Raising Arizona Page #14

CLOSE SHOT DOOR MAT

It reads:
"Come On In! To Unpainted Arizona."

The smoking butt of a cheroot is dropped onto the mat. A

jackbooted foot grinds it out.

CLOSE SHOT BAR ON GLASS DOOR

Leading into the showroom. The Biker's mail-and-chained fist

pushes the door open.

LOW WIDE TRACKING SHOT

Behind the jackboots as they stroll through a showroom of

unpainted furniture and bathroom fixtures.

TRACKING ON THE MAILED HAND

Swinging as he walks, the Biker's hand produces a fresh

cheroot from no apparent source-either sleight-of-hand or

magic.

THE OTHER HAND:

Similarly producing a long wooden match.

DISCOLORED TEETH

Biting down on the cigar.

HAND:

Dragging the kitchen match along the unfinished wood surface

of an expensive bureau, leaving an ugly black scar.

The match erupts into roaring flame.

CIGAR:

Crackling as it is lit.

DOOR:

Reading "Executive Offices." The mailed fist pushes it open.

PEBBLED GLASS DOOR

From the inside of the office. The name on the pebbled glass

is a backwards Nathan Arizona.

There is the shadow of a man approaching the door, and muffled

voices.

SECRETARY'S VOICE

I'm sorry, Mr. Arizona, he just barged

in...

The door swings open and Nathan stands looking in, his middle-

aged secretary hanging at his elbow.

SECRETARY'S VOICE

...Should I call Dewayne?

Nathan is staring toward his desk.

NATHAN:

Hell no, why wake the security guard.

I'll take care a this.

The secretary leaves.

NATHAN'S POV

The Biker sits with his back to us, jackboots propped lazily

on the desk.

His head bobs and ducks, as if he is following some movement

in the air in front of him.

BACK TO NATHAN:

Eyes on the Biker he slams the door shut behind him, looking

for some reaction.

BIKER:

No reaction. His head continues to bob and duck.

BACK TO NATHAN:

Circling the Biker as he crosses to sit behind his desk.

HIS POV:

Arcing around to reveal the Biker's face. He still does not

react to Nathan, not even bothering to give him a glance.

His eyes continue to follow some phantom movement.

When the Biker speaks it is still without looking at Nathan,

and with a surprisingly soft voice and mild, unhurried manner:

BIKER:

You got flies.

He finally looks at Nathan, and smiles faintly.

NATHAN:

I doubt it. This place's climate-

controlled, all the windows are

sealed. Who the hell are you?

BIKER:

Name of Leonard Smalls. My friends

call me Lenny...

He takes a drag on his cigar.

BIKER:

...Only I ain't got no friends.

NATHAN:

Stop, you'll make me bust out crying.

Listen Leonard, you want some

furniture or a shitbox, they're out

on the sales floor.

SMALLS is pleasantly shaking his head.

SMALLS:

Nooo, I ain't a customer, I'm a

manhunter. Ordinarily. Though I do

hunt babies, on occasion. Hear you

got one you can't put your hand to.

NATHAN:

What do you know about it?

SMALLS:

Wal, that's my business. I'm a tracker-

part Hopi Indian, some say part hound

dog. When some dink skips bail,

crashes outta the joint, I'm the man

they call.

NATHAN:

Mister, I got the cops, the state

troopers and the Federal-B-I already

lookin' for my boy. Now if you got

information I strongly advise-

SMALLS:

Cop won't find your boy. Cop couldn't

find his own butt if it had a bell

on it. Wanna find an outlaw, call an

outlaw. Wanna find a Dunkin Donuts,

call a cop.

NATHAN:

Smalls, first off, take your damn

feet off m'furniture. Second off,

it's widely known I posted a twenty

grand reward for my boy. If you can

find him, claim it. Short of that

what do we got to talk about?

SMALLS:

Price. Fair price. And that ain't

whatever you say it is; fair price

is what the market'll bear. Now there

are people, mind you, there are people

in this land, who'll pay a lot more'n

twenty grand for a healthy baby.

Nathan is looking at him stonily.

NATHAN:

What're you after?

SMALLS:

Give you an idea, when I was a lad I

m'self fetched twenty-five thousand

on the black market. And them's 1954

dollars. I'm sayin, fair price. For

fifty grand I'll track him, find him-

Quick as a flash the heretofore languid Smalls bolts forward,

his fist stopped an inch short of Nathan's nose.

EXTREME CLOSE SHOT SMALLS' FINGERS

His index finger and thumb are pinched together-holding the

leg of a struggling fly that he has just plucked from the

air.

SMALLS:

...and the people that took him...

He flicks the fly away.

SMALLS:

...I'll kick their butts.

He sits back down.

SMALLS:

...No extra charge.

Nathan stares grimly at Smalls.

NATHAN:

And if I don't pay?

SMALLS:

Oh I'll get your boy regardless.

Cause if you don't pay, the market

will.

NATHAN:

You wanna know what I think? I think

you're an evil man. I think this is

nothin' but a goddamn screw job. I

think it's a shakedown. I think you're

the one took Nathan Jr. and my fine

friend, I think you're the one gonna

get his butt kicked...

Nathan swivels to punch numbers on a telephone.

NATHAN:

I think I'm on the phone to the cops

right now, and I-

He swivels back, looking up, and his speech stops short.

HIS POV:

The office is empty. A whipcrack effect builds to the cut

and:

CLOSE ON HI:

His eyes snap open as the whipcrack echoes away.

He has been slumped over the kitchen table, asleep.

GALE (O.S.)

Up and attem, H.I. Today is the first

day of the rest of your life...

EVELLE (O.S.)

...and already you're f***in' it up.

Hi looks up.

Gale and Evelle are smiling down at him.

EVELLE:

Come on, the missus'll be back from

town soon.

Hi takes the envelope that he was slumped over, to Ed written

on its face. As he sticks it to the refrigerator door with a

broccoli magnet:

HI:

Where's the baby?

EVELLE:

Bedroom, in his crib.

GALE:

He's sawin' toothpicks, he'll be

fine.

There is a harsh knock at the door. All three tense.

GALE:

...You expectin' anybody?

Hi is staring. The knock comes again.

HI:

No. You two stay outta sight.

He goes to the door, pulls back its shade and peeks out.

Under his breath:

HI:

Sh*t.

He opens the door.

EXT. TRAILER

It is Glen. He backs nervously down to the foot of the stoop

as Hi stands in the half open doorway. Glen comes to rest a

few feet away from the stoop.

He is wearing a neckbrace. The bridge of his eyeglasses is

taped together. Cotton wadding is stuffed up his nose, which

is darkly discolored. He holds a rolled up newspaper.

His station wagon is parked behind him, idling.

HI:

Morning Glen.

Glen speaks in a very nasal voice:

GLEN:

I ain't comin' in if ya don't mind.

I'll just keep my distance.

HI:

I didn't invite you in, Glen.

GLEN:

Well don't even bother. First off,

you're fired - and that's official.

HI:

I kinda figured that, Glen.

GLEN:

Well that ain't why I'm here neither.

No sir. You're in a whole shitload

of trouble, my friend.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes