Fletch Page #8

COP#2

Looks like heroin, Gene.

FLETCH:

You just planted that.

Cop #1 kicks Fletch in the ribs.

COP#2

What'd you say?

FLETCH:

Read me my rights.

COP #1

Okay. You have the right to remain silent. You

have the right to be kicked in the face by me.

You have the rights to have your balls stomped.

You have the ---

FLETCH:

Hold it! I'll waive my rights.

135 EXT. PRECINT HOUSE

Fletch is lead into the precinct house.

136 INT. PRECINT HOUSE

The Sergeant at the desk checks Fletch out.

SERGEANT:

Who we booking here, gentlemen?

COP #1

No booking. Chief wants a talk with the boy.

SERGEANT:

Oh Yeah?

(smiles at Fletch)

You'll like the Chief. Nice man.

FLETCH:

I hear he's mellowed a lot since he came out of the closet.

SERGEANT:

I find he gets real mellow after he hits somebody a lot.

137 DOOR TO CHIEF'S OFFICE - CHIEF'S OFFICE

The cops open the door, pull Fletch inside. Chief Cummings, looking like a modern executive, looks up from his paperwork.

COP #1

Here he is Chief.

They roughly throw Fletch into a chair. The Chief -- seemingly oblivious to this brutality -- smiles sincerely.

CUMMINGS:

Easy fellas.

(To Fletch friendly)

Be with you in just a second.

The two Cops leave. As Chief Cummings continues with his paperwork Fletch looks around the office, which is decorated tastefully -- no guns on the wall, no American flags. On one wall there is a Matisse, and on another, various photos of the Chief with local celebrities.

FLETCH:

You decorate this yourself or did Mrs. Chief of

Police help you?

CUMMINGS:

(laughs)

You should have seen what she wanted to do

with the place. Mauve.

(shakes his head and pushes his papers aside)

So what's your name?

FLETCH:

Fletch.

CUMMINGS:

Full name.

FLETCH:

Fletch F. Fletch

CUMMINGS:

(skeptical but patient)

I see. And what do you do for a living,

Mr. Fletch?

FLETCH:

I'm President of the International Fletch Corporation.

Cummings just stares at Fletch.

CUMMINGS:

Why are you doing this Mr. Fletch?

FLETCH:

Frankly sir, you look a little like my father. Probaly

explains the curious feeling of love I have for you.

CUMMINGS:

For a gentleman who was just found holding a bag

full of heroin....

FLETCH:

It was planted on me, sir.

CUMMINGS:

We're looking at five years, maybe ten. Is that

what you want...Jane Doe?

He suddenly kicks Fletch's chair out from under him. Fletch falls to the floor.

CUMMINGS:

Your editor called me yesterday to respond to allegations

you're about to print about police involvement in narcotics dealing.

Fletch starts to get up, but Cummings plants his foot on Fletch's chest, forces him back down.

CUMMINGS:

I'm about to break that beach wide open, and I don't

need some pennyante Woodward and Bernstein getting in

the way of my men.

FLETCH:

'Your men' might just be involved in all this.

CUMMINGS:

You idiot. Off the record, deep background:

I've got that beach crawling with undercover cops.

Cummings picks Fletch up, and holds him by the lapels.

CUMMINGS:

If you keep nosing around, you make the bad guys just

a little bit more cautious. That makes my job harder.

And if you print your story this week, you might get

some of my men killed. I can't let that happen, Mr. Fletch.

He throws Fletch against the wall of celebrity photos, some of which fall to the floor.

CUMMINGS:

You go back to that goddamn beach, I swear to God I'll

make you regret it.

FLETCH:

(picks up a picture)

Hey, you and Tommy Lasorda. That's great.

Fletch takes the picture and hurls it across the room. It smashes into the opposite wall and shatters.

FLETCH:

I don't like Tommy Lasorda.

138

and OMITTED

139

140 JAIL CORRIDOR

Fletch is tossed into an empty cell by the two Cops who brought him in. Cummings watches. The two Cops leave, and we see that all the cells in this corridor are empty.

FLETCH:

You can't keep me here.

CUMMINGS:

Maybe I'm not going to keep you here.

(takes out a gun)

Maybe I'm gonna blow your brains out.

FLETCH:

I'm no lawyer, but I do believe that's a violation of my rights.

The Chief takes a knife out of his pocket, holding it with a handkerchief.

CUMMINGS:

After I shoot you, I stick the knife in my arm, then

place it in your dead hand. Self-defense. We don't do this

very much anymore...but we have. Got rid of a lot of

minorities that way.

FLETCH:

My God, you're serious.

CUMMINGS:

Ask anybody.

FLETCH:

Can I ask anybody now?

Cummings looks down the corridor. Deserted.

FLETCH:

Can I call my Mom? I'd like to tell here how much

I've always loved her.

CUMMINGS:

(c*cks the gun)

What'll it be Fletch?

Fletch looks in Cummings' eyes. They are steely and cold. He is quite serious.

FLETCH:

I hate the beach. Wouldn't go there if you paid me.

Besides, I'm way overdue on my story about off-track

betting in the Himalayas. You don't think it's the mafia,

do you?

CUMMINGS:

(opening the cell)

Its been very nice meeting you. I enjoy your column.

Fletch walks out of the cell. Cummings walks with him through the empty corridor to the exit.

CUMMINGS:

(very chummy)

Speaking of which, you're not going to print

anything before my investigation is through, are you?

FLETCH:

Not a prayer.

CUMMINGS:

That a boy.

The emerge into the main hallway of the police station, which is filled with officers and civilians. Cummings makes a show of cordially shaking Fletch's hand as if they were old friends.

CUMMINGS:

Thanks for coming down to see us.

FLETCH:

Not at all, Chief. But next time...no tongue, okay?

Exit Fletch.

141

thru OMITTED

147

148 INT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE

Fletch is railing at Frank Walker.

FLETCH:

How could you call him?

WALKER:

It's called journalism, Fletch. It's called getting

both sides of the story. Something you apparently don't

know anything about.

FLETCH:

It's also called getting me this close to being murdered.

WALKER:

Get out of here.

FLETCH:

He threw me in a cell, took a gun and a knife and

threatened to kill me right there if I didn't

promise to give up the story.

WALKER:

You know, I've had it up to here with your

bullsh*t. I need a story from you by tomorrow.

FLETCH:

You'll have it.

WALKER:

But not unsubstantiated charges about dope-dealing

cops, and not horse sh*t paranoid fantasies about

homicidal police chiefs.

FLETCH:

(exiting)

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Frank.

WALKER:

(calling after him)

I want something I can print!

FLETCH:

(giving him the finger)

Print this Frank.

Exit Fletch.

149

thru OMITTED

152

153 EXT. RAQUET CLUB

Fletch again appears in his tennis whites and walks familiarly toward the patio. Rich people are having lunch. Fletch stops the waiter.

FLETCH:

Hi, where's Mrs. Stanwyk?

WAITER:

In her cabana, sir.

FLETCH:

Oh, that's right. She told me to meet her there.

That's cabana six?

WAITER:

Cabana one.

FLETCH:

One.

WAITER:

Would you be caring for something to eat or drink, sir?

FLETCH:

I would, actually.

WAITER:

Charged to the Underhills, sir?

FLETCH:

Right. Tell you what -- have you caviar?

WAITER:

Yes, sir. Beluga. But it is eighty dollars the portion.

FLETCH:

(whistles)

I'd better only get two. How about the lobster thermidor?

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote