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...
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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"Some Like It Hot" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 25 Nov. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/some_like_it_hot_510>.
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