The Public Eye Page #2

COP:

Clear the way, get back, c'mon, c'mon,

c'mon --

Now he passes Bernzy, near the top of the stairs --

COP:

Bernzy, clear outta here.

Bernzy is taken aback --

BERNZY:

But I hear this guy's walkin' around

with a meat cleaver in his head -- !

-- as if it's every man's God-given right to photograph such

a rare sight.

COP:

Get the Hell out.

As the Cop heads into the Woman's apartment, he speaks to

the ambulance Attendants, but looks at Bernzy as he does so.

COP:

Throw a sheet over him.

The Cop is suspiciously keen to thwart Bernzy: Bernzy smells

something.

He turns to a Puerto Rican MAN, the next door neighbor, who

watches in his T-shirt and boxers.

BERNZY:

Who is this guy, anyway?

MAN:

(Puerto Rican accent)

Working for the Mayor. Visits at

night.

Bernzy sizes up the elements of the tragedy as the Orderlies

bring the victim out of the apartment. He looks at the

hysterical mistress and then at her victim/paramour, who is

covered with a sheet, but moving (with a comically high

protrusion where the meat cleaver is lodged).

Bernzy -- his eyes as keen as a fox's -- takes a last look

at the covered stretcher -- not a good picture -- then heads

quickly down the stairs.

EXT. TENEMENT HOUSE - NIGHT

Bernzy opens the cavernous trunk of his car. He sorts through

a cigar box containing various tools of the photographer's

trade, including a scissors he uses to crop prints. He picks

up the scissors.

He strips off his coat.

CUT TO:

EXT. TENEMENT HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER

The Attendants load the stretcher into the back of the waiting

limousine. People watch, Bernzy not among them.

One of the Attendants climbs in back, the other gets in the

front, next to the Driver.

The ambulance pulls out. Siren.

INT. AMBULANCE - SAME

Bernzy sits in the back of the ambulance. He has cut a square

in the back of his jacket collar, then put the jacket on

backwards, to simulate a clerical collar.

BERNZY:

(to the Attendant)

Better uncover him, son.

The Attendant complies. We don't see the corpse, but the

handle of the meat cleaver juts up ludicrously into the frame

and it moves back and forth as the victim moans. Even Bernzy

is taken aback.

BERNZY:

Jesus.

Not the thing a priest would say; he crosses himself to cover.

Bernzy begins to mutter piously, indecipherably, over the

ailing man. He waves something over the man, like a bottle

of Holy Water when the last rites are administered.

We see what he's waving: a light meter. Still muttering,

Bernzy reads the meter.

The Attendant looks perplexed -- a dawning realization.

ATTENDANT:

...Wait a second.

From his oversized pocket, Bernzy withdraws a 35 mm camera.

He gets his shot fast, before the Attendant can react.

SHOCK CUT TO:

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

A Man in a hat watches as the ambulance comes to an abrupt

halt. The Man watches as The back doors open and a "priest"

spills out -- half leaping, half pushed. The "priest" lands

on his ass in the street (careful to protect his camera) as

the Attendant slams the ambulance doors.

The ambulance takes off again.

The "priest," unfazed, dusts himself off as he hails a cab

with a cheerful serious determination.

BERNZY:

Taxi!

As the cab squeals away with the "priest", the Man in the

hat wonders what he just saw.

CUT TO:

INT. PHOTO DESK - DAILY MIRROR - NIGHT

A photo editor, EDDY, studies the picture of the meat-cleaver

victim (we don't see it).

EDDY:

This is a new low, even for you,

Bernzy.

BERNZY:

Flatter me all you want. It's still

twenty dollars.

EDDY:

You got a release on this guy?

BERNZY:

You got a spirit medium on staff?

EDDY:

You checked with the hospital?

Bernzy nods.

Eddie opens the big ledger-style checkbook, starts to write

the check.

BERNZY:

Didn't even make it to Bellvue, poor

bastard. Thank God I was able to

administer his last rites.

CUT TO:

INT. ALL-NIGHT DRUGSTORE - NIGHT

In black and white, overcranked, we watch a Sailor and his

Girl necking in the rear-booth of a drugstore.

WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S.)

That's not very polite.

At normal speed, in color, we see Bernzy, sitting at a booth

near the counter of the drugstore, staring at the young

couple. He has a cup of coffee, a plate of eggs and his camera

on the table.

Bernzy, caught staring, looks up at the WOMAN.

WOMAN:

I know what it's like. I work nights

myself.

She takes a seat across from Bernzy.

She has plain, well-scrubbed features, and wears a raincoat.

A Nurse and a Doctor are at the next booth.

BERNZY:

Professional interest...

(he puts the camera

to his eye)

See?

WOMAN:

(ignoring this)

Break-time comes, there's nobody to

talk to, you feel lonely, right?

(a beat)

How much you got on you?

Bernzy looks at her a beat before picking up the camera again.

He shoots the Girl and the Sailor, rather than answer her.

BERNZY:

'Tomorrow He Sails' -- That's the

caption.

WOMAN:

C'mon, how much? There's no harm in

it.

BERNZY:

My wife wouldn't like it.

Bernzy throws a dollar on the table, collects his camera:

he's in a hurry to get away. Meantime:

WOMAN:

Honey, you're not married and you

don't have a girl: I saw how you

were looking at those two.

Bernzy gets up to go.

WOMAN:

Your socks don't even match.

He pretends not to hear her, as he heads for the door. She

Calls after him, with a plaintive sweetness.

WOMAN:

Oh, c'mon -- come back!... It's lonely

out there!

CUT TO:

INT./EXT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREET - NIGHT

Bernzy drives, his gaze unflagging. The Dispatcher

monotonously intones a series of drab numbers on the hissing

radio.

CUT TO:

INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAY

The police radio continues to hiss, O.S., without

interruption, as we pan Bernzy, asleep on top of his bed.

He's curled up in his clothes.

Still panning, we see the apartment. It's exceedingly

cluttered -- as unkempt and eccentric as its occupant. The

shades are drawn against daylight.

On the crowded table Bernzy uses for a desk, there is a

payroll check from Time, Inc.:

TWO MURDERS. . . . . .$35.00

Pinned to the bulletin board over the desk, there are covers

from the New York Daily News, Mirror, World-Telegram, Post,

Sun and Journal-American, all featuring Bernzy's photos of

classic tabloid subjects: fires, corpses, handcuffed hoods.

Piled against a wall are two four-foot-tall stacks of cigar

boxes with masking tape labels across their front flaps.

These are marked with laundry pencil: "Vagrants," "Drunks,"

"Strippers," "Rich & Poor," "Coney Island," "Gangsters -

Dead," "Miscellaneous Crowds," "Bowery - Night," "Gangsters -

Live."

Still panning, we see a series of photos clothes-pinned to a

laundry line. They show the Bum, sleeping in the box: he

seems isolated and diminished in the high contrast of the

Speed Graphic photo -- a bright island in a sea of blackness.

Pulling back from the photo we see the photos of the curled

up bum in the foreground and Bernzy curled up on his bed in

the near distance, the police radio on his nightstand.

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