8mm Page #15

EDDIE (V.O.)

Dino...

DINO (V.O)

Nobody knows anything.

THROUGH BINOCULARS: as DINO is HEARD HANGING UP, Eddie

reacts, picks up his phone and throws it across the office.

Welles sits back, trying to accept the realization that he's

found them. He looks to the PHOTO of the Third Man.

WELLES:

That is you, isn't it, Eddie?

Welles goes to the RECORDER, turns on the TONE DECODER. Its

LED window LIGHTS UP. Welles hits STOP, REWIND, PLAY...

WELLES VOICE (V.O.)

(from recorder)

... and your pals, you're f***ed...

Hits FAST FORWARD... hits PLAY, watching the TONE DECODER.

From the RECORDER, the SOUND of EDDIE DIALING a NUMBER on

his touch tone phone... and as EACH TONE is HEARD, a

corresponding NUMBER appears on the DECODER'S LED readout:

...1 212 555 9906...

The recorder continues, REPLAYING the CONVERSATION between

Eddie and Dino, while Welles studies the green LED digits.

WELLES:

(quiet, to himself)

Two one two.

EXT. MANHATTAN CITYSCAPE -- ESTABLISHING -- NIGHT

The brilliant lights of New York's peerless skyscrapers.

EXT. 59TH STREET BRIDGE -- NIGHT

FOLLOW Welles' Ford as it moves along with traffic, crossing

the 59th Street Bridge, into the heart of Manhattan.

EXT. BANK -- ESTABLISHING -- DAY

"Chase Manhattan Bank," mid-town.

INT. CHASE MANHATTAN BANK, SAFE DEPOSIT BOOTH -- DAY

Welles puts the 8MM FILM into SAFE DEPOSIT DRAWER, shuts it.

INT. NY PUBLIC LIBRARY, REFERENCE -- DAY

Busy and crowded, but quiet. Welles places a massive tome

down on a table:
"Haines Criss-Cross Directory."

Welles sits, takes out his notepad, referring to the phone

number written:
"(212) 555-9906." He opens the reference

book, searching pages...

Thousands of TELEPHONE NUMBERS are LISTED in SEQUENCE, each

with an address. Welles runs his finger down the page.

EXT. SOHO STREETS -- DAY

PEDESTRIANS everywhere. Streets are clogged with DELIVERY

TRUCKS loading and unloading. Cars horns blow. Welles

walks to an old, WAREHOUSE BUILDING shoulder to shoulder

with other buildings, labeled "1204" in burnished steel.

Welles climbs the stairs, examines the buzzers.

The top button's labeled "Greystone Imports," the bottom

button reads "Lang Interior Design, by appt." The middle

button is labeled only by a drawing of a BLACK WIDOW SPIDER.

Welles looks up at the building.

EXT. 1204 WAREHOUSE, SOHO -- LATER DAY

The sun is low. Less activity on the street. Welles leans

against a car down the street, smoking a cigarette.

TWO WOMEN walk this way, both in spiked high heels, dressed

in cheap, short, formfitting skirts, both carrying duffel

bags. They start up the stairs of 1204...

Welles throws his cigarette, walks to follow.

The women hit the center button. A BUZZER sounds as they

head inside. Welles hurries up the stairs, catching the

door before it closes.

INT. 1204 WAREHOUSE, ELEVATOR -- DAY

Welles follows the women into a decrepit ELEVATOR. One

woman hits "2." Welles hits "3," steps back in the corner.

Elevator doors creak closed. The two women are heavily made

up, pretty, but worn, eyes dull.

Welles looks down at the leg of one woman, noticing bruises

through her fishnet stockings, poorly covered by make-up.

Elevator doors open on the SECOND FLOOR. The two women get

out and walk down a grey hallway, towards DOUBLE DOORS

painted black. Welles stops the elevator door from closing.

