Friday, March 14, 2014
Grand Theft Auto
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 27 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, homicide dicks Bernie Keko and Aya Meir get called on the carpet by chief Larry Lipshitz for not being able to trace murder suspect Carrie Love's phone call. Meanwhile, Carrie steals new wheels and goes on the lam ...
INT./EXT. CARRIE'S STOLEN CAR - MOVING - DAY
Carrie drives a vintage Dodge Dart Swinger.
Nondescript in shades and baseball cap
that advertises some cheap booze.
She takes a long pull
from a pint bottle.
It was the first time I
played Grand Theft Auto.
The trick is to swipe an old beater
that no one will report stolen.
Thank god I’ve got enough scratch
to hide out for a while.
At least until I can
clean up this mess.
I could drain my savings account,
go down to Mexico like a grifter
in some Ross MacDonald story.
Get a shitty motel room by the beach,
write that tragic, drunken confessional
that’s been oozing outta my pores.
Takes a slug.
Picks up her cell.
Dials. Listens --
SPLIT SCREEN WITH:
INT. YAVO/FLENDER FILMS - RECEPTION - AT THAT MOMENT
Jenny sits at her workstation.
Shuffles the stacks of paperwork.
Murmurs into her headset.
How are you?
I’ve been better.
The cops want me.
I was framed for Flender’s murder.
They matched the bullets to my gun,
which someone STOLE.
I’m in deep shit.
You’re -- kidding.
ANGRY MALE VOICE (O.C.)
JENNY. Where’s the Crabb deal?
I can’t find the FUCKING CRABB DEAL!
Modi, hold on I’m on the phone --
Just sit tight.
When I get home I’ll fix us some dinner,
and we can plan our strategy.
We? OUR strategy?
Well, yeah -- I just thought -- since --
Listen, baby -- I’d love your help,
but do you realize how dangerous this is?
I can’t get you mixed up in this,
this is serious shit, and I --
Sucks in air.
Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.
are you now?
It’s best if you don’t know.
I’ll call you later when I get settled.
Just don’t tell anyone anything,
you don’t know anything --
Okay, I understand, I gotta go, I’m --
Getting yelled at.
She punches a button.
Heart beating a mile a minute.
appears. Fists clenched.
Face beet red.
Get me that fucking file, stupid BITCH.
PUSH IN ON Jenny.
Frightened to death.
S-sure thing, r-right away --
INT. POLICE HEADQUARTERS - LIPSHITZ’S OFFICE - AT THAT MOMENT
Larry leans forward in his chair.
Stares at Bernie and Aya.
Standing before him.
In trouble. Baleful.
It was a simple task.
Just KEEP HER ON THE FUCKING PHONE --
long enough to GET A TRACE.
She was a cop, Larry.
She knows the drill.
Despite being inebriated.
She was a good cop once, you know --
Captain, may I have a word?
You can have ten, twenty, a hundred.
But not here, not now.
We’ve got work to do,
and I don’t have time for your
touchy-feely psych-101 mumbo-jumbo.
But sir --
Zip it, or you’ll be back on the kibutz
so fast your dreidel will spin like a top.
Wait a minute --
You two are going to prowl the beach joints.
her thing, right, Bernie?
She used to say she got a nosebleed
if she went east of Lincoln.
There’s a few hotels and
flea-bag joints we can check out.
Not to mention the gin joints
on the boardwalk.
Then hop to it.
And find her, fast, because this is
quickly becoming a major embarrassment
to the department.
A SMALL TELEVISION SET
in a tiny motel room.
Seen from the next room.
COCKY, SMILING ANCHOR (V.O.)
-- linking the murder weapon
a Ms. Carrie Love, 36,
former Santa Monica homicide detective,
now a private investigator --
fills the screen.
Damn, she looks angry.
But still kinda cute.
COCKY, SMILING ANCHOR (V.O.)
If you see this woman,
call your local precinct immediately.
And stay away.
This is one dangerous lady.
Lady, my ass.
INT. SHITTY MOTEL ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Carrie stands in front of the bathroom mirror.
A towel around her shoulders.
Her hair is now bleached-blonde white.
Brigitte Nielson, eat your heart out.
She grabs a pair of hair clippers.
Holds it to her head.
Time to get all Britney Spears
on their asses.
And starts CHOPPING OFF
her long, beautiful hair.
Maybe I sleep around.
But that doesn’t make me a bad person.
Sue me. I was drawn that way.
I didn’t fucking KILL anyone.
Okay, maybe I like a cocktail now and then,
but I’m not a fucking MURDERER.
And okay, so I like to
bend the rules a little.
But that’s no reason to FRAME me.
So fuck all of you.
You don’t want me around, FINE.
I’ll buy myself a one-way ticket to Splitsville.
Do the disappearing tango on your asses.
I’ll go to Frisco, do a Dashiel Hammett.
Find a Continental Opp-ortunity.
Hair in blocky, spiky chunks.
She slides on shades.
Sneeers at her reflection.
But first, it’s time for the eulogy --