Friday, September 9, 2011
Shot With His Own Gun
Hey there, crime kids. Happy Friday. 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 20 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, private eye Carrie Love visits Roland Yavo's motel room, and discovers a horrifying surprise. Meanwhile, homicide detective Bernie Keko spars with his new partner, Aya Meir ...
EXT. HOTEL CALIFORNIA - CORRIDOR - NIGHT
Carrie creeps down the outdoor walkway
that runs the length of the place.
Reaches 24. Stops.
Puts her ear to the door.
Faint TV sounds trickle out.
Some old movie soundtrack.
Carrie KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKS on the door.
Roland. Roland Yavo.
It’s Carrie Love --
She listens. Silence.
Pulls a pick from her pocket.
Works it in the lock.
A soft CLICK.
The door SWINGS OPEN.
She moves in.
INT. HOTEL ROOM - CONTINUOUS
A front room of a nice suite.
Cozy. Touristy-tacky. Nautical artwork.
A plasma-screen TV flashes over a fake fireplace.
Carrie moves to the bathroom.
In the doorway, we see
a pair of bare feet on the floor.
In a large puddle of BLOOD.
This is not good.
She goes in.
Yavo lies on the tiles.
Shot in the temple.
His Colt lies next to his right hand.
Clumsily staged suicide.
Amateur-hour. Strictly non-pro.
Carrie grabs a hand towel.
Wipes down the doorknob.
All the surfaces she touched.
Closes the door.
OUTSIDE IN THE CORRIDOR
she looks around. No one.
Wipes that knob, too. Hurries off.
EXT. HOTEL CALIFORNIA - PARKING LOT - MOMENTS LATER
Carrie slides into the Olds. GUNS the engine. HITS the gas.
What’s wrong? You look spooked.
Yavo’s dead. Single gunshot,
right in the kisser.
Shot with his own gun.
Old Raymond Chandler device.
Nice. When it works.
Did you -- call the police?
I’ve finally been dealt a good hand.
And I’d like to play it out.
EXT. MUNICIPAL BUILDING - PARKING LOT - AT THAT MOMENT
Aya sits behind the wheel of a nondescript unmarked sedan.
Bernie comes up to her window.
Slide over. I’m driving.
No. I’m driving.
I ALWAYS drive.
Hurry up, get in.
We have a grieving widow to interview,
and we don’t have time for your misogyny.
Bernie does a slow burn.
Walks around the car. Gets in.
Aya puts the car in gear, and TEARS off.
INT./EXT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - CONTINUOUS
In Israel, everyone serves in the Army.
I’ve killed a man with my bare hands.
No, my godfather.
He tried to rape me.
Don’t be. He was a slave trafficker.
He would have kicked the can sooner or later.
It’s 'kicked the bucket.'
Kick the can is a kid’s game.
Bernie checks her out.
This might not be so bad after all.
So, I guess you -- played basketball?
No. But I bet you play
a mean game of miniature golf --
INT. JENNY’S APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Jenny and Carrie walk down a dimly lit corridor.
I’ve been trying to get the landlord
to fix the light.
They get to her door.
One quick drink for the road.
I gotta find a place to crash tonight.
Jenny puts her key in,
rattles the lock. Flustered.
The lock -- sticks.
INT. JENNY’S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Homey, like a senior-year dorm room.
Plants. Stuffed bookcases.
An Italian LA FEMME NIKITA poster.
La Femme Nikita, great flick.
I LOVE Luc Besson.
Have you seen Leon?
I mean, thirteen-year old
Natalie Portman? Hello.
You mean The Professional?
That’s the Hollywood title.
The original title was Leon.
And in the original script, they make love.
Raising the stakes --
So -- what do you want?
I’ve got beer, wine, scotch --
Scotch. Make it a triple.
(off Jenny’s look)
My version of one drink --