Boy points Bernzy in the direction of the hat check, across the front of the club. CAFE SOCIETY - HAT CHECK Bernzy, all eyes in this New York Mecca, takes up the claim ticket for his camera, steps down into CAFE SOCIETY - MAIN ROOM The big band plays on a bandstand, raised and set back from the tables. A black SINGER is performing, whose double entendres and risque stage manner lend a cultivated air of the illicit to things. In Cafe Society, as in The Stork Club or El Morocco, the seating arrangements clearly denote the "importance" of guests: The dreaded Outer Circle belongs to rich but garrulous businessmen with flashy dates or wives in furs. The Middle Circle is for show biz types, pretty women, professionals, the up-and-coming. The coveted Inner Circles comprises the well-born and the famous, e.g., Social Register types, stars of Broadway, prize-fighters and movie stars. Every table has a white cloth, a red rose and a ceramic ashtray that says LOU LEVITZ'S CAFE SOCIETY. Those who eat eat steaks or chops. Everyone drinks champagne or Scotch. Everyone smokes. Bernzy's eyes drink in the rich atmosphere. They seem to be taking photographs without benefit of a camera: DOYENNE WITH GIGOLO, FAT MAN OGLING CIGARETTE GIRL, ACTRESS IN SUNGLASSES, etc., again through the black and white of Bernzy's trained eye, overcranked. The MAITRE D' approaches Bernzy, intending to evict him; his eyes scornfully size up Bernzy's clothes, his overall demeanour. He has an Italian accent. MAITRE D' You have reservations, sir? BERNZY I can see you got some. The Italian looks at him, utterly perplexed by the idiom. BERNZY Forget it. Bernzy shows him the note from Kay. Recovering from his gaffe, the Maitre d' bows his head graciously. He crosses to a section at the back of the room where The club's Hostess -- a beauty -- is pointing out salient features of the room to a delegation of men in business suits (not evening clothes.) She charms them all with some witty remark. As they laugh, the Maitre d' points out Bernzy. She excuses herself, crosses to Bernzy. She looks impossibly elegant next to him, or he looks impossibly unkempt next to her. KAY Thanks for coming, Mr. Bernstein. BERNZY Bernzy. KAY (Mrs. Lou) LEVITZ is in her early 30's, a dancer/actress plucked from some show or chorus by her husband years ago, now groomed like a rich lady. Bernzy follows her toward a set of stairs at the back of the club. As they move, she looks across at the men in suits. KAY Those're Publicity men from the War Department. They wanna shoot a newsreel in here for War Bonds. INT. NIGHTCLUB OFFICE - SAME They enter. She closes the door behind them. The music is still audible from downstairs, but muted. A professional Hostess, in full control of her charm, she immediately crosses to a drinks caddy and pours him a Scotch. KAY There's never been a camera inside. Lou always said "It's like Heaven, that way: they're dyin' to see it." Bernzy smiles, but he looks ill-at-ease, holding his hat. The back wall of the office has a big curtained window that looks down on the nightclub. Memorabilia lines the other walls. Bernzy is studying a photo-portrait of Kay -- a professional glamour shot from her show business days. He looks at a framed photo of Kay with the late Lou Levitz -- squat, bald, nattily dressed. She hands him the Scotch and indicates the short couch. KAY Please. He sits at one end. She sits at the other. The shabbiness of his clothes is especially apparent in these sleek surroundings. He's still uncomfortable. It shows. KAY Is everything alright, Bernzy? BERNZY I'm still in shock. She doesn't understand... BERNZY If I'd of snuck in, I'd feel more comfortable. KAY (a slow smile) Me too. Half the people down there feel more sure they belong than I do. Now he smiles, half-disbelieving. He takes a cigar out of his pocket. BERNZY You mind? KAY (she shakes her head) Lou told me you know everybody in New York, Bernzy: all the crooks and all the cops... He shrugs modestly as he unwraps his cheap cigar. KAY And he said you never take sides, because all you care about is getting pictures: taking sides might get in the way. Please -- take one of Lou's. They're just going t'hell here. She opens a humidor on the coffee table and takes out a big Cuban. As she hands it to him, she seems to study him. BERNZY Thanks. KAY I guess you've read about Lou's brother contesting the will. If Lou'd've wanted to leave Cafe Society to a rug salesman, he'd of left it to him. BERNZY He sells toupees? or carpets. KAY It's hard to tell. He smiles, she smiles... She grows more serious. KAY People say some pretty lousy things about me, Bernzy: she's a cold-hearted girl who married and buried an old man. You've heard that? Bernzy looks at her. He shrugs. KAY I loved my husband. I love this place. It's mine now... It's mine. She seems to want some affirmation of this fact. BERNZY Right. It's yours, now. She gets up abruptly and walks to the window overlooking the club. She draws back the curtain with her hand. KAY D'you know this man? He joins her at the window. He looks down: A young, dark-faced Man, whose heavy, thuggish features contrast with the fine cut of his suit, sits at a table with a woman in decolette. They laugh in an ugly way. BERNZY Never saw him. I'd take a stab in the dark he ain't Society League. On the desk blotter, Kay finds a legal paper, then comes back to the window. KAY He says he was my husband's partner. She hands him the pages. A vulgar, gilt embossed business card is clipped to the top page with a name -- EMILIO PORTIFINO -- and an East Side address. KAY He says Lou owed him money, and now he's my partner. BERNZY Never heard of him. KAY (disappointed) No?... Bernzy shakes his head. KAY Lou didn't need money -- BERNZY (examining the pages) 'Offered as collateral in exchange for services rendered.' KAY -- and he didn't keep secrets from me. BERNZY How would you know? KAY Hm? BERNZY I mean if they're secrets. He smiles. KAY You know how it is -- when you're intimate with someone. Bernzy's smile freezes; he doesn't know. BERNZY Yeah, right. KAY I know Lou bootlegged in the old days. Who didn't? And I know every booking agent who comes in here isn't strictly on the up and up. But Lou was a reputable businessman. BERNZY This is his signature? She nods. She looks out the window, again, at Portifino. KAY He's here every night, not ten feet from the Governor or Walter Winchell. BERNZY Couldn't you just -- ? KAY Throw him out? I want to. But he says he'll go to my brother-in-law, and help him prove Lou's will is invalid. BERNZY Is it? KAY No! but -- I'm a second wife, there aren't any women in this business, and we both know what people say about me. I can't take the chance. As she looks out the window, staring at Portifino, she bites her lip, fretfully -- nothing like the cool elegant hostess she was on the floor of the club. This unnerves Bernzy. If she's just acting (vulnerable) she's doing a good job. BERNZY (clearing his throat) I could find out who he is. She takes his hand in hers. KAY Please. He looks at his hand in hers. Either feeling that she is being over-emotional, or sensing he is uncomfortable being touched, she lets go of him, grows more matter-of-fact. KAY I really don't know what's appropriate, but I'd like to pay you someth -- BERNZY No. KAY I just thought -- He shakes his head. A beat. BERNZY Danny, downstairs, 'suggested' I come in through the back. Looking at Bernzy, she can understand why the Doorman insisted: anybody could. KAY I'm sorry. I'll talk to him about it... He nods. This doesn't seem like quite enough. KAY Why don't you stay and have dinner? She indicates the club, below. BERNZY It's alright. (he smiles, starts to exit) It ain't that big a favor. KAY Next time, then. BERNZY (as he goes out) Yeah, right. CUT TO: CAFE SOCIETY - MAIN FLOOR - LATER Bernzy, rather amazed, wearing a half-smile, stands waiting for his camera at the hat-check, looking out over the club. He looks up to the office window where Kay stands, looking down, smoking unhappily. Bernzy's smile fades: he's enjoying this too much. CUT TO: EXT./INT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/N.Y. STREETS - NIGHT Bernzy drives up lower Broadway, his eyes scanning the street, a steady low hiss being emitted by the police radio... CUT TO: EXT. MEAT DISTRICT - NIGHT A Butcher hauls a bloody carcass on his back. He looks over when the flashbulb fires. Bernzy has planted himself among a row of bloody carcasses hanging on hooks to get the shot. EXT./INT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREETS - NIGHT It's nearly dawn. Bernzy is still driving. His jacket is soaked in beef blood. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAWN Bernzy sits at his desk. On it is one of his file boxes, the cigar lid swung open. He's studying a picture from the box. It is of Kay and Lou Levitz, taken at a Broadway opening night. Under it is a typewritten caption that is yellowed with age. It says "Beauty and the Beast." As pins the picture on his bullet board we DISSOLVE TO: INT. BERNZY'S APT - AFTERNOON In the bathroom, Bernzy is knotting a necktie, quickly but poorly. The bathroom is also the kitchen: it has a hotplate and a shelf of canned soup, canned chile, canned spaghetti. The tiny KITCHEN which Bernzy passes on his way out, has been turned into a darkroom. CUT TO: EXT. STREET OUTSIDE BERNZY'S - DAY Bernzy hurries up the street, fidgeting with his tie. He is greeted by TOM HAYWARD, 30, a man in a seersucker suit with a wry manner and an Ivy League air. He holds a furled newspaper under his arm. HAYWARD Bernzy! Just coming to see you. BERNZY I'm late. Walk with me. HAYWARD What's with the tie? Somebody die? BERNZY Not yet. Hayward unfurls the newspaper, a Daily Mirror. The banner headline (no photo) reads: KILL MOTHER IN JERSEY WITH AX. HAYWARD Seen this? BERNZY Your work? HAYWARD Came off the wires. Couple of seventeen-year-old kids in Greenport, New Jersey. They're screwing in the girl's mother's kitchen, when who should walk in but mom. She starts screaming her head off and -- BERNZY Yeah, yeah: everybody already guessed what comes next. HAYWARD The local police won't let anybody near 'em: no pictures, no interviews. BERNZY I don't leave New York. They approach Bernzy's parking garage. A long line of cars extends out into the street, waiting to enter. But Bernzy and Hayward take no notice of it; it's business as usual. INT. GARAGE - SAME Now we see that the cars are queuing for gasoline. In the filling station of the garage's ground floor, a posted sign reads: HAVE YOUR GAS RATION COUPONS READY (No Coupons, No Gas) HAYWARD It's half an hour, over the bridge. (hurrying to keep up) There's gotta be 30 bucks in this for each of us if the wires pick it up. You telling me this thing's paid for already? He drags a finger through the dust atop Bernzy's sedan. As Bernzy thinks about it, Hayward pulls a silver whisky flask from his jacket, unstops it, drinks. BERNZY Alright. Call Greenport. Find out when the D.A.'s in court. Find out when the arresting officer's in the station house. In a two-bit town like this, he might even work the desk. When the cop's in and the D.A.'s out, gimme a call. HAYWARD Thanks, Bernzy. Bernzy gets into the car. HAYWARD Tell me where you're going dressed like that. Bernzy pulls the door shut without answering. CUT TO: INT. EASTSIDE OFFICE BLDG. - UPPER FLOOR CORRIDOR - DAY In a panelled hallway, Bernzy reads the name on an oak door as he adjusts his tie. He goes in; we read the name on the door: H.R. RINEMAN & SONS, PUBLISHERS INT. ANTEROOM - RINEMAN PUBLISHING - SAME Bernzy gives his name to a RECEPTIONIST. RECEPTIONIST Is it a pick-up or a delivery? BERNZY (put out) I have an appointment. The door to the inner offices and a sympathetic bespectacled young man of 24, RICHARD RINEMAN, comes out, pulling into a coat. Bernzy approaches him, smiling. YOUNG RINEMAN (flustered) Mr. Bernstein. How are you. It's my father who'll see you today. I've a doctor's appointment, I'm afraid. Bernzy already suspects something is amiss, but hides it. BERNZY Sure, that's all right. YOUNG RINEMAN (smiling awkwardly) Well, then -- goodbye. He goes out. Bernzy seems to know the same door is going to open again. It does. H.R. RINEMAN appears, an athletically vigorous 60 year old. RINEMAN Mr. Bernstein? INT. RINEMAN'S OFFICE - LATER Rineman leads Bernzy into his book-lined office: all dark wood and rich leather. RINEMAN Now does one call you Mr. Bernstein or Mr. Bernzini? Or is it just Bernzini? BERNZY I was born Leon Bernstein. But I got the name 'The Great Bernzini' from the gals at World-wide, the big photo agency? They said I had t'be a magician to get to so many disasters so fast. RINEMAN That's marvelous. He shows Bernzy to a chair in front of his desk, speaking as he takes his own seat, behind it. RINEMAN I know my son spoke to you optimistically about publishing your book. That's why he wanted me -- why I wanted to speak to you rather than tossing it back into the mail. Bernzy's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly but with a kind of anger: he's suffered this particular humiliation before. Bernzy's book is on Rineman's desk. It's a "dummy book" -- a manuscript made up of stiff pieces of paper onto which photographs, printed on good paper, have been glued, along with captions. The book lies open to a photograph of a black man with an agonized expression, a fire-truck behind him, his face lighted by the unseen flames of his tenement afire. RINEMAN Of course, from a technical point of view, this is fine work, fine work. It's simply that we don't publish books of this type. BERNZY Listen, Mr. Rineman, please don't hand me that -- please -- 'cause everybody knows Rineman & Sons publishes more photograph books than anybody else. RINEMAN (ever gracious) Well, sir, we publish books of photography. And to my mind, this is instead a most admirable picture book about New York. Not an inferior genre, just different. BERNZY No. You're wrong. This is a book