Some Like It Hot Page #2

TOOTHPICK CHARLIE

Look, Chief -- I better blow now,

because if Spats Colombo sees me,

it's Goodbye Charlie.

MULLIGAN:

Goodbye, Charlie.

Charlie scoots up the dark street, disappears.

MULLIGAN:

(to the police captain)

Give me five minutes -- then hit 'em

with everything you got.

CAPTAIN:

You bet!

They synchronize their watches. Then Mulligan crosses to

Mozarella's parlor, unfolding the black crepe Charlie gave

him. It is a mourning band, and he slips it over the left

sleeve of his overcoat.

INT. MOZARELLA'S FUNERAL PARLOR - NIGHT

It looks legitimate enough -- with potted palms, urns and

funeral statuary. A harmless gray-haired man is playing the

organ with appropriate feeling. Daintily arranging a funeral

spray is the proprietor himself, MR. MOZARELLA.

His heavyweight build, bashed-in nose and cauliflower ears

don't quite jibe with his mourning coat, striped pants, ascot

and carnation. Dusting one of the marble angels is another

funeral director, in the same somber uniform.

Mulligan enters.

MOZARELLA:

(with grave sympathy)

Good evening, sir.

MULLIGAN:

I come to the old lady's funeral.

MOZARELLA:

(looking him over)

I don't believe I've seen you at any

of our services before.

MULLIGAN:

That's because I've been on the wagon.

MOZARELLA:

PLEASE!

MULLIGAN:

(looking around)

Where are they holding the wake? I'm

supposed to be one of the pallbearers.

MOZARELLA:

(to funeral director)

Show the gentleman to the chapel --

pew number three.

FUNERAL DIRECTOR

This way, sir.

He leads Mulligan past the organ toward the black-paneled

wall, where there is no evidence of a door.

The organist, without missing a note in his playing, reaches

over to the end of the keyboard and pulls out a stop. One of

the panels slides open, and there is a blast of MUSIC from

the chapel. It's jazz -- and it's SWEET GEORGIA BROWN.

Mulligan rears back momentarily, then follows the funeral

director in. The organist pushes the stop in again, and the

panel slides shut.

INT. SPEAKEASY - NIGHT

Grandma must have been quite a person, because she left a

lot of condoling friends behind, and they are holding a very

lively wake. The chapel is jumping. A small band is blaring

out SWEET GEORGIA BROWN. The musicians are not the slick,

well-fed instrumentalists you would find in Guy Lombardo's

band -- they have all been through the wringer, and so have

their threadbare tuxedos. On the stamp-sized dance floor,

six girls in abbreviated costumes are doing a frenetic

Charleston. Crowded around the small tables, mourners in

black arm-bands are drowning their sorrows in whatever they

drink out of their coffee cups.

MULLIGAN:

(looking around)

Well, if you gotta go -- this is the

way to do it.

The funeral director leads Mulligan to a table next to the

bandstand. As he moves off, a waiter comes up.

WAITER:

What'll it be, sir?

MULLIGAN:

Booze.

WAITER:

Sorry, sir, we only serve coffee.

MULLIGAN:

Coffee?

WAITER:

Scotch coffee, Canadian coffee, sour-

mash coffee...

MULLIGAN:

Make is Scotch. A demitasse. With a

little soda on the side.

As the waiter starts away, Mulligan stops him.

MULLIGAN:

Haven't you got another pew -- not

so close to the band?

(points to a better

table)

How about that one?

WAITER:

Sorry, sir. That's reserved for

members of the immediate family.

He winks, goes off. Mulligan scans the room.

From a side door comes Spats Colombo, followed by the four

hearsemen. They walk cockily toward the table 'reserved for

the immediate family.' A DRUNK, standing with a cup of booze

in his hand, is in their way. Colombo pushes him aside, and

the contents of the cup slop over. Colombo freezes in his

tracks, glances at his feet. The other four men have also

stopped, and stare in the same direction, horrified.

Spats Colombo's immaculate spats are no longer immaculate.

There is a whiskey stain on one of them.

Colombo throws his henchmen a sharp look. They grab the

offending drunk, hustle him toward the exit.

DRUNK:

(waving empty cup)

Hey -- I want another cup of coffee.

I want another cup of coffee.

Colombo proceeds toward the table, seats himself, crosses

his legs, takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and

meticulously mops the moist spat. His four companions, their

mission accomplished, join him at the table.

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