The Public Eye Page #14

NABLER:

It was addressed to me. It said "To

be opened --"

BERNZY:

"In the event of my death." Only I

got kinda busy. I didn't get that

far.

NABLER:

I figured -- once I opened it...

Why're you doing this, Bernzy?

BERNZY:

Why? It's what I do, ain't it?

(he gestures at the

tabloid pictures

pinned everywhere)

Murders, fires, drunks: Life, as it

happens. My motto for 23 years.

NABLER:

This is death as it happens.

BERNZY:

That's the main thing about life,

isn't it? Death? I mean, half the

shots are get are somebody just Before

or just After. For once I'll get

During.

NABLER:

You could stop it. Go to the cops.

BERNZY:

Really? Think that'd stop it? You

been spendin' too much time at Cafe

Society. It's a war, Arty, these

guys aren't gonna lay off. They're

gonna do it fast or they're gonna do

it slow, but they're gonna do it...

Why don't you tell them photographers

in Europe to stop the War?

NABLER:

It's not their war --

BERNZY:

This ain't mine.

NABLER:

Isn't it?

BERNZY:

What's that supposed to mean?

NABLER:

I thought you never took sides,

Bernzy.

BERNZY:

What're you gettin' at?

NABLER:

You're doing it for her.

BERNZY:

You're nuts.

NABLER:

Am I?

Bernzy looks at Nabler a beat -- incensed by his glib

certitude -- then grabs one of his cigar box files and empties

its contents onto the desk: the photos rain down in abundance,

covering the desk and spilling onto the floor. They all show

fires:
buildings ablaze, people running from blazes, firemen

carrying children from blazes. As the camera plays over this

fantastic display, Bernzy goes to grab another file.

BERNZY:

Here it is, Arty: the whole history

of New York here with me in this

dump, and it ain't because I went

around interferin' -- hosing down

fires or tellin' people to behave

nice --

Bernzy unloads an equally plentiful load of dead gangsters

onto the desk and floor -- growing more and more passionate

in his own defense --

BERNZY:

They pay people to do that stuff --

cops, firemen... I'm an artist --

you're f***in' right, I am -- and I

let people do whatever the hell

they're gonna do 'cause that's the

only way I can do it right!

Nabler grabs Bernzy's arm just as he's about to unload a

third file.

NABLER:

Stop it!... Jesus, Bernzy, I may be

the only one in New York who thinks

you are an artist instead of some

kind of animal -- and even I'm not

so sure about this thing. It has a

stink to it...

(he shakes his head)

Still, if I thought you were doing

it for some kind of crazy fame or

glory, I wouldn't say a word. I know

how much it hurts to be ignored --

not even reviled, just ignored. But

if you're doing it for her, you're

risking your life for nothing. For

less than nothing.

BERNZY:

You're gettin' me and you mixed up.

NABLER:

I hope so. She's cold, Bernzy. She

took old Lou Levitz for everything

he was worth and everybody knows it.

BERNZY:

(dismissing this)

She's just like everybody else in

New York, makin' the best of what

she has.

NABLER:

No... Maybe I have been spending too

much time at Cafe Society -- just

like you've been on the street too

long... You give your whole life to

something nobody could love and you

wind up a sitting duck. You know

everything about everything, except

what other people take for granted.

BERNZY:

That's enough, Arty.

NABLER:

A mansion on the West Side, a place

on the South Shore -- she milked

Levitz so dry he sold himself to a

worm like Spoleto. I wouldn't be

surprised if she was in this thing

from the first.

Bernzy, incensed, grabs Nabler by the collar --

NABLER:

You don't hit people, Bernzy. You

can stare at things that'd make a

brute squeamish. But you don't hit

people. That's not what we do, people

like us.

Bernzy looks at Nabler. He knows he's right. He lets go of

him, walks to the door, opens it.

BERNZY:

G'night, Arty. Thanks for the apology.

Nabler puts his hat on. He moves to the door. He speaks with

sincerity.

NABLER:

Do me a favor, Bernzy. Tell her what

you're gonna do. Tell her you're

gonna attend a shootout. If she has

any feelings at all for you, she'll

try and stop you.

Nabler goes out the door.

CUT TO:

INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT

Bernzy stands near the entrance, holding his book of

photographs. He stares across the room to a far table where

KAY sits with a large group of well-dressed Men and Women.

They're drinking champagne and martinis. A Man is telling a

story. Everyone -- Kay included -- laughs riotously.

Bernzy turns to the Italian Maitre d' at his side.

BERNZY:

Give this to Mrs. Levitz, wouldja?

Tell her I'll pick it up Saturday.

MAITRE D'

You don't wish to -- ?

BERNZY:

Changed my mind.

Bernzy watches as everyone at the table laughs again.

CUT TO:

INT. BOWERY BAR - NIGHT

A toothless WOMAN sings the last line of a ribald bar song

in a filthy place with sawdust on the floor. Those drunks

who are still conscious (many lie with their heads on the

tables) applaud haphazardly.

Bernzy takes a flash shot and the Woman raises her glass to

him. He finds his own glass and raises it to her. He's in

his element, here.

CUT TO:

INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT

CLOSE ON Bernzy's book. A female hand turns the pages. As we

see one vivid, ironic or profound vignette after another (a

cleaning woman mopping the floor in Grand Central, her human

scale diminished by the overspreading dome; Puerto Rican

teenagers sleeping on a fire escape; an old man carrying all

his possessions from his burning tenement) we begin to

understand the power of the book as a book: it's a complete

world.

Some of the pictures have captions, e.g.: a picture of a

corpse -- THE STAR ATTRACTION -- alongside a picture of the

excited crowd which has gathered: FIRST NIGHTERS.

They're cleaning up the club around Kay; chairs are overturned

on tables. She picks up the book, and heads for the door.

CUT TO:

INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAWN

Bernzy is sleeping. The police radio hisses. He stirs.

Kay stands over him, still in her evening clothes. She's

holding the book.

KAY:

Why're you giving this to me?

Bernzy clears his throat as he pulls a pair of trousers from

a chair next to the bed, drags them on, gets out of the bed.

BERNZY:

You shouldn't be here, Kay. This is

really no place f'r you t'be.

Disconcerted by her presence here, he drags the cover over

the bed, makes a rushed and futile attempt to tidy the place

up. (The photos he dumped onto the desk and floor still lie

on the desk and floor.)

BERNZY:

Didn't -- didn't that maitre d' tell

you? I just wanted you to hold onto

this, that's all. Just till after --

He trails off.

KAY:

After what, Bernzy?

He looks at her. Nabler's advice is ringing in his head.

BERNZY:

It's somethin' nobody ever got

pictures of before. Nobody else ever

will.

KAY:

What is?

BERNZY:

(almost defensively)

If I guy could get pictures of a

live volcano, say, that would be

worth it, right?

KAY:

What're these pictures, Bernzy? Why're

you afraid to tell me?

He takes a seat on the bed. He can't look at her.

BERNZY:

So far you don't seem to go along

with the popular view that I'm some

kind of an insect.

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