The Limey

NOTE:
THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS.

THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FROM THIS SOFT COPY.

Wilson's first impression of Los Angeles was blue. He was in

the sky at the time, so it was a curious reversal, looking

down rather than up at the color he had always felt was

nature's finest.

Swimming pools. Hundreds of them. Pockmarking the landscape

like miniature lakes. A flat landscape of straight streets

and square blocks and sparse grass that didn't look quite

green enough.

As far as Wilson could remember, he had only ever seen seven

or eight swimming pools in his entire life and they had been

public ones. Here everyone had their own. Marvellous.

There was the one at the Butlin's holiday camp where he had

enjoyed his last legitimate employment -- as driver of a tour

bus. And there was the one at Crystal Palace he had gone to

once or twice when he was younger. He was most familiar,

though, with the Chelsea Baths as he had lived for some time

in a flat nearby in what he now thought of as his good years

-- before he'd gone grey, went to prison, and found himself in

a plane over a foreign town arriving to avenge the death of

his daughter.

WHOOSH! The sound of automatic doors opening and --

EXT. ARRIVALS TERMINAL. L.A. AIRPORT. AFTERNOON.

WILSON steps out into the late sunlight and the heat of the

day. A slow-motion moment while he gets acclimatized. He

wouldn't have ever felt quite this kind of heat before.

After such a rigorously air-conditioned interior. Or seen

cops wearing guns on their belts. Or black cops, for that

matter, with guns on their belts. Or seen people as fat as

Americans on their home turf. Things someone from England

notices immediately, whether consciously at first or not.

CUT.

EXT. MOTEL. EVENING.

Wilson's not here for comfort. Shown to a shitty room, round

the corner of a typical 2nd-level outside walkway. Airport

close by.

INT. MOTEL ROOM. EVENING.

He draws a curtain open across a window in one strong easy

glide. His moves are neat. His expressions just as

economical, not giving much away. Outside the planes are

practically on top of us. The sunset colors strange and

chemical.

He's only got one light bag. Unzips, unpacks a few things.

Change of clothes, a travel kit, and some familiar items

(shaving foam/toothpaste/deodorant} bearing unfamiliar

British brand names.

Goes into the bathroom. Turns on the shower in there.

Comes back to sit on the bed. Takes an envelope out of his

jacket.

ENVELOPE:

Turns it over to see the return address on the back.

CUT.

INT. TAXI. NIGHT.

Wilson in the back. Stares at the impenetrable name on the

driver's posted ID. Glances at the driver.

DRIVER glances back at his quiet passenger in the rearview

mirror.

CUT.

EXT. SMALL HOUSE. NIGHT.

Wilson walks up a cracked little path to the front door.

Lower middle-class street. Two cars in the driveway, one

behind the other. Lights on inside the house -- as he rings

the bell.

ED RAMA:

Answers it. Hispanic. Late 30's. Chairman Mao on his T-

shirt notwithstanding, an easygoing sort of fellow. Not

looking for any trouble -- anymore. But once did, and able

to handle himself if any shows up. Which it has.

WILSON:

Edward Rama?

ED:

Eduardo.

(rolling the R)

Rama.

WILSON:

You're home, then.

He turns, waves away the taxi he's kept waiting. While

Eduardo Rama waits for an introduction.

WILSON:

My name's Wilson.

Accent speaks for itself. Hard, working-class.

ED:

Wilson?

Knows the name. But just now it's unexpected. He's holding

a hot TV dinner, hand protected by a dish towel.

WILSON:

You wrote to me about my daughter.

CUT.

INT. ED'S HOUSE. NIGHT.

Ed takes Wilson inside.

ED:

I didn't expect anyone.

WILSON:

No reason.

ED:

I mean, what has it been -- six months?

WILSON:

Round about, yeah.

They've entered a cauldron of family life. TV blaring

(SHOWBIZ TONIGHT!). A couple of younger KIDS yelling "Mama".

Their MOTHER shouting back at them from the kitchen (in

Spanish) that she only has two hands. A sullen TEENAGER

walking by.

ED:

I didn't even know who I was writing to --

just someone with the same last name.

She never talked about any family.

WILSON:

It was better than a telegram.

Ed opens a screen door to the backyard.

EXT. ED'S BACKYARD. NIGHT.

They sit at an outdoor table. Wilson with a TV dinner in

front of him now too. Sounds from inside MUTED. Even this

little house has a little pool.

WILSON:

Who done it, then?

ED:

Huh?

WILSON:

Snuffed her.

Ed surprised at Wilson's directness. Ed stands nervously.

ED:

Now, wait up a second, man.

And paces back and forth.

ED:

I never said nothin' about nothin' like

that. No, no, no. That's not what I

wrote to you.

WILSON:

No, but between the lines, eh?

Mysterious circumstances, and that.

Ed stops pacing.

ED:

Look, I sent you that newspaper clipping,

all right? I told you what I know. It

was an accident. I didn't say anything

about anybody being "snuffed."

Beat.

WILSON:

This bloke she was bunked up with. This

Terry what'sit.

ED:

Terry Valentine.

WILSON:

Valentine. What's he got to say for

himself?

ED:

I dunno. What's he gonna say? They had

a fight that night, she drove away, she

was upset? I don't even know the guy.

Don't get me wrong, Jenny and me were

friends, but we didn't travel in the same

social circles. She had her life, I had

mine.

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