The Public Eye Page #12

The lighter parts of the picture have appeared -- the stone

bench, the plaque which says VILLA SPOLETO... Now slowly the

faces of two men come into view, i.e., what was invisible to

the naked eye is visible to the infra-red.

Bernzy grasps the print with tweezers, hangs it onto the

drying line.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. DARKROOM - LATER

Now the drying line is filled with shots of men leaving

Spoleto's house.

Bernzy is still over the chemical tub; he hasn't found the

face he seeks.

BERNZY:

C'mon -- come on!

Now a face comes slowly into view, on the dark part of the

porch. It is SAL, the lean-faced lieutenant who was sitting

on the couch in Farinelli's office when Farinelli grilled

Bernzy. He is on Spoleto's arm in the picture.

BERNZY:

Sal, you beautiful jerk.

He lifts the photo out of the tub, triumphantly. But then

his eye catches sight of the photo now coming to life in the

second tub:

A Man in a conservative blue suit -- a WASPY gray eminence --

is coming out of Spoleto's front door.

BERNZY:

(quietly)

Holy sh*t.

CUT TO:

INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - LATER (MORNING)

Bernzy, at his desk, takes up a finished print of Sal. He

puts it in an envelope. He writes on it in grease-pencil:

FARINELLI.

CUT TO:

INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT

CLOSE ON the palm of the Italian Maitre d' as a Man slips a

bill into it.

The MAN, in a dinner jacket, has a stern but florid face;

his Wife has a supercilious bearing. As they move:

MAN:

Table No. 7, Fredo.

MAITRE 'D

I'm afraid Mrs. Levitz is at No. 7

this evening, Mr. Brown.

The Man looks across the room as they move. He sees Kay

sitting across from Bernzy; they speak intently.

MAN:

(not concealing his

distaste)

Who's the gentleman?

MAITRE D'

I believe he's a poet who recently

escaped Mr. Hitler.

MAN:

That's still no excuse, is it.

MAITRE D'

No, sir... Exactly.

He pulls out a chair for the Wife with an old-world flourish.

ON BERNZY and KAY. Bernzy slides the envelope marked Farinelli

across the table cloth.

BERNZY:

This is an incriminating picture of

the informer, Sal Minetto.

Kay takes the envelope. They sit in a banquette, the music

playing across the room.

BERNZY:

You got a safe or something? At home?

She nods.

BERNZY:

If I wind up dead, you give the

picture to Frank Farinelli; but I'm

giving you the picture, which

guarantees I ain't gonna wind up

dead.

KAY:

I understand.

She slides the letter into a beaded pocketbook, lying on the

table, next to an open bottle of expensive Scotch.

Bernzy looks around him -- the beautiful nightclub, its well-

dressed patrons, the polished musicians.

BERNZY:

My father's been in this country 27

years, it's like he never left Russia.

Sittin' here, I know just what he

must feel like.

KAY:

Means you need another drink.

(she pours him one)

That's how they all get the impression

they belong.

BERNZY:

That's all it takes, huh?

She nods. They drink. A beat.

KAY:

You okay?

BERNZY:

It's startin' to work.

She smiles. The music plays, something lush and evocative.

For a long, exquisite moment he really does believe he

belongs.

But then a dapper Man in dinner clothes leans over Kay, drapes

his arm over her.

MAN:

Kay!

KAY:

Henry, how are you?

(she comes to her

feet)

Please meet my friend Leon Bernstein.

Bernzy, this is Henry Haddock, Jr.

HADDOCK:

Mr. Bernstein.

(turning instantly to

Kay)

I've half the M.G.M. brass over there,

dying to meet you.

KAY:

Of course.

She turns back to Bernzy.

BERNZY:

G'ahead.

She scoops up the bag with the letter, nods soberly to Bernzy

(i.E., she let's him know she won't let go of it) and walks

off with Haddock, who circles his arm around her. He whispers

in her ear and she laughs musically.

We hold on Bernzy, alone at the table, watching Kay -- ever-

charming, ever-beautiful, meeting half a dozen men in dinner

jackets. Bernzy is suffering.

He gets up abruptly, heads for the door.

We hold for a moment on the glittering club, as the music

swells and people laugh, and then abruptly we

CUT TO:

EXT. QUEENS APARTMENT HOUSE - NIGHT

Bernzy stands in a dreary silent street in Queens. The club

could be a million miles away.

He holds a page from the phone book. A name, address and

phone number are underlined -- those of SALVATORE MINETTO.

INT. APARTMENT HOUSE HALLWAY - SAME

A Woman holds the door partly ajar to speak to Bernzy.

WOMAN:

Hold on. I'll get him.

Bernzy waits. We can hear a comedy program on somebody's

radio echoing down the hall. Now Sal comes to the door, in

an undershirt.

BERNZY:

I'm Bernzy. The photographer --

SAL:

I know who you are.

BERNZY:

I'd like to come in.

SAL:

What for?

BERNZY:

It has t'd do with Mr. Farinelli.

(quietly)

And Mr. Spoleto.

Sal opens the door. Bernzy enters.

INT. APARTMENT

He follows Sal through a foyer, into a salon, with high dark

furniture and worn doilies.

Sal's wife, listening to "Amos 'n' Andy" on the radio, watches

them pass.

INT. KITCHEN

Sal closes the door behind them, hooks the latch. Bernzy,

meantime, takes an envelope marked "SAL" from his pocket.

SAL:

You got your nerve comin' here, little

man.

Bernzy gives the envelope to Sal.

BERNZY:

Open it.

Sal stares at Bernzy angrily for a beat. He takes up a steak

knife from the counter, lets it rest ominously in his palm.

But then he uses to knife to slice open the envelope.

Seeing the picture of himself with Spoleto, he merely stares.

BERNZY:

There's three others just like it,

in sealed envelopes marked

'Farinelli.' I gave 'em to people I

trust. Anything happens to me, they

get sent to Farinelli.

Sal continues to stare at the photo.

SAL:

I don't have no money.

BERNZY:

I don't want any.

CUT TO:

INT. KITCHEN - LATER

Bernzy paces, listening keenly.

Sal sits at the plain wood table, with a bottle of beer,

running through the story quickly, in the present tense.

SAL:

Portifino's just a stupid punk in

D.C. but he's fronting for somebody

willing to sell him the stamps from

inside the A.P.O.

BERNZY:

O.P.A.

SAL:

Huh?

BERNZY:

Office of Price Administration.

SAL:

Yeah, right. But then he can't figure

how to unload 'em. Knows nobody. The

heads of the Five Families won't

touch 'em on account of their gettin'

amnesty from the Feds to work with

the Italian mobs against Mussolini.

Then he hears Lou Levitz on some

radio show:
Friend to the Stars, one-

time bootlegger, Mr. New York... He

figures maybe an old-timer like Levitz

knows how to unload hot coupons.

Levitz is interested, alright: he's

got a hot young wife to support --

Bernzy looks up keenly --

SAL:

and he sees there's maybe millions

in it. He don't have to lift a finger:

he just turns the stamps over to

Spoleto for a fat percentage. Would

you siddown, please?!

BERNZY:

(he doesn't siddown)

Levitz' wife knew about it?

SAL:

I didn't say that.

BERNZY:

Did she?

SAL:

How should I know.

BERNZY:

(pacing again)

Go on.

SAL:

Then Levitz dies.

(sniggering)

I guess the old Jew was makin' so

much he figured he was in Heaven

already.

Bernzy stops pacing; Sal realizes his "gaffe," which seems

intentional.

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