The women push the INTERCOM at the black doors. Another

dull BUZZ is HEARD as the women enter. The low rumble of

HEAVY METAL MUSIC is HEARD, SILENCED as doors swing shut.

Welles lets the elevator close.

EXT. 1204 WAREHOUSE -- DAY

The elevator opens on the FIRST FLOOR. Welles gets out,

instead of leaving the way he came, heads towards the

rear... FOLLOW him down a hallway, past a SERVICE ELEVATOR...

EXT. 1204 WAREHOUSE -- DAY

Welles comes out BACK DOORS into an sunless alleyway with

fire escapes above. There's a TRASH DUMPSTER, overflowing.

Rats scatter upon Welles, arrival.

Welles looks to make sure he's alone. He starts tearing

open GARBAGE BAGS. Flies swarm. One bag's filled with

empty food containers and old newspapers.

Welles tears open another bag, finds burnt out FLORESCENT

LIGHTBULBS, digs out a handful of empty PHOTO PAPER

PACKAGES, bottles of DEVELOPING CHEMICALS. He pulls out a

few MAGAZINES; Time, Newsweek, etc...

The magazines are cut up, falling apart, with pictures

chopped out from many pages. Welles examines ADDRESS LABELS:

"Dino Velvet/D.V. Films

1204 Keller Street

New York, NY 10049"

INT. PHONE BOOTH, NYC STREETS -- NIGHT

Welles is on the PHONE. The city bustles past.

WELLES:

(into phone)

What do you know about a guy called

Dino Velvet? Dino Velvet Films?

INT. ADULT BOOKSTORE -- DAY -- INTERCUT

Max is on the phone by the register, ringing purchases.

MAX:

(into phone)

Dino Velvet... yeah, he's like the

John Luc Godard of S+M flicks,

supposed to be a real weirdo.

WELLES (V.O.)

(from phone)

A weirdo making S+M films? Who'd

have thought it?

MAX:

(into phone)

His stuff comes out of New York.

Bondage and fetish videos, Gothic

Hardcore. Definitely not for the

squeamish.

WELLES (V.O.)

Specialty product.

MAX:

You're learning.

WELLES (V.O.)

Where does he sell it?

MAX:

Out of the back of bondage magazines

mostly, but you can find it on the

street if you look. He'll also do

commissions, for enough money...

INT. PHONE BOOTH -- DAY -- CONTINUOUS

MAX (V.O.)

(from phone)

Nothing illegal, it's always

borderline. Like if some freak

wants to see a transvestite in a

full rubber immersion suit getting

an enema from a...

WELLES:

(into phone)

Alright, I get the picture.

MAX (V.O.)

He cuts all kinds of other stuff

into his movies; photographs,

newsreel footage, subliminal images.

Thinks he's making art.

WELLES:

Well, I'm in New York now. What do

you say to flying out and giving me

a hand?

MAX (V.O.)

I'm a working stiff, pops.

WELLES:

Take a vacation. I'll pay you four

hundred a day, plus expenses.

MAX (V.O.)

You want me to come out there and

play private eye?

WELLES:

Consider it. Meanwhile, dig up

whatever Dino Velvet films you can.

Get receipts. I'll call back.

MAX (V.O.)

See ya.

Welles hangs up, starts feeding quarters into the phone.

INT. MRS. CHRISTIAN'S BEDROOM -- NIGHT -- CONTINUOUS

Mrs. Christian's in bed, pale and sickly. The PHONE RINGS.

Mrs. Christian reaches for it.

MRS CHRISTIAN:

(into phone, weakly)

Hello?

WELLES (V.O.)

(from phone)

Mrs. Christian, Tom Welles here.

MRS CHRISTIAN:

(coughing)

How are you? Having any luck?

WELLES (V.O.)

I don't know if luck's the word.

Are you feeling alright?

MRS CHRISTIAN:

I've been ordered into bed. The

doctor says I've gotten the flu, or

some other wretched ailment.

WELLES (V.O.)

I hope it's nothing serious.

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