Phone Booth Page #5

VOICE:

A high-powered .30 calibre bolt

action Remington 700 with a carbon

one modification and a state of the

art Henzholdt tactical sniperscope.

And you're in the cross hairs, Stu.

STU:

I'm supposed to believe that?

VOICE:

There's only one way I can prove it

to you. Hang up the receiver and

find out. At this range, the exit

wound ought to be about the size of

a small tangerine.

STU:

And you're just going to kill me

for no reason?

VOICE:

For plenty of reasons! Because you

hung up. For years I hated people

hanging up on me. Ex-girlfriends.

Women I didn't even know.

Prospective employers.

STU:

I get hung up on all the time. You

get used to it.

VOICE:

Or else you don't. I worked for

months getting people to switch to

MCI -- being insulted at and being

hung up on hundreds of times a day.

The ones that cursed me out for

invading their privacy never

bothered me as much as those that

clicked off without even bothering

to reply.

STU:

Then why didn't you go after one of

them?

VOICE:

Maybe you are one of them.

STU:

Hey, I have worked in a boiler room

myself peddling "Term Life." I

Would never be rude to a fellow

salesperson.

VOICE:

Can you feel it on you now? The

heat of it. I'm moving the strike

zone down to your stomach area.

Now I'm raising it up again.

Directly above the chest cavity --

sliding up to the forehead just

above the left ear.

STU:

Sh*t -- I do feel it.

VOICE:

Tell me where I'm going with it

now.

STU:

Across my forehead -- now back

where it was before.

VOICE:

I'm amazed how you can do that.

You're amazingly accurate.

(beat)

Now I know what you're thinking.

If I drop down on the floor of the

booth and flatten myself out...

STU:

No, I'm not thinking that.

VOICE:

Oh yes you are. Can I crawl out

using the booth as a shield? Can I

crawl to that Chrysler illegally

parked only three or four feet

away? The shattering glass may cut

me, but it'll only be superficial.

Otherwise, this lunatic will never

let me out alive.

STU:

No. You will. I know you will.

If I just cooperate.

VOICE:

Where is it now? Think and feel

for the warm spot.

STU:

Below the shoulder?

VOICE:

Which one?

STU:

The right shoulder.

VOICE:

Remarkable how we're in tune.

You're doing far better than the

others.

STU:

What others? What do you mean?

(no reply)

You said 'others!'

VOICE:

(finally)

I'm sure you read about the Italian

tourist shot dead ten days ago at

the corner of Forty-fifth and

Eighth?

STU:

I saw it on the news.

VOICE:

And where are we now?

STU:

Oh, God. Forty-fifth and Eighth.

VOICE:

What else do you remember about

that killing?

STU:

I don't know.

VOICE:

Try.

STU:

He was gunned down. And nobody was

caught. And they didn't even

bother to take his wallet or his

watch... or anything.

VOICE:

Now you know why. It wasn't a

robbery.

STU:

What did he do?

VOICE:

He hung up -- so I disconnected him

permanently.

STU:

Please -- don't do it to me. You

got no reason to do it to me.

VOICE:

Don't give me reason.

STU:

I'm not looking to. Tell me what

you want!

VOICE:

Tell me about your job.

STU:

What's to tell? I'm in Public

Relations. They used to call us

"flacks." Now we're media

consultants.

VOICE:

What do you do, exactly?

STU:

Plant items in the paper and on the

tube. More important sometimes,

keep stuff out.

VOICE:

What've you kept out?

STU:

One of my people got nailed for

indecent exposure. I managed for

the cops to use his real name

instead of his stage name so nobody

picked up on it.

VOICE:

You saved the little deviate's ass,

didn't you?

STU:

He's in major therapy now. I swear

he is.

VOICE:

You must hang with some major

celebrities. Journalists,

newscasters -- those types.

STU:

I'm real close with Larry King.

And the "Hard Copy" people.

VOICE:

Could you get him down here? Larry

King?

STU:

Why would he want to come here?

VOICE:

Because you asked him to.

STU:

He comes from Atlanta.

VOICE:

Well, who could you get?

STU:

I don't know.

VOICE:

Wolf Blitzer?

VOICE:

Probably not.

VOICE:

Regis?

STU:

Definitely no chance.

VOICE:

You'd be offering them an exclusive

newsbreak. I'm talking about more

than one homicide.

STU:

How many?

VOICE:

I don't answer questions. I ask

them.

STU:

I gotta have the facts. They might

not believe me. My record isn't

too good when it comes to hard

news.

VOICE:

You're not considered a reliable

source?

STU:

On a divorce or separation, maybe.

Or who's gay, or who isn't gay any

more. I kind of specialize in that

kind of material. I mean I could

probably get you Joe Franklin.

VOICE:

How about Cindy Adams?

STU:

I might have a shot. Are you

familiar with Liz Smith?

VOICE:

Do you know her number?

STU:

Want I should call her? How much

can I say?

VOICE:

Tell her you're in direct touch

with a killer who's willing to

speak honestly if she shows up here

alone and without notifying the

authorities.

STU:

She usually likes to have a

celebrity involved. If you had an

actor or a sports figure held

prisoner instead of me, there'd be

better odds she's come.

VOICE:

Then lie. Pick a celebrity and put

them in the booth.

STU:

Let's see. Who does she like? Who

couldn't be reached to deny it?

VOICE:

I'm anxious to see you in action.

Don't keep me waiting.

Stu uses his cellular again.

STU:

(dialing)

Sometimes you only get her service.

(into cellular)

Hi -- Stu Shepard. Put me through.

I've got hard news for her. I can

only talk to her directly. But say

it regards -- Liza.

VOICE:

Liza? That was imaginative.

STU:

(into cellular)

No, I can't call back. I'll have

to lay in on somebody else.

Alright, but I can't hang on long.

(to pay phone)

She's coming on.

(to cellular)

Liz, hello. Sure I'll make it

brief. Killing two weeks ago in

the theatre district? Turn out a

sniper did the job. Yeah, a sniper

with a rifle. Now he's got another

victim lined up. Not just your

anonymous New Yorker, but Liza.

Now you can't call anybody or Ms.

Minelli's dead meat and so am I.

She's hostage in a phone booth

right in the sniper's sights. But

he says he'll talk to you and let

her walk. I know it'll take balls

to do this, but you're a fine and

courageous newspaper woman...

There's a click. Silence.

STU:

Hello? Hello?

(to pay phone)

Either she's on her way over or she

doesn't believe me.

VOICE:

You weren't particularly

convincing.

STU:

I didn't really believe in what I

was saying.

VOICE:

Because you don't really believe my

Remington is pointed at you?

STU:

I do.

VOICE:

You're ninety percent sure.

STU:

At least ninety-five percent, easy.

VOICE:

Let me erase all doubt.

STU:

No. Don't shoot.

VOICE:

Control yourself, Stu. Glance down

at your chest. What do you see.

STU:

Oh, my God. A dot. A f***ing red

dot.

A tiny red dot now moves across Stu's chest.

VOICE:

Like you've seen in the movies?

STU:

The laser dot. Just before some

poor bastard always gets blown

away.

VOICE:

Usually a supporting player. That

lovely but by now generic special

effect of the bullet piercing the

forehead.

The tiny red laser dot dances around Stu's chest and stomach

-- the jumps up and remains between his eyes.

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