The French Connection Page #2

BLACK PUSHER:

That's a lot o' sh*t. I didn't do

nothin'.

The BLACK PUSHER's eyes are on DOYLE, frozen in confusion

and fear.

DOYLE:

You put a shiv in my partner. Know

what that means? All winter I

gotta listen to him gripe about his

bowling scores. Now I'm gonna bust

your ass for those three bags -

then I'm gonna nail you for pickin'

your feet in Poughkeepsie.

EXT. HEADQUARTERS NARCOTICS BUREAU OF THE NYPD 12 OLD SLIP

AND SOUTH STREETS - NIGHT

DOYLE and RUSSO standing side by side on the front steps of

the old First Precinct on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

RUSSO has his overcoat over his shoulders as a cape. The

sleeve of his left arm is rolled up over a blood-stained

bandage on the left forearm.

DOYLE:

Havin' trouble? You're a dumb

guinea.

RUSSO:

How'd I know he had a knife.

DOYLE:

Never trust a n*gger.

RUSSO:

He coulda been white.

6.

DOYLE:

Never trust anybody. You goin' sick?

RUSSO:

Not a chance.

RUSSO nods in acceptance of the remark. The easy, synical

rapport between them is obvious: they are partners in a

business where somebody is always getting hurt and pain is

part of the inventory.

DOYLE:

Let's popeye around the Chez for a

half hour, catch the end of the

show and a couple drinks.

RUSSO:

Some other time Jimmy, I'm beat.

DOYLE reaches into the right side pocket of BUDDY's suitcoat

for a cigarette and matches. He lights up two in the pause,

sticks one in RUSSO's mouth.

DOYLE:

Come on -- one drink. Whatta you

say?

RUSSO:

Drink this.

DOYLE:

Whip it out.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

THE TITLES COMMENCE

THE FRENCH CONNECTION

Titles over a close shot of a chorus line, with lots of tits

and ass and lean, long legs in a brassy blare of music. We

zoom back to the area where DOYLE and RUSSO are beginning to

occupy a table. RUSSO takes the seat on the right, eyes

immediately on all that ginch, while DOYLE standing, gives

their order. We do not hear the dialogue but DOYLE asks

RUSSO what he wants BUDDY looks up and says "Cinzano." DOYLE

turns and says "Two of these." DOYLE slips into the chair

opposite RUSSO and the titles roll on. Unlike RUSSO who is

concentrating on the girls, DOYLE is digging the room and

the people who occupy the tables in it, as if he is the sort

of man who cannot relax until he knows who is around him,

why they are there.

7.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

A long view from DOYLE's position of the room, a quick

certain survey that stumbles twice; on laughter that seems

too raw and then over a flurry of activity by WAITERS and

CAPTAINS serving a table on the main floor. DOYLE's

attention is apprehended by the noise and activity that

emanate from the same large table.

DOYLE:

I make at least two junk connections

at that table in the corner. The

guy is the stripe combo, I know him

too.

RUSSO:

Hey, I thought we come for a drink.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

A long view of the table with DOYLE and RUSSO very close

foreground, left and right. DOYLE is leaning on an elbow.

DOYLE:

Who is that guy?

RUSSO:

Policy man in Queens.

DOYLE:

What about the last of the big-time

spenders. You make him?

RUSSO's eyes come off the show. It is a direct line from

DOYLE's gaze to the round, ruddy and arrogant face of SAL

BOCA, the apparent host of the table of EIGHT MEN AND WOMEN,

the Men in dinner jackets with ties tucked under the collars

of blue or white lace-trimmed shirts, the Women in a mixture

of pant suits and Catskills cocktail party dresses, their

hair coiffed towers.

RUSSO:

No, you?

DOYLE:

Hunh-uh. Check the bread. He

spreads it like the Russians are in

Jersey.

RUSSO:

He probably sells insurance. Owns

a chicken farm in Hackensack.

8.

Zoom in slowly on SAL as he deals tips and orders. Through

DOYLE's eyes, we go from Guest to Guest at SAL's table,

taking apart their manners and styles as they talk and

laugh, lost in the show chatter.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

DOYLE finishing his drink, still looking at the table.

DOYLE:

Dig who's just come over. The

creep on the end.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

The camera pans down the table to dig the "creep on the end."

RUSSO (VO)

Jewish Lucky from the Bronx... He

don't look the same without a

number across his chest.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

DOYLE close in right profile, SAL's table in the far blurred

background.

DOYLE:

Whatta you say we wait and give him

a tail?

RUSSO:

Give who a tail?

DOYLE:

The greaser with the blonde.

RUSSO:

What for -- you wanna play Hide the

Salami with his old lady?

DOYLE:

Come on -- just for fun --

INT/EXT. DOYLE'S CAR - NIGHT

The view from the back seat of DOYLE's car. DOYLE is at the

wheel, RUSSO packed uncomfortably into the corner at DOYLE's

right. Seventy-five yards away on the other side of the

street the canopied entrance of the Club. A Continental is

parked in front of the club. The DRIVER leaning on a fender

talking with the DOORMAN. DOYLE frisks his own pockets for

a cigarette, coming up with a collection of laundry slips,

crumpled notes, toothpicks and matches.

9.

One of the slips of paper catches his eye as he is going

through the ritual of the cigarette mooch, a slip bearing

the name of a girl. His attention is really on the entrance

of the Club and both his conversation and the cigarette

business are detached and incidental to the art of waiting

through the stakeout. He stuffs the cards back into his

pocket.

DOYLE:

Monica? Who's Monica?

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