Some Like It Hot Page #4

Mulligan stands up, cups his hands to his mouth, and roars

at the top of his voice.

MULLIGAN:

All right, everybody -- this is a

raid. I'm a federal agent, and you're

all under arrest.

Policemen come streaming through the splintered doors.

Carried in on the tide is the Drunk who was just tossed out,

reeling unsteadily, and waving his empty coffee cup aloft.

DRUNK:

I want another cup of coffee.

The policemen start rounding up the customers and employees,

are herding them toward the exits.

On the bandstand, Joe and Jerry have packed their instruments,

and start to fight their way through the melee, toward some

stairs leading up.

Mulligan, a couple of policemen in tow, comes up to Spats

and his henchmen, sitting calmly at their table, with five

glasses of white liquid in front of them.

MULLIGAN:

Okay, Spats -- the services are over.

Lets go.

SPATS:

Go where?

MULLIGAN:

A little country club we run for

retired bootleggers. I'm gonna put

your name up for membership.

SPATS:

I never join nothin'.

MULLIGAN:

You'll like it there. I'll have the

prison tailor fit you with a pair of

special spats -- striped!

SPATS:

(to his companions,

dead-pan)

Big joke.

(to Mulligan)

Who's the rap this time?

MULLIGAN:

Embalming people with coffee -- eighty-

six proof.

SPATS:

Me? I'm just a customer here.

MULLIGAN:

Come on, Spats -- we know you own

this joint. Mozarella is just fronting

for you.

SPATS:

Mozarella? Never heard of him.

MULLIGAN:

We got different information.

SPATS:

From who? Toothpick Charlie, maybe?

MULLIGAN:

Toothpick Charlie? Never heard of

him.

He picks up Spats' glass, sniffs it suspiciously.

SECOND HENCHMAN:

Buttermilk!

MULLIGAN:

All right -- on your feet.

SPATS:

(getting up slowly)

You're wasting the taxpayers' money.

MULLIGAN:

If you want to, you can call your

lawyer.

SPATS:

(pointing to his four

hoods)

These are my lawyers -- all Harvard

men.

Mulligan and the two policemen lead Spats and his Harvard

men out.

EXT. FUNERAL PARLOR - NIGHT

Policemen, under the supervision of the captain, are herding

customers into a paddy-wagon. Fighting his way out of the

wagon is our Drunk, waving his coffee cup in the air.

DRUNK:

I want another cup of coffee.

He staggers into the alley, toward the side entrance of the

speakeasy, CAMERA MOVING with him. Through the smashed-up

side door, policemen are ushering more customers, waiters,

musicians and the dancing girls.

CAMERA MOVES UP TOWARD a fire escape on the second floor.

Joe and Jerry, carrying their instruments and overcoats,

have just climbed through a window onto the fire escape, and

are inspecting the scene below. The shot-up hearse is parked

directly beneath them. Stealthily they climb down the ladder,

drop to the roof of the hearse. Then they scramble over the

radiator, steal down the alley away from the street. They

stop in the shadows to put on their coats.

JERRY:

Well, that solves one problem. We

don't have to worry about who to pay

first.

JOE:

Quiet -- I'm thinking.

JERRY:

Of course, the landlady is going to

lock us out. Moe said no more

knackwurst on credit -- and we can't

borrow any more from the girls,

because they're on their way to jail --

JOE:

Shut up, will you? I wonder how much

Sam the Bookie will give up for our

overcoats?

JERRY:

Sam the Bookie? Nothing doing! You're

not putting my overcoat on that dog!

JOE:

I told you -- it's a sure thing.

JERRY:

But we'll freeze -- it's below zero --

we'll catch pneumonia.

JOE:

Look, stupid, he's ten to one.

Tomorrow, we'll have twenty overcoats!

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. CHICAGO STREET - DAY

The street is covered with snow. Joe and Jerry, without

overcoats, the collars of their tuxedos turned up against

the bitter cold, come down the steps of the elevated, carrying

their instruments. The only thing that keeps Jerry from

freezing is that he is boiling over inside. As they proceed

along the sidewalk, Jerry finally can't hold it any more.

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