Some Like It Hot Page #3

Mulligan, who has been studying Colombo, consults his wrist-

watch. The waiter comes up with his order -- a demitasse

half full of Scotch, and a split of club soda.

MULLIGAN:

Better bring the check now -- in

case the joint gets raided.

WAITER:

Who's going to raid a funeral?

MULLIGAN:

Some people got no respect for the

dead.

The waiter moves off. Mulligan sips from the cup, winces,

takes a cigar out of his pocket and starts to light it. His

eyes wander to the chorus girls.

The girls have gone into a tap-dance. The captain of the

chorus looks toward the bandstand, grins and winks at --

JOE, the saxophone player. He winks back. JERRY, who is

thumping the bass-fiddle behind him, leans forward and taps

Joe on the shoulder.

JERRY:

Say, Joe -- tonight's the night,

isn't it?

JOE:

(eye on tap-dancer)

I'll say.

JERRY:

I mean, we get paid tonight, don't

we?

JOE:

Yeah. Why?

He takes the mouthpiece out of his saxophone, wets the reed.

JERRY:

Because I lost a filling in my back

tooth. I gotta go to the dentist

tomorrow.

JOE:

Dentist? We been out of work for

four months -- and you want to blow

your first week's pay on your teeth?

JERRY:

It's just a little inlay -- it doesn't

even have to be gold --

JOE:

How can you be so selfish? We owe

back rent -- we're in for eighty-

nine bucks to Moe's Delicatessen --

we're being sued by three Chinese

lawyers because our check bounced at

the laundry -- we've borrowed money

from every girl in the line --

JERRY:

You're right, Joe.

JOE:

Of course I am.

JERRY:

First thing tomorrow we're going to

pay everybody a little something on

account.

JOE:

No, we're not.

JERRY:

We're not?

JOE:

First thing tomorrow we're going out

to the dog track and put the whole

bundle on Greased Lightning.

JERRY:

You're going to bet my money on a

dog?

JOE:

He's a shoo-in. I got the word from

Max the waiter -- his brother-in-law

is the electrician who wires the

rabbit --

JERRY:

What are you giving me with the

rabbit?

JOE:

(pulling form sheet

out of pocket)

Look at those odds -- ten to one. If

he wins, we can pay everybody.

JERRY:

But suppose he loses?

JOE:

What are you worried about? This job

is going to last a long time.

JERRY:

But suppose it doesn't?

JOE:

Jerry-boy -- why do you have to paint

everything so black? Suppose you get

hit by a truck? Suppose the stock

market crashes?

Jerry, slapping the bass, is no longer listening. His eyes

have strayed to --

Mulligan, sitting at his table, puffing on the cigar. It

isn't drawing too well. Mulligan reaches under his coat,

unpins his Department of Justice badge from his vest. Using

the pin of the shining badge, he pokes a hole in the wet end

of the cigar.

Jerry has stopped playing, and is watching Mulligan's

operation with morbid fascination. Joe, completely unaware,

continues talking.

JOE:

Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas

Fairbanks?

JERRY:

(nudging him)

Hey, Joe!

JOE:

(paying no attention)

Suppose Lake Michigan overflows?

JERRY:

Don't look now -- but the whole town

is under water!

He nods toward Mulligan. Joe looks off. Then, without a word,

they both start packing their instruments.

Mulligan pins the badge back on, checks his wrist-watch.

MULLIGAN:

(to himself)

...four, three, two, one...

He glances toward --

the door from the funeral parlor. Right on the dot, a pair

of police axes smash through the door.

Instant pandemonium breaks loose in the speakeasy. MUSIC

stops, women scream, customers, chorus girls and waiter

scramble toward the side doors. But they too are splintering

under the assault of the police axes. The crowd falls back,

milling around frantically.

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