Friday, August 19, 2011
Fast, Cheap & Out Of Control
Hey there, crime kids. Happy Friday. Are you ready for the weak-end? It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where your most violent fantasies become sins of the flesh, right here, where the hardboiled action is non-stop, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
In Chapter 5 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, private eye Carrie Love drowns her sorrows in a bottle of booze after being left by Felina. But when she gets a call from Gay Flender, the wife of missing movie producer we saw abducted earlier in our story, Carrie impulsively decides to take the case ...
INT. CARRIE'S JOINT - BAR - MORNING
Carrie pours two fingers into a cut-glass tumbler.
CARRIE (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Philip Marlowe didn’t drink for fun.
He drank to forget.
(takes a sip)
And then remember.
She downs it. Phone RINGS.
Wipes her mouth. Pours another.
Leave me the fuck ALONE.
She turns her head. Realizes.
GRABS the receiver. Listens.
A GLOSSY, DARK-HAIRED FEMME FATALE
in an armchair, turned 3/4 away from us.
On the phone.
GLOSSY FEMME FATALE
You’re not Felina --
GLOSSY FEMME FATALE
Carrie, it’s me -- Gay.
Isn’t it a bit early in the day
for -- stalking?
I’m not stalking you.
I need your help.
What’s the matter,
the batteries in your vibrator went dead?
I need a -- a private detective.
You did that job for my husband’s
business partner --
Ah, yes -- the missing gay son.
That was a weird case.
Kinky little bastard.
He’s not gay.
He was just -- experimenting.
On a drag queen porn shoot in Tijuana.
‘Shemale Trouble,’ I believe?’
It’s my husband.
He’s -- missing.
Carrie pours a shot.
Holds it up to the light.
Hello? Are you still there?
Carrie closes her eyes. Thinks.
When did you last see him?
Last night. He, he --
went out to walk the dogs,
and he -- never came back.
Guess there’s a lot of that
What? So are you available?
Can you help me?
Can you find him for me?
I’ll have to check my calendar.
She pours another. Takes a sip.
I’m at my wit’s end.
I didn’t get any sleep last night --
Gay breaks down, starts sobbing.
(winces, takes a hit)
Alright, alright --
keep your knickers on.
I’ll do it. But it’s just business.
You will? Oh, yes --
thank you, thank you,
I don’t know what to --
My fee is five hundred bucks a day.
Oh, don’t worry about that.
We’re loaded. How soon can you come over?
Carrie pours another shot.
Downs it. Shivers.
Carrie? You still there?
I’ll be right over.
I’m at 134 24th Street,
one block north of Montana.
Can I ask you something?
Sure. Why not.
Why does your card say --
‘Fast, Cheap and Out of Control?’
Oh, that --
I believe in truth in advertising.
EXT. OCEAN AVENUE - CARRIE’S CAR - MOVING - DAY
The silky, hep-cat swing of Milt Buckner’s THE BEAST
n the car stereo grooves over --
Carrie’s white whale.
Cruising north through a tunnel of palm trees.
Passes lux beach joints. Ivy at the Shore --
Ah. Smoggy, muggy Los Angeles.
Like a sauna, blanketing this
godforsaken burg like a warm, damp shroud.
Just the thing for a hangover.
The car stops at a light.
The sign reads MONTANA AVE.
Carrie signals. Turns right.
Starts heading east.
My mouth was dry.
Heart, pounding. Head, throbbing.
Muscles aching from my tryst
with the Empress of the Damned.
CAMERA flies by a series of trendy boutiques.
Maybe this would help take my mind off
being left at the dog collar.
An easy, simple missing husband --
who’s probably sleeping off a bender
in some sleazy motel room
with a high-priced call girl.
The car turns left onto 26th Street.
Passes by beautiful multi-million dollar homes.
Luxury SUV’s. Luxury nannies with luxury strollers
pushing luxury heiresses and future CEO’s.
This neighborhood always makes me feel
like Ray Milland in ‘Sunset Boulevard.’
Hungry. Desperate. Doesn’t belong.
Carrie’s car pulls over to the curb. Stops.
She inspects herself in the rear view.
Sniffs an armpit.
Not too bad.
But I probably should have jumped in the shower.
Nah. Never stopped Sam Spade --