No Country for Old Men Page #9

Movement in the wedge of light.

Immediately, chugs from the shotgun chew up bathroom door

and nearby wallboard.

A cry from inside. A brief chatter of machine pistol.

INT. MOTEL DUCT - NIGHT

MOSS'S POV

Along the air vent.

The machine-pistol chatter crosses the cut.

We hear bullets snap through metal. The sound brings on

indirect light as holes are punched in the duct somewhere

around the bend.

Moss holds still as the galvanized metal faintly thunders.

The flashlight resting on it wobbles.

EXT./INT. 1ST MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

CHIGURH:

Gun leveled, at the open door.

Again, no movement.

He advances into the room, gun pointing at the bathroom door.

As he advances he swings the gun briefly over at the closet

door and fires. The splintered-in door reveals no occupant.

Chigurh angles around the double bed to get a view of that

wedge of bathroom floor visible through its door. Blood is

pooling out from the right.

Chigurh fires at the baseboard to the right of the door.

INT. MOTEL DUCT - NIGHT

Moss makes another attempt to hook the bag. The hook takes.

Moss drags the case inches out into the duct's bend before

the hook slides off again.

INT. 1ST MOTEL ROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT

CHIGURH:

He uses the shotgun barrel to push open what's left of the

bathroom door.

The mirror over the facing sink gives a view of most of the

hidden side of the bedroom/ bathroom party wall. Partial

view of a man pressed against the wall, standing in the tub

in the corner. From his posture and the one visible hand he

seems unarmed.

Chigurh enters the bathroom.

The cornered man is unhurt but terrified. He holds up his

hands.

MAN:

No me mate.

The man on the floor is quite dead. A machine pistol lies in

one out-flung hand.

Chigurh looks back up at the survivor.

CHIGURH:

How'd you find it?

MAN:

No me mate.

Chigurh walks unhurriedly to the tub. The man watches him,

hands up, vibrating.

Chigurh reaches with his free hand and pulls the shower

curtain most of the way round, hiding the man. He angles the

nose of the shotgun in and fires.

MOSS:

The hook again snags a strap on the case. Moss pulls,

carefully.

INT. 1ST MOTEL ROOM - MAIN ROOM - NIGHT

Chigurh emerges from the bathroom. His socks are sodden with

gore. He sits on the bed and peels them off. He rubs the

bottom of each foot with the ankle of each sock and drops

the socks to the floor.

He rises and opens three bureau drawers, which are empty,

and leaves them open.

He pulls open what remains of the closet door. Empty.

He looks under the bed.

He stands, looks around.

He looks up. His look lingers.

Close on the airduct grille: it is dusty. Rub-marks have

made four dark bands across the dusty slats. Chigurh's fingers

rise into frame and meet the grille, roughly aligning with

the finger marks in the dust.

Close on a screwhead: a dime enters and engages the screw

and starts turning it.

INT. MOTEL DUCT - NIGHT

From inside the duct: fingers reach through the grille and

Chigurh's hand pushes it up into the duct, then angles it

and withdraws it. Faintly, under the distant airy drone of

the compressor, we hear the grate clatter to the floor.

The back of Chigurh's head appears. He aims a flashlight

away down the far length of the duct. A beat.

He pivots to face us.

His point-of-view: the length of the duct, empty, with a

drag-mark through the middle of the dust.

Back to Chigurh. His look holds.

He ducks out.

INT. 1ST MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

In the room:
Chigurh steps down from the chair and pulls the

receiver from his pocket and turns it on.

It beeps once.

Silence.

Frowning, looking down at the receiver, Chigurh makes a slow

sweep with it. The silence holds-snapped off by car steady

as we cut to:

INT. STATION WAGON - NIGHT

Moss, with his duffle bag and document case, sits in the

passenger seat of an old station wagon. The driver is an

elderly man in a yoked shirt.

After a beat, eyes fixed on the road, the old man shakes his

head.

OLD MAN:

Shouldn't be doin' that. Even a young

man like you.

Moss gives him a look. A beat.

MOSS:

Doin' what. The old man gazes at the

road.

OLD MAN:

Hitchhikin'.

He shakes his head again. Silent driving. The old man murmurs:

OLD MAN:

Dangerous.

EXT. DOWNTOWN HOUSTON - DAY

BOOMING UP:

We are looking out as a foreground building slips by and we

rise to get an ever-higher perspective on downtown Houston,

hazy under a noon sun.

INT. OFFICE - DAY

A man standing behind a large desk-behind him, floor-to-

ceiling windows-has no small talk for Carson Wells, the man

entering.

MAN:

You know Anton Chigurh by sight, is

that correct?

Carson Wells sits in front of the desk, his manner affable.

He rests a booted foot across one knee.

WELLS:

Yessir, that's correct. I know 'em

when I see 'em.

MAN:

When did you last see him.

WELLS:

November the 28th, last year.

MAN:

You seem pretty sure of the date.

Did I ask you to sit?

WELLS:

No sir but you struck me as a man

who wouldn't want to waste a chair.

I remember dates. Names. Numbers. I

saw him on November 28th.

The man gazes. He nods.

MAN:

We got a loose cannon here. And we're

out a bunch of money, and the other

party is out his product.

WELLS:

Yessir. I understand that.

The man looks at him, appraising. He nods again and slides a

bank card across the table.

MAN:

This account will only give up twelve

hundred dollars in any twenty-four

hour period. That's up from a

thousand.

Wells rises to take the card and then reseats himself.

WELLS:

Yessir.

MAN:

If your expenses run higher I hope

you'll trust us for it.

WELLS:

Okay.

MAN:

How well do you know Chigurh.

WELLS:

Well enough.

MAN:

That's not an answer.

WELLS:

What do you want to know?

MAN:

I'd just like to know your opinion

of him. In general. Just how dangerous

is he?

Wells shrugs.

WELLS:

Compared to what? The bubonic plague?

He's bad enough that you called me.

He's a psychopathic killer but so

what? There's plenty of them around.

A beat.

MAN:

He killed three men in a motel in

Del Rio yesterday. And two others at

that colossal goatfuck out in the

desert.

WELLS:

Okay. We can stop that.

MAN:

You seem pretty sure of yourself.

You've led something of a charmed

life haven't you Mr. Wells?

Wells rises.

WELLS:

In all honesty I can't say that charm

has had a whole lot to do with it.

He thumps once at his chest.

WELLS:

...I'm wondering...

MAN:

Yes?

WELLS:

Can I get my parking ticket validated?

The man gazes.

MAN:

...An attempt at humor, I suppose.

WELLS:

I'm sorry.

MAN:

Goodbye, Mr. Wells.

EXT. EAGLE PASS TOWN SQUARE - DUSK

Moss is getting out of the station wagon with his duffle and

document case.

It is a town square. Among the old buildings is the Hotel

Eagle, identified by a neon above the front door.

INT. HOTEL EAGLE LOBBY - NIGHT

Moss enters. Behind the front desk an older man sits reading

Ring magazine. He has a hand-rolled cigarette.

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