The Man Who Wasn't There Page #13

ED:

What happened to you?

She shakes her head.

DORIS:

...I don't know what happened to Big

Dave. I know some of it.

Irregularities in my books, they

said. Can I explain it.

ED:

You don't have to--

DORIS:

I helped him cook the books, Ed. I

did do that.

ED:

You don't have to tell them anything.

We're getting you a lawyer.

Doris doesn't seem to be listening. She sighs:

DORIS:

I know all about that. But I don't

know how much to tell them.

ED:

Don't tell 'em anything. We're getting

you Freddy Riedenschneider.

Doris finally looks at him.

DORIS:

Should I... should I tell you why?

ED:

You don't have to tell me anything.

Her gaze drifts away again. She notices the sobbing woman.

DORIS:

Jesus Christ.

Doris looks around and laughs.

DORIS:

...My books used to be perfect. Anyone

could open them up, make sense of

the whole goddamn store.

ED:

Honey...

DORIS:

I knew we'd pay for it.

BARBERSHOP:

Ed sits in a waiting-customer chair, wearing his smock. Frank

paces in front of him. He smacks a fist into his palm.

FRANK:

This is what family is for, Ed! This

is when ya come together!

ED:

Yeah.

FRANK:

Close ranks! Goddamnit! Those sons

of b*tches!

ED:

Frank, uh, you know I'll try to

contribute, but, uh--Freddy

Riedenschneider--

FRANK:

I don't care what it costs! This is

when ya come together!

ED:

That's very generous.

FRANK:

The hell with it, Eddie!

BANK:

Ed and Frank sit waiting on a bench in the high-vaulted lobby.

Frank looks uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit. As they

wait, he looks nervously about.

In a hushed voice:

FRANK:

They're just people like you and me,

Ed. Remember that.

ED:

Uh-huh.

FRANK:

Just people. They gotta put up the

big front so that people will trust

them with their money. This is why

the big lobby, Ed. But they put their

pants on one leg at a time. Just

like you and me.

ED:

Uh-huh.

FRANK:

They too use the toilet, Ed. In spite

of appearances. And their money will

be secured by the barbershop. A rock.

A *rock*, the barbershop. I mean,

how long has *this* place been here?

A door opens. A conservatively dressed man of late middle

age emerges.

MAN:

Mr Raffo?

Frank hops to his feet.

FRANK:

Yes, sir.

MAN:

Could you come with me please?

FRANK:

Sure. Can Ed come too?

The man looks dubiously at Ed.

MAN:

Mr...?

ED:

Crane. Ed Crane.

MAN:

You also have an interest in the

securing property?

FRANK:

He's a barber.

MAN:

Ah.

FRANK:

Second chair.

MAN:

Not an owner.

FRANK:

No, he's family, he's my brother-in-

law.

MAN:

Ah-hah. It would be best if he waited

here.

He goes to the glass-paned doorway to his office, Frank

trailing dejectedly behind. They enter, the door closes, and

we hear their muffled voices from inside, the sense of the

words lost.

Ed sits and watches the two men perform their pantomime of

business:
Frank nervously reads documents with one hand cupped

to his forehead for concentration; the banker passes

successive documents across his desk with a word of

explanation for each as Frank signs.

Ed takes out a cigarette and lights it, watching impassively.

ED (V.O.)

The barbershop. Doris and Frank's

father had worked thirty years to

own it free and clear. Now it got

signed over to the bank, and the

bank signed some money over to Frank,

and Frank signed the money over...

TRACKING POINT OF VIEW

It is midday. We are tracking along the sidewalk toward a

long cream-colored Packard parked at the curb. A couple of

kids have stopped to peer into the car's windows; the car is

no doubt the fanciest in town.

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