The Sting

FADE IN:

A white on black TITLE appears in the lower left hand corner

of the screen:

AUGUST, 1936

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

EXT. A SLUM AREA OF JOLIET - DAY

It's a bleak, windy morning, the kind that clears the

streets of all but the winos (who carry their own heaters),

and the point-men for juvenile gangs. We pick up a solitary

figure, Joe Mottola, coming down the street and entering

what appears to be an abandoned tenement. He pauses a

second to dust his white-winged alligator shoes on the back

of his pants leg. Sharply dressed and surrounded by the

aura of one who is making money for the first time and

broadcasting it on all bands, he seems an incongruity in

this part of town.

We follow him up a flight of rickety stairs to a second

floor flat. He knocks on the door, is admitted by a cautious

doorman.

INT. NUMBERS SPOT - DAY

Suddenly we are plunged into a room of chattering, clamoring

people. This is a spot for the numbers racket, a place

immune from legal interference, where any sucker can bet on

a number between 1 and 1000 in the hope of getting the 600

to 1 payoff that goes to those few who guess right. The

bettors are queued up in several lines before a long table,

where they place their bets and are given receipts in return.

Others wait at a cashier's window to pick up previous

earnings or to ask for credit.

Mottola moves through the crowd to a back room where betting

slips are being sorted and money counted under the watchful

and somewhat impatient gaze of a Supervisor, an older man

named Mr. Granger. The Yankee-White Sox game is heard on

the radio in the background.

Mottola, noticing that his entrance has aroused little

interest, saunters over to the Phone Girl and gives her a

little pinch on the cheek. The girl slaps his hand away,

obviously having been through this before.

PHONE GIRL:

Beat it, Mottola.

Granger glances up and exchanges a token nod with Mottola,

who plops down in a folding chair next to the radio. The

phone rings.

PHONE GIRL:

8720...Yes, hold on a second.

(calling over to the Supervisor)

Mr. Granger, Chicago on the line.

Granger is a little apprehensive about talking to Chicago,

but takes the phone anyway.

GRANGER:

Yeh?

CUT TO:

INT. A WATERFRONT PROCESSING PLANT - CHICAGO - DAY

A flabby, bald man named Combs is on the other end of the

line. Visible beyond the door and interior window of his

office is a large room, cluttered with tables, typewriters,

clerks and adding machines. This room is the clearinghouse

for all the transaction of the numbers game. All the

betting slips and income from the spots are brought in here

and processed.

COMBS:

Granger, this is Combs. Why

haven't we heard from ya? Everybody

else is in.

GRANGER:

We had a few problems with the Law

this morning. The Mayor promised

the Jaycees to get tough on the

rackets again, so he shut everybody

down for a couple hours to make it

look good. Nothing serious, it

just put us a little behind for the

day.

COMBS:

You been making your payoffs,

haven't ya?

GRANGER:

Hell yes. He does this every year.

There's nothing to worry about.

COMBS:

Okay, finish your count and get it

up here as soon as you can. I

don't wanta be here all night.

GRANGER:

Believe me, the Man's gonna be real

happy. Looks like we cleared over

ten grand this week.

COMBS:

(not impressed)

We cleared 22 here.

GRANGER:

Well, hell, you got the whole

Chicago south side. How do ya

expect the eight lousy spots I've

got to compete with that?

COMBS:

(reading off a sheet

of paper on his desk)

They did 14 grand in Evanston, 16.5

is Gary, and 20 in Cicero. Looks

like you're bringing up the rear,

Granger.

INT. NUMBERS SPOT - DAY

Granger burns inside. One of the girls who's been sorting

and counting hands him a slip of paper.

GRANGER:

I just got the count. We'll put

the take on the 4:15.

COMBS:

We'll be waitin'.

Combs hangs up, smiling to himself, proud of the way he gave

the needle to Granger.

CUT TO:

INT. NUMBERS SPOT - DAY

Granger storming over to a safe and jerking open the door.

GRANGER:

(snapping)

Mottola.

Mottola hustles out of his chair.

GRANGER:

(handing him a bundle

of bills)

Take this up to the city on the

4:
15. They'll be waitin' for it at

the clearing house. And don't stop

for no drinks. You can get a cab

down the street.

Mottola takes the money and slips it into his inside coat

pocket with all the dramatic flair of the true flunky. No

one would ever guess that he was just an overdressed

messenger boy.

EXT. OF THE TENEMENT AGAIN

Mottola emerges from a side entrance into a narrow alley.

He walks briskly down to the end and turns left into a large

alleyway; this one connecting two streets. The alley is

deserted save for one scruffy, slovenly dressed young

stranger coming toward him from the opposite direction. The

man carries a battered suitcase and seems to be in a hurry.

Suddenly, Mottola hears shouting coming from somewhere

behind him. He turns around to see a small, weathered

looking thief come racing around the corner and down the

alley toward him, frantically pursued by a gray-haired black

man. Limping noticeably, the black man manages a few cries

for help and then stumbles and falls. The stranger yells at

Mottola to cover his side of the alley, and then readies

himself for the arrival of the thief. Mottola just stands

there, not the least interested in the exercise of justice.

Just as the thief is about to run on by, the stranger throws

his suitcase at the little man's legs, sending him sprawling

and separating him from the wallet he's been carrying in his

left hand.

The stranger makes a dash for the wallet and kicks it back

to where Mottola is standing. Almost by reflex, Mottola

picks it up. The thief scrambles to his feet and starts

back toward his new-found enemy, brandishing a knife. Both

the stranger and Mottola brace themselves for an attack.

The thief, realizing that there are two people to fight,

begins to think better of it. He is not a young man, nor

particularly strong.

THIEF:

(shaking his fist at

the stranger)

You f***in' n*gger-lover. I'll get

you for this someday, sucker egg.

Mottola and the stranger exchange glances of relief as the

thief flees out onto the street and disappears.

The black man, meanwhile, has struggled to his feet and is

staggering toward them. He collapses against the alley wall

after a few steps. The stranger rushes over to him, followed

somewhat absently by Mottola.

BLACK MAN:

The wallet. You gotta go after him.

He's got all the money.

STRANGER:

Don't worry, we got the wallet.

What happened? He get ya with the

knife?

The stranger opens the Black Man's coat to reveal a bloody

wound at the top of his leg.

BLACK MAN:

(trying to move)

Give it to me! Please. I gotta

know it's all there!

STRANGER:

You just sit tight, old man. We're

gonna have to get you to a doctor.

(starting to leave)

I'll call a cop.

BLACK MAN:

No, no cops!

Mottola has given him his wallet, which the black man now

opens, disclosing a fat bundle of bills tied by a rubber

band. Mottola and the stranger are amazed by the amount of

money.

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