Grosse Pointe Blank Page #6

MARTIN:

I'm not happy.

MARCELLA:

They say their friend was suppose to

have a heart attack and die in his

sleep.

MARTIN:

He didn't.

MARCELLA:

They blame you for the compromise.

MARTIN:

And they want me to make up for it.

MARCELLA:

In Detroit. This weekend.

MARTIN:

Tell them that's impossible. I need

my normal lead time.

MARCELLA:

They were very upset.

MARTIN:

Would you describe their position as

inflexible?

MARCELLA:

Intractable, sir. You leave tonight.

Marcella looks concerned.

MARCELLA:

And sir, I also get that broken-

mirror, black-cat, Friday-the-

thirteenth kind of feeling about

this one....

MARTIN:

There's nothing to be done about it.

MARCELLA:

I liquidated the last account in

Zurich, and split it into two new

ones in Estonia.

MARTIN:

Good. What else? Anything interesting?

MARCELLA:

Mmm, not really. But you're gonna

love this one.

She hands him a piece of paper. He scans it.

MARCELLA:

Enough?

MARTIN:

Never enough.

MARCELLA:

But it's a Greenpeace boat. It'd be

so easy.

Martin looks at her wearily. He puts it into the paper

shredder at the side of her desk.

MARTIN:

I have scruples. Next.

MARCELLA:

Paperwork on the Detroit thing. It's

a full dossier. Very comprehensive.

She raises a thick brown dossier from the top of her desk

and puts it down again. Martin moves through a door to his

private office.

MARTIN'S OFFICE

Martin goes into his office and sits at his desk. On the

walls are a couple of boring prints of tallships. A bookshelf

holds trappings of a loose attempt at a cover-- a few shipping

manifests, sealane tables, and other specialized reference

books on import/export. He sits and stares.

NEW ANGLE:

Time has passed, and Martin still sits at his desk massaging

his gums with a rubber-tipped dental pointer.

C.U. MARTIN'S TEETH

The dental tool jumps across the gaps between his teeth like

a hummingbird.

MARCELLA:

(off-screen)

You should get going....

MARTIN:

pulls back his jacket lapel and fits the utensil into a pocket

protector that is also home to a toothbrush, emery board,

tweezers, and comb. He stands and walks out of his office.

FOYER:

Martin moves toward the door. As he passes Marcella she hands

him the mauve envelope and a travel portfolio.

MARCELLA:

Don't forget your identity.

MARTIN:

See you next week.

Martin stops short as he reaches the threshold. He holds up

the envelope, and stares a dagger through it. On his way

out, over his shoulder...

MARTIN:

Tell Dr. Oatman I'm on my way.

INT. DR. OATMAN'S OFFICE - DAY

Martin slouches on a leather couch. He holds the mauve

envelope, now open.

DR. OATMAN (V.O.)

Why don't you want to go to your

high school reunion?

MARTIN:

It's in Michigan. Honestly, what do

I have in common with those people?

Or with anyone?

DR. OATMAN sits in the window. He is Kris Kringle-esque, and

wears a sheepskin vest, rough-hewn shirt, faded Levis, and

old Frye boots. Oatman nods with the suave understanding of

a man happy to collect fifty thousand in fees before asking

a tough question.

DR. OATMAN

You went to school with these people.

MARTIN:

Come on.

DR. OATMAN

We've spent a lot of time discussing

those years. Remember we said that

fear is a transfer of the bodily

hurt associated by experience with

the thing feared, to the thought of

the thing. Thus we fear a dog without

distinctly imagining its bite.

MARTIN:

Shouldn't you be taking notes?

DR. OATMAN

Tell me about your vision of the

reunion.

CLOSE-UP - MARTIN

CUT TO:

MARTIN'S P.O.V. - FROM ABOVE

Of a crowded gymnasium. The alumni below stops what they are

doing and look up at Martin, DRAWING GUNS OF ALL SHAPES AND

SIZES AND OPEN FIRE ON MARTIN. THE UNITED FORCE INSTANTLY

DISINTEGRATES, AND ALL 400 PEOPLE TURN THEIR GUNS ON EACH

OTHER. A BLOODBATH ENSUES. ONE ALUMNI SHOOTS HER OWN HEAD

OFF, ANOTHER MOWS DOWN THE BAR, ETC.

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