Klute Page #5

INT. KLUTE'S APARTMENT: KLUTE - NIGHT

The tape-recorder continues turning and winking as

the conversation upstairs continues. KLUTE looks at

TV dinner. He reaches for the headset of the

taperecorder, holds it loosely against one ear. He

exhibits a measure of new interest. The TAPE

RECORDER stops running. He immediately rewinds, and

starts listening through it again. We CUT TO --

EXT. GARMENT DISTRICT - NIGHT

Large, dark buildings -- a DIM-LIGHTED WINDOW

showing at an upper floor of one -- the street

otherwise by and large deserted. A TAXI draws in, a

FIGURE IN EVENING DRESS (Bree) gets out, approaches

the building, glances around, either secretly or

apprehensively -- presses a buzzer, waits, gets

answering CLICKS, enters the dark hallway of the

building, starts upstairs.

EXT. ACROSS THE STREET - NIGHT

KLUTE shifts into view, looking in the direction

Bree's gone, a little puzzled all in all. He

doesn't immediately follow; he waits.

INT. GARMENT BUILDING - CUTTING ROOMS - NIGHT

We look past RACKS OF CLOTHING, as BREE arrives up

the dark stairway into dark rooms -- the scene,

mysterious, a little sinister. She seems fearful of

it herself, advances slowly, looking around, calls

-

BREE:

Hi? -_

ANGLE PAST MR. FABER, TO BREE

Mr. Faber is SILHOUETTED for a moment, standing,

watching her, from along an alleyway of garments.

She sees him, is startled then relieved.

BREE (CONT'D)

Oh --

He moves toward her.

REVERSE ANGLE, TO MR. FABER

Mr. Faber is a man of 65 or so, rather handsome,

and for this occasion very spruce, very erect, very

nattily turned out. Bree complains cheerfully.

BREE (CONT'D)

You scared me, Mr. Faber.

He smiles, kisses her cheek, tests the fabric of

her evening dress -- (in passing, as a matter of

expertise).

MR. FABER

Good material, not too good cut.

I'd do better for you.

Then he turns, lifts down a WOMAN'S DRESS CAPE,

carrying it -- graciously gestures her to precede

him --

CORNER OF CUTTING ROOM

A dim pool of light here. A private area here,

sectioned off by rows of garments. A couch, rug,

coffee table, a chair or two -- a place for Buyers

to take their ease. BREE and MR. FABER enter. Her

manner is suddenly elegant, assured, regal; his

befits a man of the world. He fits the cloak around

her shoulders and gestures to the couch; she sits.

He pours a glass of wine for her, for himself. She

speaks with a neat continental accent -- doing it

fairly well, really -- a member of the

international set.

BREE:

Oh thank you.

He sits in the chair opposite, sips his wine.

MR. FABER

Enjoy.

(then)

Well --

BREE:

(diffident)

It's good to see you. Well -- could

we do it first and then just talk?

MR. FABER

Sure dear, yes.

BREE:

Well -- well I'm just back. And --

I must tell you -- something quite

wonderful.

MR. FABER

(intently)

Yes?

BREE:

And Cannes was quite fun, quite;

and we played baccarat and

chemindefer and there was a nice

little Italian marquis quite

enthusiastic for me -- but a young

man can be so silly --

MR. FABER

Mm.

BREE:

And then one night -- at the gaming

tables -- well I just saw him. A

stranger -- looking at me -- and I

knew suddenly that all my life I'd

been --

She hesitates strangely, her fingers at the neck of

the cape. Faintly --

BREE (CONT'D)

-- May I? It's so --

MR. FABER

(quickly)

Please --

She stands, unloosing the cloak, letting it fall on

the couch. But she doesn't sit again -- begins to

move here and there about the enclosure, her hands

wandering about her dress and body -- an erotic

restlessness.

BREE:

Not young; he wasn't young -- gray

at the temples, he -- well actually

he looked like you.

MR. FABER

(tensely)

Yes?

BREE:

And nobody could tell me who he was

-- an exiled prince or a mercenary

or a bullfighter or -- but I felt

it stirring inside me, this -- this

wild, pagan feeling --

EXT. GARMENT BUILDING DOOR - NIGHT

KLUTE arrives from across the street. It takes him

a while (with a 'loid' probably) to slip the lock.

He eases door open, moves inside --

INT. CORNER OF CUTTING ROOM: BREE - NIGHT

BREE is farther along in her narrative, more

fervent in manner. MR. FABER sits at the edge of

his seat, ducking his head now and then in

pleasure, but making no move to molest her.

BREE:

And next day at the beach -- our

beach pavilion -- I saw him again,

his eyes burning into me. I was

helpless. Without his even speaking

to me, without his even touching, I

knew that somehow -- somehow --

She casts away an accessory garment. Mr. Faber

burns her with his eyes --

INT. GARMENT BUILDING - CUTTING ROOMS - NIGHT

KLUTE mounts into view at the head of the stairs,

prowls along the aisles of clothing, looking --

sees --

POV PAST GARMENT RACKS TO MR. FABER

Klute sees Mr. Faber first -- clearly a senior

citizen -- sitting transfixed, fastened in some

private dream. Then BREE drifts into view -- stands

-- lets fall the evening dress about her ankles,

poses -- drifts out of view again --

KLUTE:

Klute watches in that direction a moment longer. In

his expression a certain curiosity -- a prurience --

but rather more strongly, disappointment, a measure

of disgust. Not his affair. He turns away from it,

into camera, and --

EXT. BREE'S BROWNSTONE - NIGHT

Near the entrance, outside the door to KLUTE's

apartment below. We open on BREE. She shouts

angrily, miserably --

BREE:

Whyn't you just cut out?

We WIDEN TO INCLUDE KLUTE. Now she begins to get

it. He turns, opens door to his room below. She

comes slowly down steps.

INT. KLUTE'S ROOM - DAY

She steps in the door, looks slowly around at his

various appurtenances -- the bed, the necktie over

the mirror, etc. -- and then, the TAPE RECORDER and

then the STACK OF TAPE BOXES. Softly, venomously --

BREE:

Oh you bastard.

But then she adjusts -- a frightened but matter-of

fact hooker --

BREE (CONT'D)

Is it the shakedown hon? You picked

a loser, I just don't have it.

KLUTE:

No, I'm look --

BREE:

(vehemently again)

If I was taking calls full time

would I be living in this kip? I'd

be back on Park Avenue; I could

support the whole National Guard!

KLUTE:

(gestures upward)

Could I ask some questions?

BREE:

Or you'll get me shoved back in the

brig you mean; another month with

the bull-dykes.

She seems to have expressed it; the balance of

power. She turns, goes out, heads upstairs. Klute

unhurriedly takes up his folder of notes, then

follows.

INT. BREE'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Bree disposes her belongings. Klute moves to table.

There is a group of plants on the table that long

since died of neglect. He notices them and the

disorganization of the room without comment, opens

his folder, rummages for the photographs. Then,

exasperatedly --

BREE:

Look, I told the police everything:

I don't even remember the schlub!

Klute doesn't respond. Klute sets out a photograph

for her to look at.

INSERT:
PHOTOGRAPH TOM GRUNEMANN

KLUTE, BREE

BREE:

They showed me that one. I

understand it's Grunemann, but I

told them, I just don't remember.

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