Thursday, November 10, 2016
Happy Thursday, 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 3 of THE HEISTERS, after discovering the cash from her robbery was stolen, Kelsey contacts the guy who helped her set up the job with a view to finding out who was behind the double cross ...
EXT. BEACH PARKING LOT - DAWN - FLASHBACK
Titles read ‘A FEW DAYS EARLIER.’
A handful of junky cars sit parked overnight.
Kelsey walks up to a beat-up old Toyota sedan.
Looks around. No one. She pulls out a long,
thin metal strip from her pocket.
Works in into the window.
POPS the door open. Slides in.
IN THE CAR
She deftly pulls a pair of wires
from the steering column.
Strips them with her teeth.
Presses the ends together.
The engine ROARS to life.
She hits the gas. Drives away.
EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY - DAWN - FLASHBACK
A heart-stopping gorgeous view of the ocean.
Grey and blue waves crest into white
like knives in the bright blue sky.
The famed thoroughfare twists
and turns around the coastline.
Weaves through giant rock formations
as if on a dare.
ANGLE ON --
The crappy Toyota rumbles
along in the sparse traffic.
INT. TOYOTA SEDAN - DAWN - FLASHBACK
Kelsey sits behind the wheel.
Cigarette dangling on her lip.
Rakish in Ray Ban shades.
I’d been holed up in Santa Barbara
the last few months taking it easy.
Enjoying the local color.
Shellfish, surfing and sex.
Not necessarily in that order.
When I saw that I’d blown through
half the dough from the last job,
I knew it was time to rustle up
some more scratch.
And it was time to pay the bill
at my kid’s assisted care facility again.
Place is fucking expensive.
But it’s the best in the country.
What’s a mother to do?
So I spread the word through the grapevine
that I was looking for some action.
Things were pretty quiet for a while,
but then I caught a break.
I got a call from one of my go-betweens
that my old pal in LA Ronan Kenny
was putting together a sweet little stadium job.
So here I was, on my way to the City of Angels,
the land of celluloid dreams.
Except this was no dream.
This was the real deal --
Little did I know it would soon
become a nightmare.
EXT. BAY STREET - NIGHT
Kelsey walks briskly to her
stolen car of the moment.
A beat-up old Dodge Dart Swinger.
Gets in. Turns on the engine.
INT. DODGE DART SWINGER - MOVING - NIGHT
Kelsey pulls away from the curb.
Drives south on Bay Street.
Pulls out her cell phone.
We all use disposable cell phones during a job.
That way there’s nothing to trace.
None of us knew where we were holed up,
but we COULD call each other.
She fingers a number. Listens.
Ronan, it’s me --
Some fucked up shit just went down.
I need to see you.
Not on the phone --
I don’t want to take that chance.
The Venice Motor Court. On Speedway.
I’ll be there in ten.
She clicks the phone shut.
Turns left at the next intersection.
Heads south. We see flashes of the beach
between the buildings as she drives.
The plan was, after the job all six of us
would hole up somewhere separately
for a week or two until the heat was off.
Problem was, we did the job two days ago,
so the heat was definitely still ON --