Another day, another body. Just another day in the life ... and death ... of private eye Carrie Love. Time to get your crime scene groove on. So pull on your latex gloves, get out your evidence bags ... and let's gather some clues. The body's getting cold ...
Screened a real trainwreck last night. A bizarre, British production of Raymond Chandler's THE BIG SLEEP from 1974, starring Robert Mitchum, Jimmy Stewart (both great, but LONG in the tooth), Sarah Miles and Joan Collins. (!) Now, I'm a big fan of the book -- have read all of Chandler -- and the original film with Bogie and Bacall -- but this was a travesty. Some nitwit transplanted the story to the UK, and it was just plain bizarre. Chandler's stories were about LA, NOT London. What also didn't help was the butchering of the script, and the goofy, silly tone. They stayed closer to the original story than the Bogie version, but it was just too campy. Painful, really. Shut it off an hour in -- just too painful -- and re-watched a fave doc of mine, THE MAYOR OF THE SUNSET STRIP, directed by my Facebook pal George Hickenlooper, who is now shooting CASINO JACK with Kevin Spacey. He supposedly has my noir script A DISH BEST KILLED. We'll see. Keep your fingers crossed ...
Onto today's joint from Wilshire Boulevard. And hold onto your hats ... cause it's a three-fer.
In part 1, TV movie produer Roland Yavo disowns his transgendered son for starring in a porno.
In part 2, Carrie Love and new fishie Jenny Lane drink and drive on their way to Yavo's hotel.
In part 3, Carrie's ex-partner/husband Bernie Keko gets a new homicide detective partner.
EXT. OCEAN AVENUE - SUNSET
The purple, swinging acid jazz of Groove Nation’s
GET THIS percolates and bubbles over --
A riot of red, orange and yellow smears the sky above crashing waves.
Wind WHIPS through the fifty-foot palms.
A sleek, black Lexus coupe ROARS down the coastal boulevard.
INT. YAVO’S LEXUS - MOVING - CONTINUOUS
Yavo DOWNSHIFTS at a yellow light at the Malibu Canyon pass.
Stops at the red. Shouts into his hands-free cell.
I got a call from your DIRECTOR.
SPLIT SCREEN WITH:
INT./EXT. NIKKI’S JAGUAR - MOVING - CONTINUOUS
Nikki’s stuck in traffic on the 405.
Puffs fiercely on an ultra-long, thin cigarette.
Cell phone clamped to her ear.
Madea pokes out of her handbag on the passenger seat.
Yeah -- the sleazebag that shot
the tranny porno you STARRED in.
Listen, I can explain -- it’s a student film, it’s --
Shut the FUCK up and LISTEN.
The creep set up a MEETING with me using YOU as bait,
and now he’s trying to BLACKMAIL me!
But, but --
No BUTS -- except maybe YOURS.
This freakshow of yours
has crossed over into my BUSINESS.
changes to green.
Yavo STEPS ON IT.
I’ve HAD IT with you.
You’re outta my house, outta my will,
and I’m NOT paying for college.
You’re ON YOUR OWN, Nancy-boy.
No, please -- let me EXPLAIN.
I told you to SHUT THE FUCK UP.
You are DEAD to me.
GRABS the cell off his ear.
FLINGS IT into the dashboard -- CRACK.
EXT. CARRIE’S CAR - MOVING - AT THAT MOMENT
The ghostly blue twang of Chris Isaak’s TALK TO ME.
Carrie drives with the top down.
She’s cleaned up, wears Landon’s biker chick threads.
Looks haunted. Beaten. Drained.
She take a swig from a pint bottle of brown.
Jenny sits on the passenger side.
Watching Carrie intently.
I’ll keep an eye out for cops.
Good idea -- driving on a suspended license --
Really? Maybe I should --
Have a hit of that.
Carrie passes the bottle to her.
Jenny takes a long pull.
Hands it back.
(takes a sip)
So where does Yavo shack up when he’s in town?
You want to see him now? It’s kinda late.
(hands her the bottle)
I want to ask him a few questions. Alone.
(takes it, sips)
He’s at the Hotel California, on the beach.
It’s nice. Quaint. I stayed there once.
(hands the bottle back)
You know -- it’s right near Chez Ray.
Across the street, down about a block.
Carrie HITS the brakes.
The tires SCREECH.
She TURNS THE WHEEL.
The whale ROCKS, SKIDS --
And FISHTAILS into a U-turn.
Learned that move from Mannix.
So where are we going?
The Hotel California. To drill Yavo.
And I’m -- coming along?
PUSH IN ON Carrie.
Drains the bottle. Tosses it --
I don’t feel like being alone.
INT. SANTA MONICA POLICE STATION - CAPTAIN’S OFFICE - NIGHT
A small, cramped, stuffy office.
Plaques, citations, photos of cops line the walls.
A small fan pushes around the stale air.
A tiny transistor radio plays Coltrane.
Captain LARRY LIPSHITZ (50’s) sits behind his desk,
unlit cigar in his mouth. A bit flabby, but still solid.
Right now his eyes are burning.
He POUNDS the desk with a fist.
You went on a FUCKING CALL with no BACK-UP.
I should fucking SUSPEND you.
Bernie Keko sits across from Lipshitz in a ratty chair.
Look, Elroy disappeared. That’s not my fault.
He went off on another bender --
Then you CALL for fucking BACK-UP.
What THE FUCK were you thinking?
The address was -- next door to Carrie’s place.
What, you still carrying a torch for that nutty broad?
No, I was -- alright, I panicked, okay?
When I heard the address, I took the call.
I was right nearby.
Lipshitz stares at Bernie. Scowls.
If you weren’t the best homicide detective we have --
(flicks on the intercom)
Send her in, McBain.
Gotta little surprise for you.
In walks AYA MEIR (30),
Israeli plainclothes detective deluxe in sharkskin.
Six-feet of gleaming, curvy muscle.
Long, thick black hair.
Dark eyes glint like cold steel.
Helen of Tel Aviv.
Bernie, I’d like you to meet your new partner, Aya Meir.
Any relation to Golda?
Pleased to meet you, detective Keko.
She puts out a hand to shake.
Bernie refuses. Folds his arms.
I’m not working with another broad.
Yes, you are. And that’s an ORDER.
Bernie gives Aya the once-over.
PUSH IN ON Aya’s face.
Slightest flicker of a smile.
Gee. Thanks for making a gal feel welcome.