Life Page #7

Claude narrows his eyes.

CLAUDE:

Alright. You want some pie?

RAY:

Yeah, I want some pie.

CLAUDE:

Okay then, I'm gonna walk over to

that counter and get us some f***ing

pie.

Resolved, Claude stomps over to the counter.

CLAUDE:

Excuse me, ma'am, I bet a brick will

turn that one right there into a

colored pie.

Claude lays down a dollar bill. Mama casually pulls a shotgun

from under the counter.

MAMA:

And I bet this right here will turn

you into a colored pie.

CLAUDE:

Okay, Ray, I think we can go now.

Much obliged...

Ray gives the whole place a cool once-over as Claude pulls

him out the door. Mama turns to Billy, still studying the

stitching on his shirt.

MAMA:

Don't be concentrating so hard, baby.

You're liable to seize yourself again.

EXT. DOCKS -- NIGHT

The truck rolls up to the waters edge. Ray kills the engine

and flashes the lights twice. In the passenger seat, Claude

is fast asleep. After a few moments, a FAT MAN appears,

shining a flashlight into the cab.

RAY:

How you doing? We're looking for

Slim.

SLIM:

You found him.

Ray c*cks an eyebrow.

EXT. DOCKS -- NIGHT

Under cover of darkness, a couple of MEN finish loading crates

into the bed of the truck. Ray and Claude keep their eyes

peeled for the law. Down by the river, they can see lights

and hear music from a district of rowdy juke joints. SLIM

steps up, wiping his hands.

SLIM:

That's it, fellas. Thirty six cases

of Puerto Rico's finest. At five

bucks a case, that's $180.

Ray pulls out a wad and slaps it in Slim's sweaty palm. The

fat man starts counting it out.

RAY:

Man, that music is hot. What goes on

down there, Slim?

SLIM:

That's Natchez-under-the-Hill.

RAY:

Blacks welcome there?

SLIM:

Green's the only color that matters

under the hill. They got gambling,

girls. You oughta check it out.

RAY:

Maybe we will. Nice meeting you.

Slim slips into the shadows.

CLAUDE:

Nice meeting you? You've been here

before, haven't you?

RAY:

What gave you that idea?

CLAUDE:

Oh, I don't know, maybe because our

lives depend on it, I just sort of

thought you knew what you were doing!

RAY:

Don't get all agitated on me. I bought

a bottle of rum from a couple of

dudes, I heard 'em talking...

CLAUDE:

Let me get this straight. We drove

all the way down to Klan country

'cause you heard a couple of guys

talking?

RAY:

What are you complaining about? It

worked out. Everything's cool. Now,

come on, let's head down there and

see what's shaking. We deserve a

little reward.

CLAUDE:

(dubious)

Reward?

RAY:

There are people down there having

fun. I want to be one of them. I

want you to be one of them. On Monday

you can be a bank teller if you want,

but tonight you're a bootlegger with

a truck full of Puerto Rican rum and

a fistful of cash.

A look of excitement crosses Claude's face, but he quickly

shakes it off.

CLAUDE:

That's gas money.

Exasperated, Ray stuffs a few bills into Claude's pocket.

RAY:

There's your gas money. You stay

here and watch the truck. And don't

worry, I've got the keys.

Left alone, Claude mutters and kicks at the dirt. He leans

against the truck.

UP AHEAD/EXT. JUKE JOINT -- NIGHT

Ray emerges from the woods and heads down the hill toward

the juke joint. Claude hustles up next to him.

CLAUDE:

I'm just gonna keep an eye on you,

make sure you don't do nothing stupid.

INT. JUKE JOINT -- NIGHT

A ramshackle den of iniquity on the banks of the Mississippi.

The band is laying down some serious Delta blues, creating

an inviting atmosphere for sin and moral corruption.

On a far side of the room, Ray is playing poker with some

LOCALS. He seems to be having a bad night. WINSTON HANCOCK,

a formidable black man, sweeps in another big pot and puffs

happily on his cigar.

OVER AT THE BAR:

Perched on a stool, Claude shoots a dark look at Ray and

motions for the door. Ray waves him off and returns to his

game. Claude becomes aware of a soft, young female hand on

his shoulder.

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