The Public Eye Page #8

MAN:

Surprised they let you in here,

Bernstein. I'll complain to the

management.

Bernzy sees ARTHUR NABLER, a likable man, 57-years-old,

overweight, seemingly unaccustomed to the dinner clothes

he's wearing. At the moment, he's drunk.

A Woman is with him at the table, much younger than he is,

attractive in flashy way.

NABLER:

Siddown, c'mon, sit!

Bernzy glances up at the office again --

BERNZY:

Half a minute.

NABLER:

Don't be a pill! How else you ever

gonna sit right here... 'Hack makes

good,' eh Bernzy? Meet Vera Hixon.

Vera, this guy's the best shutterbug

in New York.

(to Bernzy)

You seen my show?

BERNZY:

It's on my calendar. 'Brooklyn

Rhapsody,' Winter Garden Theatre.

But I work nights.

VERA:

It's a beautiful show.

She squeezes Nabler's arm in her hands and rubs her cheek

against his shoulder.

NABLER:

I know what you think: why should I

go see a bunch of Arty's old columns

dramatized when I already read 'em.

Nabler drains his Scotch.

BERNZY:

Untrue... I never read 'em.

But Nabler's mood is turning sour as his high winds down. He

can't seem to find a Waiter to bring him a new Scotch.

NABLER:

Waiter!

(getting no response)

I'm dyin' here... I'm 57 years old.

You think she'd've looked at me six

months ago?

BERNZY:

C'mon, Nabler.

NABLER:

Best shutterbug in New York. You

know what that means? It means his

pictures are catching birdshit at

the bottom of the cage six hours

after the papers come out. Just like

my columns used to do.

Nabler tries to attract the Waiter, again, but seeing what's

happening, Vera tries to ease the glass out of his hand.

VERA:

Arty -- ?

He pulls the glass away from her.

NABLER:

At least if you write books or paint

pictures they say, Alright, he had

no money, no life, not even a steady

girl, but look what he painted, look

what he wrote. (he answers his own

question) She wouldn't of pissed on

me, six months ago.

VERA:

(rising, upset)

Excuse me --

BERNZY:

(half rising, politely)

Miss Hixon.

(to Nabler, when she's

gone)

Arthur, I think you better apologize

to the lady.

Bernzy gets up, but Nabler grabs his hand.

NABLER:

You're giving me advice about my

love life?!

Eager to escape, Bernzy tries to wrest his hand away. But

Nabler clings to it: he's as deadly earnest as a dying man.

NABLER:

Listen to me, Bernzy, listen to one

who knows:
Nobody could love you. No

woman could ever love a shabby little

guy who sleeps in his clothes and

eats outta cans and cozies up to

corpses so much he starts to stink

like one.

Bernzy, sucker-punched, attempts to remove his hand.

BERNZY:

Arty, you better get a refund from

that charm school --

NABLER:

(he won't relinquish

Bernzy's hand)

And for what? Drunks and stiffs --

BERNZY:

Y'mind? -- I got a bird in the oven --

Bernzy pulls his hand away, but Nabler is not in control,

blubbering and shouting, melancholy and drunk.

NABLER:

-- thugs and bums and whores and

creeps --

He draws attention: it sounds like he's shouting epithets.

We move with Bernzy, who is stoical and swift, past the

glittering crowd. Nabler is blubbering and shouting under

the music but Bernzy isn't hearing him.

We see what he sees, but this time it's in color -- it's

life, untransmogrified:

Men and women laughing, drinking champagne, eating steaks,

hands held across tables, words whispered into lovers' ears,

the music smooth and gay. The music rises.

CUT TO:

INT. KAY'S OFFICE - LATER

It's suddenly quiet. The band is on its break.

Bernzy staring out the window, sees into the club where Nabler

is trying to get Vera to sit down with him again, but she

pulls away, stalks out.

KAY:

You should know I got worried. I

called the police -- two hours ago.

He looks at her -- annoyed.

BERNZY:

What'd y'do that for?

Obviously, she meant well. He softens.

BERNZY:

Look, I -- I don't do favors f'r

people, I can't. Y'see what happens?

I walk in here with an invitation,

you give me a drink, it's beautiful

up here, I'm feelin' good about myself --

next thing I know I'm rollin' around

on some gangster's floor.

They look at each other.

KAY:

I'm sorry.

BERNZY:

Yeah...

She goes to get a cigarette by the desk. He looks down into

the club, sees Nabler, then asks --

BERNZY:

Why'd you ask me up here in the first

place?

KAY:

...Lou trusted you, Bernzy. I told

you, he --

BERNZY:

C'mon. Lou thought I was just like

the flies outside, buzzin' around to

get Rita Hayworth's picture --

KAY:

It's not true.

BERNZY:

-- A little parasite, preyin' on

people's misery. You're not the only

one knows what people say about you...

KAY:

It doesn't matter what they say about

you, Bernzy. Not unless you believe

'em.

He looks at her. Her words seem to get to him, or maybe just

she does.

He looks away, down into the club again. He watches NABLER,

as struggles to his feet, throws money on the table, and

staggers away.

BERNZY:

It's not over because Portifino's

dead. Somebody else is gonna come in

and tell you he's Lou's partner.

By the desk, holding a cigarette, she speaks quietly.

KAY:

I figured.

She takes a seat on the desk, as if for support.

BERNZY:

I think Lou was involved in somethin'

bad... Evil.

She nods, determined to be strong, determined not to be

emotional, although she knows she's in trouble.

He looks back into the window.

BERNZY:

I could prob'ly find out what it is.

I could do that.

He sees her reflection in the window. She stares off

somewhere, trying not to cry.

KAY:

(quietly)

You don't have to.

Bernzy is staring at her reflection. He sees himself, too:

the ill-fitting suit, the ludicrous pockets.

CUT TO:

EXT. EASTSIDE DRIVE - NIGHT

In black and white, we see a stretch of walkway by the East

River, thick with couples who stroll and kiss.

Bernzy drives by slowly, watches keenly, afflicted by the

strong feelings Kay has stirred up in him.

CUT TO:

EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. - CHURCH STREET - DAWN

The building to which Bernzy was brought for interrogation.

INT. FEDERAL BLDG. - LOBBY - SAME

In the overscaled marble lobby, Bernzy pleads his case to a

uniformed Watchman.

BERNZY:

He's gone? He promised he'd give me

back my plates this morning.

WATCHMAN:

Then why don't you come back when it

really is morning?

BERNZY:

It's morning at the Daily Mirror.

It's morning at the Post. I gotta

make a living, just like you.

WATCHMAN:

Sit over there while I phone somebody.

The Watchman gestures to a marble bench by the elevator

alcove.

He himself goes to the marble reception desk, to make the

call.

As the guard dials, Bernzy walks straight past the bench,

into the elevator. The doors close behind him.

CUT TO:

INT. 4TH FLOOR HALLWAY (FBI) - SAME

Bernzy comes off the elevator, onto a long hall with offices

on either side. Some doors are open; we can hear the vacuum

cleaner of a janitor.

Bernzy comes quickly down to the hallway, to the office at

the head of it -- Chadwick's. A pail and mop stand outside,

but when Bernzy peeks into the open door, the office is empty.

He enters.

INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE

Bernzy hurries behind the desk, to a steel filing cabinet,

one of two. It is locked. He studies the lock. His only light

comes from the hallway, through the frosted glass. He jiggles

the lock. It won't budge. He searches for the key in the

desk drawers. Can't find it.

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