Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Fast, Cheap And Out Of Control
Happy Tuesday, crime slicksters. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where the girls are hot, the drinks are cold, and the hardboiled-pulp-noir action is non-stop, right here, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
In Chapter 4 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, private eye Carrie Love wakes up in the morning to find her girlfriend has unexpectedly left town. Heartbroken, she goes to the bar and pours a stiff one ... and then gets a call from a one night stand who wants to hire her ...
EXT. VENICE WALKWAY STREET - EARLY AFTERNOON
CAMERA gliding down a picture-book side-street
behind the Venice boardwalk,
a magical neighborhood byway for
pedestrians, bicycles, skates.
No cars allowed.
We continue down the bucolic boulevard
through a tunnel of trees.
We approach a six-foot-high wooden fence.
CAMERA TILTS up, up, and reveals --
A hundred-year-old bungalow.
One-and-a-half stories, with a
single window in the peak of the roof.
Peering out the window
is a three-foot tall blonde doll,
like some kind of girlish guardian spectre.
CAMERA PUSHES through the gate,
passes by a flagstone patio.
Lush plant life.
Big jacuzzi, blue water bubbling invitingly,
steam rising into the night.
We go up three steps to an enclosed deck.
Push open the lattice-work wooden door --
Revealing the antique wood and glass front door,
swung open to reveal --
INT. BUNGALOW - LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
A riot of color, a pop art explosion.
Imagination. Big-screen TV.
Wall of sound stereo.
A room-width altar.
Candles abound, every size, every color.
Walls painted a bright, deep red.
Barbies everywhere, in
‘installations’ doing strange things.
A child-sized doll atop the giant TV,
lava lamp up her skirt, grins maniacally,
as if daring a visitor to turn on the tube.
In the corner of the room is
a tiny, glassed-in work space, painted pink.
A loft above it,
bed-sized skylight open to the stars.
Spilling moonlight across the vaulted ceiling.
CAMERA continues its journey through --
THE DINING ROOM
Walls and ceiling a deep tangerine.
A long walnut table
with six primitive place settings,
dwarfed in the sea of wood.
Crystal vase with a
‘bouquet of Barbies’ in fresh water.
We pass by --
tricked out like a 60’s Vegas tiki lounge.
A big lit Schlitz globe slowing turns,
spinning out pin spots
like a drunken mirror ball.
CAMERA PUSHES through a curtain
of colored glass beads into --
A deep school bus yellow,
dimly lit in amber
from several Jesus clocks.
And the ice dispenser on the fridge.
We snake through into --
Like a ship’s stateroom,
at crazy knotty pine angles.
Leopard shower curtain
ringed around the oval footed tub.
Walls lined with a collection of
framed 60’s exotic dancer, pin-up photography.
Racy pulp novel covers.
CAMERA glides through
a curtain of gold beads into --
Walls and ceiling a deep, vibrant red.
A queen-sized bed,
seductive in black satin sheets
and a lux leopard bed spread.
Twin gilt sconces curled into
flowers of light on the wall.
Carrie lies on the bed,
mouth open. Alone.
Thrashed covers and pillow and sheets.
Mess of black, leopard and bare skin.
She turns onto her back.
Reaches up to itch her nose.
We see a CHROME HANDCUFF on her wrist.
The cuff WHACKS the side of her head.
Carrie BOLTS UPRIGHT.
OW, what the --?
She looks around. No one.
WHIPS OFF the covers.
Throws on her robe. Pads into --
She WHIRLS AROUND, dashes into --
A small handwritten note on the bar.
Carrie GRABS IT.
reads ‘You know how much I hate good-byes.
Be strong. Stay sexy.
I’ll be home for Christmas. Love, F.’
Carrie stares at the piece of paper.
My heart was breaking.
My love story never makes it to the third act.
I don’t even get the big Casablanca goodbye.
Carrie pulls up a bar stool.
Sits. Surveys the libations.
I was a ship cut adrift
in an ocean of sorrow.
My whole fucking life is a
pulp noir written by some
drunken Philip Marlowe wannabe
on a one-way ticket to loser-ville.
Raymond Chandler knew the deal.
Phillip Marlowe drank like a fish.
Helped him think.
Gave him strength. Clarity.
She reaches over,
grabs a bottle of Kessler’s.
Forget those martini-swilling lightweights
Nick and Nora Charles. Kid stuff.
William Powell, my ass.
Carrie pours two fingers
into a cut-glass tumbler.
Philip Marlowe didn’t drink for fun.
He drank to forget.
(takes a sip)
And then remember.
She downs it.
Wipes her mouth.
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.
Are you still there?
Carrie closes her eyes.
When did you last see him?
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.
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.
How soon can you come over?
Carrie pours another shot.
Downs it. Shivers.
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.