of photography. RINEMAN If I may explain -- BERNZY I know what you mean. Still lifes, naked women gettin' out of bath-tubs, fruit on a plate -- it's a photo, but let's pretend it's a painting. We now see a row of tasteful framed photos on the wall behind Rineman, in precisely the style Bernzy describes. They include a woman getting out of her bath and fruit on a plate. BERNZY I know how to do that, too. I really do. But let's face it, you publish enough of them books already. Everybody does. C'mon, Mr. Rineman: show those other guys. This is the book. Bernzy winks. Rineman is appalled by Bernzy's boastfulness, but hides it. RINEMAN May I say you're not being fair to the photographers we do publish -- Dick Arlen, Harold Briley, Val Armbruster. BERNZY I'm sure they're nice guys, but those arty-farty shots are easy to get compared to something like this (he leans over, points to the open book, feature by feature) -- where you got a big shiny fire truck in front of you, and a whole building on fire behind you, so the light's every which way, and mean- time, this poor son-of-a-bitch is watching his life go up -- RINEMAN Really, I don't doubt the difficulties you must've faced... You're technically superb. BERNZY Right. RINEMAN (hiding his distaste again) But what I see here is a batch of pictures that's too -- sensational and too -- vulgar to justify printing a fine book of photography, which is an expensive thing to do. BERNZY What's vulgar, exactly? This guy? or the fire? RINEMAN Since you obviously have great talent, I'd like to suggest that you apply it to a subject matter that -- BERNZY No -- huh-nh, no. RINEMAN (finally letting his impatience show) Please listen, Mr. Bernstein -- ! BERNZY Don't you think I heard this advice before? I just happen to be right about all this, see? Don't you think I'd rather be shooting flowers or beautiful dames than campin' out with corpses? RINEMAN Maybe you should ask yourself. Sensationalism has its allure. It's potent. It can desensitize a man to the beauty of flowers -- or women. BERNZY What're you, a shrink? RINEMAN Hardly. But the men who do what you do don't usually feel the need to rationalize it like you -- much less be celebrated for it. BERNZY Nobody does what I do. Bernzy takes up the book as Rineman watches. He moves to the door, seizes the knob, but pauses. BERNZY I figure your boy really did wanna publish my book. Tell him I won't hold this against him when I have my big retrospective over at the modern art museum. RINEMAN (his interest piqued, now) You're having a show at the Museum of Modern Art? BERNZY Someday. RINEMAN (a thin smile) Oh... (his certitude restored) If you really disdain the publishing establishment so, why do you crave its acceptance? BERNZY Who the hell else is gonna publish a book? He slams the door behind him. CUT TO: INT. POLICE STATION - NIGHT A door opens and a dozen flashbulbs blaze as a young HOOD, handcuffed to a Cop, enters the room. However, the Hood is covering his face with his unchained hand, so nobody gets a shot. Several Photographers, Bernzy not among them, are clustered at the door. PHOTOGRAPHER 1 Give us a shot, son! COP Clear the way! PHOTOGRAPHER 2 C'mon, one picture! The Hood, his face still shielded, kicks blindly in front of him, clearing the way. He is led toward the booking post. BERNZY, meantime, is perched on a Sergeant's desk, as the Sergeant reads over a file. Bernzy watches the commotion with the young Hood with interest but no urgency. SERGEANT There's two guys called Portifino with records. But nobody that age or description. BERNZY No record. SERGEANT Not in New York, anyway. BERNZY (baffled) Hm. Maybe he is Society League. As Bernzy gets up, he gives a few cigars to the Sergeant. BERNZY I gotta go take this kid's picture. The Sergeant scoops the cigars into his desk drawer. He looks over at the snarling, defiant Hood. SERGEANT I don't think he wants it took. BERNZY (taking up his camera) Everybody likes to have his picture took. Bernzy approaches the Hood, whose handcuffs have been removed so that he may be fingerprinted. He still covers his face. BERNZY Listen, kid. HOOD Fuck off. COP (to the Hood) Can you write? The Hood nods. COP Sign this. The Hood takes the pen and signs the form, still careful to keep his face concealed. BERNZY You ever heard of The Great Bernzini? I shot Dutch Schultz, Legs Diamond -- these guys never covered their face from me. HOOD I said fuck off. BERNZY I get everybody's picture, while he's alive or after... I ain't met the guy yet looks better after. HOOD (after a beat) You that freak, drives around in a sedan all night? BERNZY That's me. HOOD I heard about you. BERNZY In your line of work, I'm the photographer to the stars. HOOD Yeah, yeah, I heard of you. Them other creeps around? Bernzy looks over to make sure the other Photographers have given up. BERNZY They're over there, smoking. The Hood uncovers his face. The police have worked him over. He has a mean cut under one eye. He gives Bernzy his fiercest, most defiant post. Bernzy squeezes the shutter. When the flash fires, all the other Photographers look over quickly. But the Hood has covered his face, again. BERNZY Thanks. HOOD Fuck off. CUT TO: EXT. EAST SIDE - NIGHT In his parked car, Bernzy reads Portifino's gilt business card under the dashboard light, then looks out at Portifino's residence: A high-priced building with a Moderne facade and a Doorman. Bernzy gets out, tosses his cigar away, stows his camera in the trunk, crosses and enters. INT. BUILDING LOBBY - SAME We watch from outside the glass as Bernzy speaks to the Doorman, bribes him, is directed to the elevator. INT. HALLWAY - SAME Bernzy comes off the elevator, heads down the hallway to APT 7G. The door is barely ajar; a sliver of light falls through the crack, onto the hallway carpet. Bernzy rings the bell. No response. He rings again. Waiting he glances downward casually -- BERNZY Whoops. A shimmering dark ribbon of blood seeps under the doorway. Bernzy pushes the door open a few inches before it hits something solid. He forces the door another few inches, and pulls himself through the opening. INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. - SAME The luxury apartment has a few pieces of furniture and some unopened boxes in it; Portifino has just moved in. But it is Porfitino who lies dead by the door. He is tangled in piano wire. The wire was rigged around the still-living Portifino so that any movement caused it to dig more deeply into him. He killed himself by dragging himself to the door to seek help. Bernzy goes to the telephone, dials a number. VOICE (O.S.) Precinct. BERNZY Homicide, please. beat. Then a voice: CONKLIN (O.S.) Homicide. Conklin. BERNZY Hey, Conklin, it's Bernzy. CONKLIN (O.S.) What's up, Bernzy? BERNZY I was paying kind of a social call on a guy called Emilio Portifino. There is an odd silence on Conklin's end -- and then an edge to his voice. CONKLIN (O.S.) Yes? BERNZY The guy's been murdered. I'm standin' here in his apartment