Grosse Pointe Blank Page #3

DRIVER:

I been looking at you, and I've

decided that I want to share something

with you.

MARTIN:

Okay.

DRIVER:

Because your problem is you're bored.

And you have a very big mind.

(beat)

I am part of what I call a brain

syndicate.

No reaction from Martin.

DRIVER:

I am part of a network of minds, a

group of five people who are all

connected, over hundreds, even

thousands of miles, through the mind.

We can think with each other, think

for each other. I can be driving

somewhere, sleeping with a woman--

whatever it is-- and at the same

time be thinking a thought in someone

else's mind, far away. Running someone

else's brain.

MARTIN:

(indicates)

Up on the right.

DRIVER:

And when you think of it, it's not

so surprising that a small group of

people control the whole world, is

it?

INT. HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK CITY - DAY

A sedate and well-appointed four-star suite on the Upper

East Side. Martin stands in front of one of the open windows

watching the canopied entrance of an elegant high-rise across

the street. He lifts an eye rinse cup to his eye and tilts

it back. A cellular phone RINGS, interrupting him. He moves

to the desk and draws one of three phones from his briefcase,

depresses a scrambler module, flips it open, and listens for

a moment.

MARTIN:

If it's not there, I can't proceed.

Tell them.

Martin hangs up. Picks up another phone and dials. As he

waits for an answer, he goes to a Fed Ex blueprint tube lying

on the bed.

MARTIN:

Tom. I've been waiting for an answer.

I'm only in town tonight.

He breaks the shipping seal and pulls out a series of finished

metal parts including a long thin barrel, a scope, and a

silencer.

MARTIN:

What's different this time than the

last time? I have to be down front...

INT. HOTEL ROOM - SAME

Martin stands in front of the window, phone in one hand, the

scope in the other. Next to him, the assembled rifle rests

across the arm of a chair.

MARTIN:

...I don't bother to call anyone

else because you always take care of

me.

He glances over to a second window to his left, which offers

a view further down the street. He goes to it. He raises the

scope and sees

MARTIN'S P.O.V./SCOPE- WINDOW #2

A few blocks down, small even through the high-powered scope,

is your average BICYCLE MESSENGER dressed in lycra racing

gear, weaving through traffic toward us. Slung low across

his right hip is a black canvas bag. The Messenger's hand is

hidden in it. The other phone begins to RING.

MARTIN:

Hold on a second, Tom. I got my hands

full here.

He sets down the phone and answers the other, still watching

the messenger.

MARTIN:

Good. Account number 3649367, transfer

to account number 96-546-38739-47825.

Ask for Mr. Sanchez, tell him it's

Mr. Duckman. If there are any

problems, access file 673594638-IO-

98, and look at it.

Martin drops the phone and moves away from Window #2 to the

rifle. He mounts the scope and he looks out Window #1 at the

high-rise.

MARTIN'S P.O.V./SCOPE - WINDOW #1

Of a DOORMAN opening the door for a group of five men in

suits. Four BODYGUARDS form a perimeter around the fifth

man, a mall, avuncular figure in his forties dressed in

Saville Row finery.

MARTIN:

Takes a step back into the shadows of the room, and raises

the rifle toward Window #2.

MARTIN'S P.O.V./SCOPE - WINDOW #2

of an empty street. The bicycle messenger flashes past.

MARTIN:

concentrating, tracks the path of the Messenger, leading him

left to right across the blind spot of the hotel room wall

between Window #2 and Window #1.

STREET:

the bicycle Messenger bears down on the group of men, drawing

a Mac-10 submachine gun from his bag. The group see him--

just as Martin's sniper FIRE explodes the Messenger's chest.

Two of the Bodyguards collapse onto their boss. The other

two open fire on the Messenger as he wipes out horribly into

a parked car in front of them.

MARTIN:

withdraws from the window, and picks up the phone again and

begins to break down the rifle.

MARTIN:

Sorry Tom. But look, I know it's the

playoffs. That's why I'm offering a

thousand dollars for one seat...

Martin listens patiently as he works.

EXT. STREET - SAME - INTERCUT

DOORMAN'S HANDS

unbuttoning his double-breasted long coat.

MARTIN:

just finishes packing.

MARTIN:

...Well let me ask you, Tom. What do

I have to do to get courtside tickets

for the Knicks...?

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