Miller's Crossing Page #23

Checking the open chamber of his gun. He snaps it shut.

As he levels the gun at Tom:

Bluepoint

Think about this, smart guy.

TOM:

Closing his eyes.

From offscreen:

Tic-Tac

Uh-oh, hankie time!

FRANKIE:

He stops singing and turns to look.

TOM:

The foot comes off his neck.

BLUEPOINT:

Looking towards Tic-Tac.

TIC-TAC

Taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and bringing

it to his face as he looks at something on the ground in

front of him.

BLUEPOINT:

He hauls Tom to his feet and pushes him towards Tic-Tac.

We track behind the two men as they approach Tic-Tac and

Frankie enters from the side.

We cannot yet see what is on the ground in front of him.

Tic-Tac

Birds been at him.

Frankie is taking out his hankie as he draws near.

Frankie

Jesus Christ. . .

He looks up at Tom as Tom approaches.

Over Tom and Bluepoint's shoulders, stretching away from

us, face-up, is a body. We cannot see much of its face;

what we do see is pulp.

Tic-Tac is laughing, incredulously.

Tic-Tac

. . . I said put one in his brain, not in his

stinking face. . .

EXTREME LONG SHOT

Four very small men in overcoats and fedoras, looking down

at the ground; they are dwarfed by the surrounding trees.

Very faintly we can hear:

Frankie

I told you, Bluepoint, we heard two shots. . .

QUICK FADE OUT:

62. CUT TO:

APARTMENT BUILDING DOOR BUZZER

A beat-up panel in the building's entryway, listing

tenants' names and apartments opposite a row of buttons.

A hand coasts along the names and stops at CLARENCE

JOHNSON/4C, then moves away and presses two other buzzers

on the fifth floor.

After a beat, we hear the front door buzz open.

63. FOURTH-FLOOR HALLWAY

Tom walks up to 4C, unpocketing a gun. He gently tries the

knob, which turns, and enters.

64. DROP'S APARTMENT

As Tom enters.

Drop Johnson is sitting at a table in the living room,

which also serves as kitchen and dining room. He is a

large man with a thick neck, a low forehead, and rather

vacant eyes.

He is looking up at Tom, a spoonful of cereal frozen

halfway to his mouth, a folded-back newspaper in his other

hand, opened to the funnies.

Tom

'Lo, Drop. How're the Katzenjammers?

Uncomfortably:

Drop

'Lo, Tom. What's the rumpus?

As he talks, Tom walks casually around the apartment,

bumping open doors, sticking his head in each room.

Tom

Had any visitors?

Drop's head swivels to follow Tom around the room; aside

from that he does not move. He speaks cautiously:

Drop

No.

Tom

Not ever, Drop?

Drop

. . . Not lately.

Tom nods.

Tom

Then you must be happy to see me.

Drop doesn't respond.

. . . So you didn't see Bernie Bernheim, before

he was shown across?

Drop

No.

Tom

. . . Seen him since?

Drop maintains a sullen silence.

Tom is picking up a hat from a clutter on top of a bureau.

Tom

One last question, Drop. I hear you've got a lot

of money on tomorrow's fight. Is that your bet,

or did you place it for a friend?

Drop

No, uh. . . it's my bet. I just. . . I have a

good feeling about that fight. . .

Tom's stroll through the apartment has brought him behind

where Drop sits.

Tom

A good feeling, huh. When did the feeling return

to your head?

Drop

. . . Huh?

Tom puts the hat on top of Drop's head. Drop's eyes roll

up to look at it, but otherwise he still doesn't move.

The hat, too small, sits ludicrously atop his head.

Tom starts toward the door.

Tom

You've outgrown that one. Must be all the

thinking you've been doing. . .

He pauses with his hand on the knob.

. . . Tell Bernie something's come up. He has to

get in touch. There'll be nothing stirring til I

talk to him.

He slams the door.

65. CUT TO:

A LARGE WINDOW:

We are looking at the ground-floor window from the street.

Letters stencilled on the glass identify the SONS OF ERIN

SOCIAL CLUB.

A topcoated man scurries into frame, knocks out a pane with

the grip of a gun, and tosses a small pipelike device

inside. He scurries away and we pan with him across the

street to reveal a line of cars, police and civilian,

parked along the far curb. No men are visible except the

scurrying man, who takes cover behind one of the parked

cars.

SOCIAL CLUB:

A beat. From inside we hear a pair of trotting footsteps--

BOOM! The window blows out, spitting glass into the

street, along with a large dark form.

THE STREET:

Glass showers the pavement and a charred rag-doll of a body

hits hard, face down, and skids a couple feet. Smoke wisps

from it.

THE CLUB:

A lick of flame from the bomb is already dying and heavy

grey smoke is billowing out.

THE STREET:

Men start cautiously rising from behind the cars. A lot of

men. Some wear police uniforms; some are civilians. All

are armed.

THE CLUB:

Billowing smoke.

THE STREET:

The men have straightened up. A policeman calls through a

bullhorn:

Policeman

All right. Anyone left in there, come on out,

grabbing air. You know the drill.

THE CLUB:

After a beat, the front door swings open. A man emerges,

one hand in the air, one holding a handkerchief over his

mouth.

He walks into the middle of the street.

One of the civilians behind the cars fires.

The man takes the bullet in the chest and drops to the

ground, where he twitches.

The man who fired, in the foreground, grins. A ripple of

laughter runs down the line of men.

THE CLUB WINDOW:

Smoke still pouring out.

With a RAT-A-TAT-TAT muzzle flashes from inside illuminate

the smoke.

THE STREET:

Bullet hits chew up the cars and a few of the men; the

others drop back down behind the cars and start returning

fire.

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