now. (he glances at the corpse) Professional job. I never saw anything like it. CONKLIN (O.S.) Alright, stay where you are. BERNZY I gotta leave for a few minutes. CONKLIN (O.S.) What? BERNZY Just downstairs, to get my camera. (he looks at the corpse) This is somethin' you don't see alot. CONKLIN (O.S.) No. Stay put! We'll be there in five minutes. BERNZY Alright. The address is one-fifteen -- But the phone clicks off. Bernzy sets down the receiver. He looks at the corpse. BERNZY He knew your address already. He picks up the phone, dials another number. BERNZY Kay Levitz, please... PHONE VOICE (O.S.) Who's calling? BERNZY Leon Bernstein -- Bernzy. INTERCUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT A Waiter plugs in a telephone by a table where Kay chats and laughs with some Society Types. He hands her the telephone. INTERCUT TO: INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. Bernzy looks at the corpse as he speaks on the phone. BERNZY You're not gonna have no more trouble with Portifino in the good seats. INT. CAFE SOCIETY Kay is stunned as the other people at the table laugh gayly, obliviously, around her. KAY He's was what?... My God. Hearing her, one of the Men at the table looks at her. She forces a smile. INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. Bernzy looks at his watch. BERNZY Anything you better tell me? Anything I better know before the cops get here? INT. CAFE SOCIETY At the table, the Man smiles at Kay, again. She smiles back only fleetingly, before shifting in her seat, so she can speak more privately into the phone. KAY Bernzy, all I know about him is what I told you. If you're asking what I think you are -- BERNZY (O.S.) I'm not askin' that... INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. BERNZY The Mob did this guy in, it's obvious. INT. CAFE SOCIETY KAY (weak, as if from a blow) The Mob. INT. PORTIFINO'S APARTMENT Bernzy can hear how upset she is. He wants to say something comforting, but he wants to get his picture. He looks at Portifino. BERNZY Yeah. Alright, look, I -- I'll be in touch. I gotta go. CUT TO: INT. PORTIFINO'S BLDG. - 7TH FLR HALLWAY - LATER CONKLIN, in a suit, comes swiftly off the elevator, with two Uniformed Cops and a Man in a gray suit and hat behind him. INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. - SAME Bernzy, having ignored Conklin's request, stands over the corpse, taking a picture. He smokes a cigar. Conklin and the others burst in. Conklin leads the man in the suit to Bernzy as the others set to work, dusting for finger-prints, etc. BERNZY (taking another picture) Conklin. CONKLIN (to the man in the suit) Mr. Chadwick, this is Leon Bernstein, commonly known as The Great Bernzini. Bernzy, this is Inspector Chadwick of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Surprised, Bernzy looks over from his viewfinder. BERNZY Pleased to meet you. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. (CHURCH ST.) - NIGHT Low angle: Tires squeal as an unmarked sedan pulls up to the curb. Bernzy is quickly and closely escorted from the car, up the stairs, like a star witness or a criminal in custody. He raises his eyebrows wryly, wonders what the hell is going on... CUT TO: INT. FBI - CHADWICK'S OFFICE - LATER Bernzy is in front of the desk in Chadwick's clean, non- descript office. One one side of him, a Young Agent takes notes; on the other side of him an Older Agent (gray-haired) says nothing, merely observes. Chadwick stands behind his desk, in front of two steel filing cabinets. He interrogates Bernzy in the humorless G-Man style. CHADWICK What was your business with Portifino? BERNZY I told you. I was just calling on him as a favor to a friend. CHADWICK Right. What did you say your friend's name was? BERNZY I didn't say. Chadwick waits a beat: Bernzy offers nothing. BERNZY What're you investigating here, anyway? I mean, what was this guy -- CHADWICK Did your friend have business dealings with Portifino. BERNZY No. CHADWICK Detective Conklin tells us you know many members of the mob in New York. BERNZY I also know a lot of cops and wash- room attendants. It's the only way a photographer stays in business. I mean a tabloid photographer, not a Steiglitz or a Steichen. YOUNG AGENT (for his notes) Excuse me. Steigle or -- ? BERNZY The second and third best photographers in the country. Nobody asks who's first. CHADWICK Don't mobsters sometimes say they won't let anybody but you take their picture? BERNZY That's right. I'm sure you get t'know a lot of criminals in your line of work, too. Chadwick, impervious to humor, stares. BERNZY Maybe not. CHADWICK Was Portifino with the mob? BERNZY I dunno... Was he? CHADWICK I ask the questions here... How did he do it? How did he come to town and set himself up so fast? BERNZY Look, you know more about this guy than I do, that's obvious. I call Conklin, right away you guys know the address, now you're tellin' me he's in business -- Chadwick brings his fists down hard onto the desk, rattling the lamps, ashtray and desk-set. CHADWICK Tell us how Portifino made his money! BERNZY I don't know anything. I see the guy once for five seconds, next time I see him he's dead. (he looks around) I have to get to work now. CHADWICK Oh? You have a job? BERNZY (wearily, patiently) I'm a free-lance photographer. If I'm not on the street at midnight, the world passes me by. CHADWICK Tough way to make a living... You were hoping to get money from Portifino, is that right? BERNZY What? CHADWICK You intended to blackmail him. BERNZY This is a joke. (he looks to the others) It's a gag, right? CHADWICK Mr. Bernstein, you came to this country from Russia when you were six years old. BERNZY (getting up, putting on his hat) Alright, that's it. I got my cell meeting in half an hour. He reaches for his exposed film plates on the desk. But Chadwick traps his hand there. CHADWICK Where you going? How d'you know you're not a suspect in the murder of Emilio Portifino? BERNZY This is the stupidest interrogation I've ever seen. You're telling me more than I'm telling you. Already I know this guy got rich quick doing something the Feds don't like. Already I can see you're tryin' to keep it quiet, and when you bring up Russia, I figure it's something treasonous. Chadwick begins to speak, but the Older Agent -- alarmed by Bernzy's perspicacity -- takes over. OLDER AGENT Mr. Bernstein, thanks for your cooperation. We're sorry if we've taken you away from your work. This is a time of war, and we hope you'll keep your conjectures about Mr. Portifino to yourself. Fact is, we know nothing about the man, and hoped perhaps you did. Bernzy doesn't believe the last part, but keeps it to himself. BERNZY Yeah, okay. So if I could just get my film plates back... OLDER AGENT We can't give them to you. Not for a few days. BERNZY He's news tonight. I won't be able to sell 'em in a few days. OLDER AGENT Stop back here at Inspector Chadwick's office in the morning. He'll give you the proper forms to fill in. Bernzy looks from face to face, seeing he has no choice in the matter. