Thunderheart Page #3

TULLY:

Ray...

RAY:

Mister Tully.

TULLY:

Do you want a coffee?

RAY:

No. No, no. Thank you.

Ray sits nervously across from Cooch who looks up from the

photos and studies the younger man through reading glasses

and cigarette smoke, and he looks at him like he doesn't

know who the hell he is or why he's sitting there.

TULLY:

Levoi, Cooch. Raymond Levoi, Criminal

Division.

COOCH:

Oh, yeah -- right.

Cooch sticks his cigarette in his left hand, shakes with his

right.

TULLY:

Ray this is --

RAY / TULLY

Frank Couture.

TULLY:

That's right.

COUTURE:

Hello, Ray.

The handshake is still locked. Cooch is still squinting at

the younger agent. Ray obviously knows something about Agent

Couture.

RAY:

It's an honor.

Tully leans back in his chair, crosses his legs casually.

TULLY:

Ray, we're taking you off the street.

We need you out in South Dakota.

Ray's enthusiasm suddenly deflates.

RAY:

South Dakota...

(confused)

Did I do something unsatisfactory,

Sir?

COOCH:

No, Ray. You're gonna have to blame

that on your grandmother.

Ray looks completely baffled now, swinging a look from Cooch

to Tully.

TULLY:

Interesting bloodline you have, Ray.

(scanning file)

French, Scots-Irish, Italian, ...and

one-eighth American Indian.

COOCH:

Sioux Indian, right?

RAY:

I'm not that sure. Yeah, I think --

TULLY:

-- yes, Teton Sioux. Father's side.

Ray nods, looks from Tully to Cooch. What's going on here?

TULLY:

Ray, there's been a homicide out in

an area known as The Badlands. Indian

Reservation.

COOCH:

It's not the first. There's been

several. And our field office in

Rapid City is getting a lot of heat...

none of the investigations have turned

up jack sh*t.

TULLY:

The main problem is, Ray, these people

are extremely distrustful of

outsiders, non-Indians. Relations

have not been amicable.

COOCH:

Different culture. Hard to penetrate.

The Indians don't like white cops

poking around. And that's why we're

in a position where we have to bring

in an American Indian agent.

Tully straightens the edges of a bureau memorandum.

TULLY:

With an Indian representative out

there, we hope to keep hostilities

dormant; this is a COINTELPRO,

Selective Operations Unit, and it'll

be easier on Agent Couture if you

can gain the people's trust and maybe --

RAY:

Woh, excuse me, Sir... I see what

you're saying... I've got a little

Indian blood, that's true. But --

(laughing)

I am not an... an Indian. I can't

just go in and --

TULLY:

-- your father was part Sioux.

A beat. Ray lowers his eyes to the photos.

RAY:

I didn't know him, Sir. He passed

away when I was six.

COOCH:

Seven.

Ray looks up at Cooch. Another uneasy beat. Cooch lights a

cigarette as if lighting a cigarette was a science.

COOCH:

Don't worry about it, Ray. As long

as the people have proof that we

sent them one of their own, no one's

gonna ask you to weave baskets or

make it rain.

Ray sits before the files and photos, looking unsure. He has

come to garner a promotion but has just been sent to The

Graveyard. Or in the FBI argot, Indian Country.

Tully pivots his leather chair in a full circle and slaps an

assignment folder down in front of the young agent.

EXT. THE GREAT PLAINS - SOUTH DAKOTA - DAWN

The very landscape from opening image. Gentle waves of land,

rolling out to touch the Black Hills. The sun rises up out

of the distant silhouette like a waking God. HEARTBEAT DRUM.

Hypnotic.

And then a car blows by, throwing up gravel and agate and

gypsum. ZOOOOM! Right by us. Gone.

When a dense screen of red dust clears, an old, bent, metal

sign at roadside becomes visible. It reads, through punched

and rusted bullet holes: "Entering Bear Creek Indian

Reservation."

HEARTBEAT DRUM calls in the high-pitched, mournful voices of

LAKOTA SINGERS. The same haunting song.

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