Phone Booth Page #11

Then the pay phone starts ringing.

The sniper is calling back.

RACK FOCUS AGAIN

to the police.

All the cops react. Particularly the Captain and the

Sergeant. Their voices seem close up when they sharpen in

focus.

SERGEANT:

What is going on with these f***ing

phone calls?

RAMEY:

(shouts)

Hold your fire. Let him answer it.

The SWAT team backs up but maintain their aim.

SERGEANT:

Are you nuts?

RAMEY:

Let them talk. He's not going

anywhere.

(shouts)

He's going back inside the booth.

Indeed we see Stu re-enter the battered phone booth and pick

up the receiver.

FOCUS RETURNS TO STU

STU:

(into pay phone)

Yeah?

A strange voice begins chattering away in Spanish. Totally

unintelligible to Stu.

STU:

(into pay phone)

You got the wrong number. Hang up.

The voice, probably a Puerto Rican gentleman, rattles on in

Spanish.

STU:

Wrong number. Wrong number.

Then the voice on the phone suddenly alters the Hispanic

accent. It is the now familiar tone of his tormentor.

VOICE:

Aw, relax, Stu. Only yanking your

chain. Now can we start over?

STU:

Those cops won't wait much longer.

VOICE:

What else can they do? They can't

afford to just shoot you like I

can. Not with so much media

coverage. Not unless you make some

stupid aggressive move.

(beat)

The ABC Mobile Unit just rolled up.

Across the street, Stu can see various TV units from local

stations setting up cameras on roofs of trucks.

STU:

Will you look at that? I must be

going out over the network. Bet

they're pre-empting usual

programming.

VOICE:

And just think -- if you survive

this, your trial will be televised.

And you can try and make the world

believe I ever existed. I'd be

your only defense.

STU:

How are they gonna prove that I

killed anybody when there's no gun?

VOICE:

They'll plant one. The police

aren't above that -- when they're

desperate to convict.

STU:

No, sir. No gun and I walk.

VOICE:

Don't you think I took that into

account? Am I a fool?

STU:

What do you mean?

VOICE:

Haven't I considered every

eventuality? I knew they'd come

and cordon off the block.

(beat)

And that there'd have to be a gun

someplace.

STU:

Where?

VOICE:

It's a small booth, Stu. Have you

checked every inch of it?

STU:

(looking up and down)

It's not on the floor.

VOICE:

Then what's left?

STU:

Up above.

VOICE:

Could be. Why don't you reach up

there and lift the plastic sheet --

and feel around.

STU:

If they see me reach for something,

they could open fire.

VOICE:

They could. But you have to know

if it's there. Don't you?

STU:

I totally don't give a sh*t.

VOICE:

In a narrow space, tucked just to

the left of the fluorescent bulb.

You can almost see it outlined if

you look closely.

Stu peers upward at the clouded plastic, now stained and

dirty. There are shadows of objects above in the shallows

area around the light fixture that automatically goes on when

the door to the phone booth is tightly closed.

Stu opens and closes the door a few times, watching the light

click on -- watching the shadows around the light.

Could that be an accumulation of dirt, dust, or dead insects?

Or could something be stashed up there?

STU:

It doesn't matter. I know about

ballistics. The slug in that dead

guy came from your rifle, not any

handgun.

VOICE:

You saw how hollow points splinter

on impact. There's nothing much

for ballistics to match to. The

same make .30 calibre bullets are

in that handgun. The prosecution

rests.

STU:

There's no gun up there. I don't

see a damn thing.

VOICE:

Slide your finger up under the

plastic and you'll feel the cold

metal surface. There are four

rounds left in it. Should you

decide to shoot your way out.

STU:

I could never shoot anybody.

VOICE:

You could shoot me, Stu. You'd do

that in a minute if you could.

STU:

And I'd f***ing love it!

VOICE:

Now you're speaking from the heart.

Come on, just lift the partition a

few inches and feel what's there

for you.

STU:

I'm not getting my fingerprints on

your f***ing weapon. What about

powder residue? How are they going

to explain that to a jury?

VOICE:

Do you think that'll matter with so

many eye witnesses?

(beat)

Do it... or should I re-focus my

attention on Kelly?

STU:

No.

VOICE:

You carefully distracted me from

her before and I let you get away

with it. But if you're not going

to play fairly --

(a pause)

There she is again. So close I

feel like I could touch her.

STU:

Get off her!

VOICE:

Then mind me when I speak.

STU:

Look! I'm reaching up with my left

hand. I'm pushing against the

partition. It's giving. I'm

feeling around with my fingertips.

It's filthy up there.

TIGHT SHOT - STU'S FINGERS

feel about inside the shallow space. The shriveled remains

of dead flies -- a layer of dust -- and then a .30 handgun.

STU:

I'm -- touching something.

VOICE:

One of the finest handguns

Remington makes. Lightweight,

efficient and highly accurate.

STU:

I'm not picking it up.

VOICE:

Not right now. But eventually...

Stu lowers his hand, still empty.

STU:

I wouldn't have a chance.

VOICE:

I never said you would.

STU:

I'm not insane.

VOICE:

But you're getting there. It

wouldn't take much.

STU:

That won't happen.

VOICE:

You could pull the gun down, shove

it in your own mouth and jerk the

trigger. That's another option.

STU:

Why would I do that?

VOICE:

To please me. And ensure that

nothing happens to Kelly. I don't

necessarily have to deal with her

today in the midst of a crowd of

cops. I can take her out any time

I like. When she goes to pull down

her blinds at night or when she

walks the dog first thing in the

morning. What is it -- a Jack

Russell?

STU:

Okay. I know you can do it. But

don't talk about that. Please.

VOICE:

I'd rather see you remembered as

the gallant gunman who tried to

shoot his way past an army of

police -- than as a coward who

sucked the barrel. I'm doing your

PR for you. Creating a final image

that'll endure. The outraged New

Yorker who was pushed too far.

When some lowlife street person

tries to invade his territory, he

retaliated. And when the forces of

the law closed in, he was

defiant... to the end.

STU:

Like that nerdy sonofabitch who

blew those three wiseass kids away

on the subway?

VOICE:

Exactly. Nobody minded that he was

a sicko. He was living out a New

Yorker's pet fantasy. Can you

remember that movie where Peter

Finch started screaming 'I'm not

taking it anymore!' And everybody

picked up on it.

STU:

'I'm mad as hell and I'm not taking

it anymore.'

VOICE:

That was it. Poor Finch got

himself an Oscar for that. But he

was dead by then. I mean he really

died. Maybe playing that part took

too much out of him.

STU:

(softly to himself)

'I'm not taking it anymore.' 'I'm

not taking it anymore.'

VOICE:

That's the way! Psyche yourself

up. Everybody respects a man who

fights back, even if he goes a

little berserk in the process.

STU:

Fighting back. That's what it's

about.

VOICE:

Exactly! We all understand the

poor schmuck that gets laid off and

comes back and shoots all his

bosses. We all thought of doing

that. But only he had the balls.

The terminally ill husband who gets

his policy canceled and machine

guns the insurance company offices.

Maybe somebody will finally get the

message. You can f*** human beings

over only for so long before they

come back at you. I'm still

holding on Kelly and she looks very

concerned. I could relieve all

that anguish in a fraction of a

second. Shall I?

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