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - NIGHT Bernzy comes down the stairs of the F.B.I. building and begins walking, camera in hand. Across the street, a car starts up as Bernzy heads up the block. It begins to follow him, keeping a discreet distance. Bernzy turns off the avenue, onto the sidestreet. The car makes the turn too. EXT. SIDESTREET As Bernzy moves along the dark sidewalk, he realizes the car is following him. He picks up his pace, but the car follows suit. Almost reflexively he begins to load a film plate into his camera, but the car accelerates, and overtakes him on the sidewalk. Two MEN get out -- thick-featured and thuggish -- while a third Man stays behind the wheel. The Men close in around Bernzy. Each takes one of his arms. The camera falls to the ground; the lens shatters. They drag Bernzy gruffly into the car. BERNZY You boys work for Farinelli, right? (recognizing one of them) It's Tonio, right? Bernzy's attempt at affability is futile: grimly serious, they push him into the car. BERNZY (as he's stuffed into the seat) At least pick up the damn camera! CUT TO: EXT. STREET - NIGHT The same car pulls up and parks. As one of the Thugs pulls Bernzy out, Bernzy reaches back to pick up his smashed camera. CUT TO: INT. FARINELLI'S OFFICE - NIGHT The panelled office might belong to a well-off insurance agent with a weakness for ugly nick-nacks. Farinelli rises to his feet as Bernzy is pushed into the room. He is an overweight, mid-level capo of 55. Two of his lieutenants are sitting on a couch. FARINELLI (to his goons) What're you pushin' him around for? We know this guy. (he shakes his head) Have a seat, Bernzy. Want a drink? BERNZY You got coffee? He gestures to one of the Hoods to fetch coffee. FARINELLI You know Mikey and Sal? The two lieutenants nod from the couch. SAL is lean, with a particularly arresting face (we will see him again). LIEUTENANTS Hiya, Bernzy/Bernzy. FARINELLI Bernzy, you found the body of this punk Portifino, right? Bernzy nods. FARINELLI So what d'you know about him? BERNZY Nothing, really. FARINELLI 'Nothin.' Then why'd you call the Feds? BERNZY I didn't. FARINELLI You didn't. BERNZY I found the body. Not the first I ever found. I called the cops, like I always do. They called the F.B.I. Annoyed, Farinelli turns to his lieutenants, speaks in Italian. After a brief tirade, he turns back to Bernzy. FARINELLI Okay, so you didn't call the Feds, we was misinformed by a police stooge. I'd still like to know how you knew Portifino. BERNZY I didn't. Not really. The Hood returns with coffee from someplace outside. But Farinelli, annoyed by now, directs him to put it on a side table (instead of giving it to Bernzy). FARINELLI You didn't, not really... Then what were you doin' in his apartment, if I may ask? Bernzy studies Farinelli a beat before answering. He can see how agitated Farinelli is about all of this. BERNZY I met him the other night. At Cafe Society. He said he needed somebody to take his picture. He offered good money. FARINELLI You don't do commissions. I offered you plenty when my sister's boy took communion two years ago. Close on Bernzy, caught in a lie. BERNZY That's right, I don't. Do commissions. But I got a nose for news. Talkin' to this kid, it smelled like there might be somethin' in it. FARINELLI (getting up) Oh! So that's all there is to it? Bernzy nods; he watches as Farinelli moves next to his seat, looms over him, smiling. But his face turns fierce as Farinelli kicks the chair out from under Bernzy, who flops onto his back and hits his head on the tiles. Bernzy lies on the floor, more stunned and humiliated than hurt, and looks up at the half-circle formed around him by Farinelli and his thugs. Bernzy stares up at Farinelli. He raises his right hand to God. After a long beat, Farinelli extends his hand, to help him up. FARINELLI Okay, Bernzy. As it is, I gotta trust you. You never crossed nobody, got no interest in dough, do nothin' but take pictures, noon and night. He circles his arm around Bernzy, and walks him to the door. FARINELLI What is it with you, anyway? Dope fiends live better than you do. You're a fuckin' freak, you know that? BERNZY Yeah, well, like the guy who shoveled the elephant shit said to the circus owner, 'What? And give up Show Business?'. Farinelli laughs but grips Bernzy a little too tightly. FARINELLI Don't go around talkin' about this dead little fuck, awright? We begin to hear lively music play, anticipating the CUT TO: EXT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT The usual crowd is gathered by the ropes. The other Photographers watch sullenly as the rope is raised for Bernzy. INT. CAFE SOCIETY - SAME Bernzy is looking upward, toward the windowed office as he crosses the club. He is therefore taken unawares when a Man at a good table catches him by the sleeve -- MAN Surprised they let you in here, Bernstein. I'll complain to the management. Bernzy sees ARTHUR NABLER, a likable man, 57-years-old, overweight, seemingly unaccustomed to the dinner clothes he's wearing. At the moment, he's drunk. A Woman is with him at the table, much younger than he is, attractive in flashy way. NABLER Siddown, c'mon, sit! Bernzy glances up at the office again -- BERNZY Half a minute. NABLER Don't be a pill! How else you ever gonna sit right here... 'Hack makes good,' eh Bernzy? Meet Vera Hixon. Vera, this guy's the best shutterbug in New York. (to Bernzy) You seen my show? BERNZY It's on my calendar. 'Brooklyn Rhapsody,' Winter Garden Theatre. But I work nights. VERA It's a beautiful show. She squeezes Nabler's arm in her hands and rubs her cheek against his shoulder. NABLER I know what you think: why should I go see a bunch of Arty's old columns dramatized when I already read 'em. Nabler drains his Scotch. BERNZY Untrue... I never read 'em. But Nabler's mood is turning sour as his high winds down. He can't seem to find a Waiter to bring him a new Scotch. NABLER Waiter! (getting no response) I'm dyin' here... I'm 57 years old. You think she'd've looked at me six months ago? BERNZY C'mon, Nabler. NABLER Best shutterbug in New York. You know what that means? It means his pictures are catching birdshit at the bottom of the cage six hours after the papers come out. Just like my columns used to do. Nabler tries to attract the Waiter, again, but seeing what's happening, Vera tries to ease the glass out of his hand. VERA Arty -- ? He pulls the glass away from her. NABLER At least if you write books or paint pictures they say, Alright, he had no money, no life, not even a steady girl, but look what he painted, look what he wrote. (he answers his own question) She wouldn't of pissed on me, six months ago. VERA (rising, upset) Excuse me -- BERNZY (half rising, politely) Miss Hixon. (to Nabler, when she's gone) Arthur, I think you better apologize to the lady. Bernzy gets up, but Nabler grabs his hand. NABLER You're giving me advice about my love life?! Eager to escape, Bernzy tries to wrest his hand away. But Nabler clings to it: he's as deadly earnest as a dying man. NABLER Listen to me, Bernzy, listen to one who knows: Nobody could love you. No woman could ever love a shabby little guy who sleeps in his clothes and eats outta cans and cozies up to corpses so much he starts to stink like one. Bernzy, sucker-punched, attempts to remove his hand. BERNZY Arty, you better get a refund from that charm school -- NABLER (he won't relinquish Bernzy's hand) And for what? Drunks and stiffs -- BERNZY Y'mind? -- I got a bird in the oven -- Bernzy pulls his hand away, but Nabler is not in control, blubbering and shouting, melancholy and drunk. NABLER -- thugs and bums and whores and creeps -- He draws attention: it sounds like he's shouting epithets. We move with Bernzy, who is stoical and swift, past the glittering crowd. Nabler is blubbering and shouting under the music but Bernzy isn't hearing him. We see what he sees, but this time it's in color -- it's life, untransmogrified: Men and women laughing, drinking champagne, eating steaks, hands held across tables, words whispered into lovers' ears, the music smooth and gay. The music rises. CUT TO: INT. KAY'S OFFICE - LATER It's suddenly quiet. The band is on its break. Bernzy staring out the window, sees into the club where Nabler is trying to get Vera to sit down with him again, but she pulls away, stalks out. KAY You should know I got worried. I called the police -- two hours ago. He looks at her -- annoyed. BERNZY What'd y'do that for? Obviously, she meant well. He softens. BERNZY Look, I -- I don't do favors f'r people, I can't. Y'see what happens? I walk in here with an invitation, you give me a drink, it's beautiful up here, I'm feelin' good about myself -- next thing I know I'm rollin' around on some gangster's floor. They look at each other. KAY I'm sorry. BERNZY Yeah... She goes to get a cigarette by the desk. He looks down into the club, sees Nabler, then asks -- BERNZY Why'd you ask me up here in the first place? KAY ...Lou trusted you, Bernzy. I told you, he -- BERNZY C'mon. Lou thought I was just like the flies outside, buzzin' around to get Rita Hayworth's picture -- KAY It's not true. BERNZY -- A little parasite, preyin' on people's misery. You're not the only one knows what people say about you... KAY It doesn't matter what they say about you, Bernzy. Not unless you believe 'em. He looks at her. Her words seem to get to him, or maybe just she does. He looks away, down into the club again. He watches NABLER, as struggles to his feet, throws money on the table, and staggers away. BERNZY It's not over because Portifino's dead. Somebody else is gonna come in and tell you he's Lou's partner. By the desk, holding a cigarette, she speaks quietly. KAY I figured. She takes a seat on the desk, as if for support. BERNZY I think Lou was involved in somethin' bad... Evil. She nods, determined to be strong, determined not to be emotional, although she knows she's in trouble. He looks back into the window. BERNZY I could prob'ly find out what it is. I could do that. He sees her reflection in the window. She stares off somewhere, trying not to cry. KAY (quietly) You don't have to. Bernzy is staring at her reflection. He sees himself, too: the ill-fitting suit, the ludicrous pockets. CUT TO: EXT. EASTSIDE DRIVE - NIGHT In black and white, we see a stretch of walkway by the East River, thick with couples who stroll and kiss. Bernzy drives by slowly, watches keenly, afflicted by the strong feelings Kay has stirred up in him. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. - CHURCH STREET - DAWN The building to which Bernzy was brought for interrogation. INT. FEDERAL BLDG. - LOBBY - SAME In the overscaled marble lobby, Bernzy pleads his case to a uniformed Watchman. BERNZY He's gone? He promised he'd give me back my plates this morning. WATCHMAN Then why don't you come back when it really is morning? BERNZY It's morning at the Daily Mirror. It's morning at the Post. I gotta make a living, just like you. WATCHMAN Sit over there while I phone somebody. The Watchman gestures to a marble bench by the elevator alcove. He himself goes to the marble reception desk, to make the call. As the guard dials, Bernzy walks straight past the bench, into the elevator. The doors close behind him. CUT TO: INT. 4TH FLOOR HALLWAY (FBI) - SAME Bernzy comes off the elevator, onto a long hall with offices on either side. Some doors are open; we can hear the vacuum cleaner of a janitor. Bernzy comes quickly down to the hallway, to the office at the head of it -- Chadwick's. A pail and mop stand outside, but when Bernzy peeks into the open door, the office is empty. He enters. INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE Bernzy hurries behind the desk, to a steel filing cabinet, one of two. It is locked. He studies the lock. His only light comes from the hallway, through the frosted glass. He jiggles the lock. It won't budge. He searches for the key in the desk drawers. Can't find it. He looks at the other filing cabinet. It has no lock, but is marked "UNCLASSIFIED MATERIAL." This seems less than promising but Bernzy unrolls the top drawer, anyway. He takes out his cigarette lighter, strikes the flame. It throws a wavering flame over the file tabs. He finds the one he WANTS: "PORTIFINO, EMILIO." INTERCUT TO: INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - SAME Chadwick charges in. CHADWICK Where is he? The Watchman, who by now has two other Uniformed Guards with him, points to the clock-style indicator on one of the elevators: 4TH FLOOR. They all get into the available elevator. INTERCUT TO: INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE Bernzy opens the file. We read it with him. The pages are attached to a manila folder from the top, like a medical file: PORTIFINO, EMILIO Deceased 6/3/42 ALL FILES EXPUNGED, TRANSFERRED TO WASHINGTON, D.C. 6/3/42. BERNZY Damn. In frustration, he turns the page, to see if there's more. There is a second page, on which all the print is blacked out. A third page is likewise obliterated. INT. 4TH FLOOR HALLWAY Chadwick and the three Guards come hurriedly off the elevator. INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE As the footsteps of Chadwick et. al. echo down the hallway, Bernzy pages past several more blacked-out pages, before coming to the last page, on which a single sentence remains: SEE ALSO "CL(assified) FILE #42784 -- "BLACK GAS" The waving lighter flame excites a sense of evil as we come close to these sinister sounding words -- "BLACK GAS." Bernzy knits his brow -- but has no time to wonder: the silhouettes of Chadwick et. al. are on the frosted glass. As he digs into the file cabinet to re-insert the goods, we watch the silhouettes growing nearer and nearer on the glass. Bernzy rolls shut the drawer just as the door swings open, plops himself into Chadwick's chair, puts his feet on the desk (a more insolent, but less incriminating pose). CHADWICK What is this? BERNZY I'm not