L.A. Confidential Page #13

JACK AND REDNECK

Redneck chews tobacco, has a Texas drawl.

REDNECK:

Where to, Trash?

JACK:

If we go by the list, we have

about zero chance of making the

collar. But I know a guy who

knows what's going on south of

Jefferson. I'm betting he could

put us at 50/50.

REDNECK:

I don't know...

As Redneck thinks, Exley steps up. He's overheard.

EXLEY:

I'll take those odds.

(to Redneck)

Take off. We got it from here.

Jack stares. Redneck shrugs, spits tobacco juice in a

cup.

REDNECK:

Between the two of you guys, you

should bring along a photographer.

INT. HOLLYWOOD LIQUOR - DAY

Last time we saw the Owner was Christmas Eve. He looks

up from a customer as Bud strides in, badge out front.

BUD:

I need an address on a customer of

yours. Her name was Lynn.

OWNER:

That's all I have to go on?

BUD:

Yeah. And I think you already

know who I mean, so cough it up.

OWNER:

Lynn Bracken. There's a billing

address and a delivery address.

BUD:

Give me both. Billing first.

EXT. 1184 GRETNA GREEN, BRENTWOOD (PATCHETT'S) - DAY

A big, pink Spanish mansion with lots of tile. Also last

seen outside Hollywood Liquor on Christmas Eve, Pierce

Patchett is in the front yard, chipping golf balls over a

koi pond. They land in a tight grouping. As he tees up:

BUD (O.S.)

You must slay 'em at the country

club.

Bud's halfway up the walk. Patchett sees the cuffs

hooked to his belt. Patchett is cool as can be.

BUD:

Are you Pierce Patchett?

PATCHETT:

I am. Are you soliciting for

police charities? The last time,

you people called at my office.

BUD:

I'm a homicide detective. Where

were you last night?

PATCHETT:

I was here, hosting a party. Who

was killed and why do you think I

can help?

BUD:

Richard Stensland.

PATCHETT:

I don't know him. Mr...

BUD:

Officer White. How about Susan

Lefferts? You know her?

PATCHETT:

(sighs, concedes)

You know I do or you wouldn't be

here. How did you find me?

BUD:

We met outside Hollywood Liquors

on Christmas Eve. This is where

Lynn Bracken's booze bills go.

PATCHETT:

Of course...

BUD:

Sue Lefferts died at the Nite Owl.

I'm investigating.

Patchett studies Bud a beat, weighing his options.

Patchett's burly BODYGUARD starts over from the house.

BODYGUARD:

Everything alright, Mr. Patchett?

PATCHETT:

(waves him off)

Fine, Philip. Thank you.

BUD:

Where's the other guy? Buzz.

PATCHETT:

He no longer works for me.

(a beat)

Find Susan's killer, Mr. White.

I'll give you a handsome reward.

Whatever you desire.

If only Jack had been around to hear that.

BUD:

Thanks, but no thanks.

PATCHETT:

Against your code?

BUD:

I don't have one. Lefferts looked

beat-up Christmas Eve, but didn't

act it. How come?

PATCHETT:

Do you care about criminal matters

peripheral to Susan's murder?

BUD:

No.

PATCHETT:

Then you wouldn't feel obligated

to report them?

BUD:

That's right.

PATCHETT:

Then listen closely, because I'll

only say this once and if it gets

repeated, I'll deny it. I run

call girls. Lynn Bracken is one

of them and so was Susan Lefferts.

I treat my girls very well. I

have grown daughters, myself, and

I don't like the thought of women

being hurt. I sense you share

this feeling.

BUD:

(ignores comment)

Why were Lefferts' eyes black?

PATCHETT:

I think she'd been hit in the face

with a tennis racket. She is --

was -- a big doubles fan.

BUD:

You wanna go downtown and discuss

this officially?

PATCHETT:

Wait. Our deal still holds?

Bud nods, his patience running thin.

PATCHETT:

I needed a Rita Hayworth to fill

out my little studio.

BUD:

What little studio?

PATCHETT:

There's Gardner, Hepburn, Grable,

Turner. Lynn Bracken is my

Veronica Lake. I use girls who

look like movie stars. Sometimes

I employ a plastic surgeon.

BUD:

That's why her mother couldn't

I.D. her... Jesus f***ing Christ.

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