leaving till I get back my plates. Chadwick looks at Bernzy suspiciously. He plunges his hand into his pants pocket, extracts a ring of keys, moves swiftly to the locked file cabinet, opens it. He pulls out Bernzy's plates (in a pouch), spreads them on the desk, counts them. Then he puts them back in the pouch, back in the file, and locks it. He turns back to Bernzy, seething. WATCHMAN Should I call the cops, Inspector? Chadwick is thinking about it. CUT TO: INT. PARKING GARAGE - DAWN OPEN CLOSE on a poster which shows G.I. Joe -- his weary face smudged black with battle. The enemy advances from a distant hill. Joe stands beside his jeep with a gas can -- but only a last drop of fuel is left. "DO YOUR PART! SAVE A GALLON FOR G.I. JOE!" proclaims the poster's bold slogan. Then, in lesser letters: "Rationing Saves American Lives." Bernzy stands in his underground parking garage, studying the poster, his brow knitted. By the concrete wall beyond the pumps, a teenage grease-monkey reads a "Shadow" pulp on a folding chair. BERNZY You got any Black Gas, Freddy? FREDDY What kinda gas? BERNZY Black Gas. (guessing) Black -- I dunno -- black market gas. FREDDY (confused) Only gas we got here is Texaco. BERNZY (he sees it's futile) Thanks. FREDDY There's somebody was lookin' for you, Mr. Bernstein. BERNZY Oh yeah? CUT TO: INT. STAIRWELL - BERNZY'S APT. - SAME As Bernzy comes up the stairs he sees a man in a tweed sports- coat with leather arm patches hunched against his front door, reading the New York Times. He looks up from his paper when he hears Bernzy, comes to his feet, smiles pleasantly. BERNZY What're you doin' up at this hour? Like I don't know the answer. Bernzy is unlocking his door. AARON is his younger brother. INT. BERNZY'S APT - SAME Aaron is unfazed by the disarray of the apartment. BERNZY I'm not comin' with you. Coffee? Aaron has the same New York accent as his brother but uses the grammar of an educated man. AARON It's inconceivable to you I just came over for a little visit? Aaron examines the photographs on Bernzy's desk as Bernzy fixes coffee in the bathroom: he pours coffee grinds into a saucepan. BERNZY Yeah it is. AARON (he joins Bernzy) Just come sit with him for half an hour. Bernzy imitates the voice of an aged, immigrant Jew from the Lower East Side, via Russia, i.e., his father. BERNZY 'Such a vaste, Leon. Vit' your beckground, it's a tregedy. Your bruther Aaron's a learned men, a professor, vit' a beautiful vife -- end you? you drife eround in a car all the night teking pornogrephic pictures, eating in drugstores all alone. Breaks my heart, Leon, it breaks en old men's heart.' He goes back to the coffee, uselessly stirring the grounds. AARON I don't know what to say. I spend my life defending you. But when it comes down to it, I don't know what the hell you're doing down here -- BERNZY See for yourself; it's no big secret. AARON Believe me, you look around this place it leaves you with a few questions. BERNZY What's that s'posed to mean? AARON Forget it... He's a professional immigrant. He's the ultimate outsider. But he's an amateur, compared to you. BERNZY Yeah? I wonder if you'd say that if you'd seen me at Cafe Society last night. I mean inside. Bernzy strains the coffee, and pours it. AARON Yeah? So who invited you? Lou Levitz? BERNZY He's dead, Professor... How would you know him, anyway. I thought guys like you didn't read the tabloids. He moves into the main room. Aaron follows. AARON I read the tabloids, Leon. I take an interest in my brother. I'm glad you're an insider now. What's that got to do with Pa, rotting on his ass down on Delancey Street? BERNZY Other people're startin' to take an interest in me, too, alright? When the time comes, when I get my book published, I'll go see Pa. AARON D'you really think your own father's opinion of you needs to be validated by a publishing house? BERNZY No less than anybody else's. They look at each other, as Bernzy hands him a mug of coffee. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAY The shades are drawn against the daylight. The police radio hisses at low volume. We find Bernzy, slumped asleep in his clothes, in a chair. On the armrest is one of his cigar box files marked "Prizefights." Around Bernzy there is a litter of photos of Kay with her husband, ringside. Bernzy holds a picture of Kay in his hand. He fell asleep holding it. The telephone rings, shrilly. Bernzy answers it, groggily. BERNZY 'Lo? (he listens) Oh yeah? Right. He hangs up the phone. He looks at the picture in his hands -- then at the squalor around him -- then at Kay, again. CUT TO: EXT. HAYWARD'S CAR/HIGHWAY - DAY Bernzy rides in the passenger seat of Hayward's sportster on the Palisades Parkway. Hayward drinks from his flask. HAYWARD The D.A.'s in court till five. BERNZY We'll be finished by three. CUT TO: EXT. GREENPORT, NEW JERSEY POLICE STATION - DAY Bernzy and Hayward climb the steps of the almost rustic police station. Bernzy has his camera. HAYWARD How you gonna do this? BERNZY Don't worry about it. Everybody likes to have his picture took. CUT TO: INT. GREENPORT POLICE STATION - SAME Bernzy is talking to the earnest, red-haired SERGEANT POINTER. Hayward stands in the background, watching. HAYWARD We had a whole crowd of boys in from New York last week. Nobody gets to see those kids. BERNZY I don't see how the kids matter, Sgt. Pointer. Do you? POINTER What're you talkin' about? BERNZY I don't see that it takes a whole lot of courage to hit an old lady with an ax. POINTER It's sick, is what it is. BERNZY That's what I'm sayin'. It's sick. But to walk into a house with some sick kid runnin' around with an ax -- that's courage. POINTER What're you gettin' at? BERNZY We'd like to meet that man arrested those kids. POINTER That'd be me. BERNZY ("surprised") It was you? Then it's your picture I wanna take. My colleague, Mr. Hayward, would like to take down your words. What it was like. You've prob'ly seen our series in the Saturday Evening Post. 'Brave me in blue'? POINTER Yeah. Oh yeah. INT. SERGEANTS' OFFICE - LATER In an office with three desks, Bernzy has just taken a picture of Pointer in uniform. He is lining up another one. Pointer smiles -- pleased by the attention -- and swells his chest. Suddenly Bernzy breaks off in seeming exasperation. BERNZY No. No, this upsets me. This really upsets me. POINTER What's wrong? I do somethin' wrong? BERNZY You? No. You should be on the $50 bill. It's just not gonna work. Bernzy smiles sadly, starts to pack up his camera; Pointer watches forlornly. POINTER Mr. Bernzini, I think you owe me an explanation. BERNZY (reluctantly) ...Who said no pictures of those kids? It was the D.A., right? POINTER All of us agreed. BERNZY But it was the D.A. said it first. Pointer doesn't deny it. BERNZY You see what I'm saying? You ever caught a fish on vacation? Pointer nods. BERNZY You get a pictue of yourself after you caught him? POINTER Sure. BERNZY With the fish, or without him. POINTER No pictures of those kids. That's final. BERNZY And I'll tell you why, Sgt. Pointer. There'll be plenty of pictures of those kids when the D.A. gets his conviction. You caught the fish only he's in the picture. (turning to Hayward) Ready, Hayward. Pointer watches as they go out the door. POINTER (calling out) Wait! CUT TO: INT. GREENPORT STATION - LATER Pointer stands alongside the two 17-year-old prisoners. The girl is a pretty redhead; her Boyfriend a good-looking athlete. All three are posing: the Girl pouts like a starlet; the Boy sneers; Pointer is corn-ball stern. BERNZY This is beautiful. Just like I pictured it. IN Bernzy's viewfinder: Pointer is not in the shot. As the shutter clicks, we CUT TO: EXT. HAYWARD'S CAR/ROAD - DAY They ride back to New York. HAYWARD (laughing) He wasn't even in the shot? BERNZY They'd just crop him, anyway. I got one of him, too. I'll send it to his mother. 'Case I ever gotta drive through Greenport. Chuckling, Hayward sees a roadside filling station. HAYWARD I gotta stop in here. EXT. HAYWARD'S CAR/FILLING STATION - LATER An Attendant is filling the tank. Hayward takes a large sheet of gas rationing coupons from his billfold. Bernzy's eyes narrow. He knows the coupons are significant, but plays it cool. BERNZY How'd you get so many stamps? HAYWARD Guy at my garage sold me some extra. As Hayward pays the Station Attendant, Bernzy takes the stamps, examines them. BERNZY Extra? Where's he get extra? HAYWARD (drinking from his flask) I don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Bernzy continues to study the stamps as Hayward starts the car, moves toward the highway. HAYWARD What's so interesting about those stamps? BERNZY Let's go. As Hayward pulls out onto the highway, we hear a car horn scream as we SHOCK CUT TO: EXT. LOWER WEST SIDE - NIGHT The horn comes not from an oncoming car, but from a parked one: the head of a Man murdered while driving is pressed up against the steering wheel, causing the horn to blow ceaselessly. The front end of the car is wrapped around a pole. O'Brien, the cop we saw in the first scene leans into the car (parked in a deserted quarter, near the docks) and guides the dead man's head back onto the seat (his hat falls off). The horn stops. Beside O'Brien stands his partner, the Young Cop. There are bullet holes piercing the driver's door. The windshield is shattered. O'Brien swings around when he hears someone coming up behind him. O'BRIEN Jesus. It's Bernzy. He takes up his camera to get a wide shot -- the car in all it's devastation. BERNZY His hat fell off. O'BRIEN Huh? BERNZY Could you put it back on, please? People really like to see a dead guy's hat. O'Brien replaces the hat, begrudgingly, again. O'BRIEN Maybe I should pull his dick out. Maybe they'd like to see a dead guy's dick. BERNZY The News'd prob'ly buy it. (he squeezes the shutter) I might have some trouble over at the Mirror. O'BRIEN (of the corpse) Who'd he work for, Bernzy? BERNZY Spoleto. O'BRIEN Spoleto and Farinelli. Spoleto and Farinelli, all month long. Like rabid dogs fightin' over some stinkin' bone. Bernzy says nothing, keeps his eye to the viewfinder. CUT TO: EXT. RIVERSIDE DRIVE - EARLY MORNING Bernzy is sitting on the stoop of a magnificent Beaux-Arts townhouse. He consults his watch. A long black sedan pulls up to the cub, on the opposite side of the street. Kay gets out, followed by a middle-aged Italian Man in a suit and hat. Bernzy sits up, watches keenly as they talk, with evident agitation. Now the Man catches sight of Bernzy, takes Kay's arm rather gruffly, and walks her across the street to him. MAN Bernzy, I want you to tell Kay who I am. BERNZY Kay Levitz, Marc-Antony Spoleto. Spoleto's Lieutenant gets out of the car, stands in the street. SPOLETO No -- you to tell her who I am. BERNZY Mr. Spoleto has the East Side of Manhattan all to himself. KAY Lucky for us we're on the West Side. SPOLETO That's no way to talk to your new partner, Kay. (to Bernzy) You tell her, Bernzy. He walks off. He joins his Lieutenant, who walks him back to the car. LIEUTENANT Bernzy gonna set her straight? SPOLETO If he's thinkin' straight. LIEUTENANT (as they climb into the car) Why wouldn't he be? SPOLETO Look at him, over there: it's like that movie with the Hunchback and Sasperilla. Bernzy, in his rumpled clothes, stands with Kay, in her nightclub finery. LIEUTENANT Y'mean Esmerelda. SPOLETO (he signals the Driver) Whatever. They pull out. INT. KAY'S TOWNHOUSE - KITCHEN - LATER (MORNING) Bernzy and Kay sit at the kitchen table. A black Maid is at the other end of the enormous room, working; Bernzy speaks softly. BERNZY If somebody could get his hands on the gas coupons, if somebody could control 'em, there'd be a lot of money in it. Like if this was Prohibition, and there was only one source of liquor. KAY Lou wouldn't of done that. He has two nephews in the service. BERNZY I'm talking about lot of money. KAY He wouldn't do that. BERNZY He did it!... If there's one thing I know it's that most people ain't human when there's enough money involved... I got pictures of guys killed over 50 cents. For somebody, that was enough. She doesn't argue this time. KAY So that's it? Lou got himself involved with these hoods and now I'm stuck with them for partners. BERNZY They don't have partners. You'd be out. KAY (drawing breath) I see. BERNZY Unless. KAY Unless what? He gets up. He moves as he talks. BERNZY This thing -- this Black Gas -- it's big: the Feds are up in arms, there's corpses poppin' up all over town, who knows who's involved: the Mob, definitely; the Feds, probably, maybe the cops... What's bigger than the War? What's uglier than somebody stealing from the fighting boys to feather his nest? If I can get just one incriminating photo there's a front-page uproar, not just tabloids: they're exposed, humiliated, indicted. KAY And I get to keep the club. Bernzy nods. She thinks, and then she looks straight at him. KAY Why're you doing this? He looks at her, unwilling or unable to answer. The Maid brings them coffee. When she's gone, Bernzy sits across from Kay again. BERNZY I need to know what Spoleto said to you. Don't leave out nothing. KAY He had two men with him, an accountant and somebody rough, to intimidate me. He said he wanted to see the books, and when I refused he said "You'd better ask your boyfriend about me." BERNZY Boyfriend? KAY Yeah... He meant you. Bernzy nods. He tries to be matter-of-fact about it. KAY He knew you'd been there, up in my office -- he seemed to know a lot. BERNZY He's got at least one waiter on the payroll by now. KAY I guess so. Whichever one heard Portifino ask you to take his portrait. BERNZY (keenly) What? KAY He said Portifino offered you cash. BERNZY Who did? KAY Spoleto. BERNZY Portifino never offered me -- I never even talked to Portifino. Bernzy gets up; he starts pacing. KAY I'm just telling you what he said. BERNZY That was something I made up when Farinelli asked me how I knew Portifino... Christ Almighty. He is agitated -- knows he onto something. KAY I don't get it.