The Stuff Of Dreams

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 7 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, private eye Carrie Love meets with former one-night stand Gay Flender, wife of murdered TV movie producer Harvey Flender, and gets the low-down on just how sleazy Harvey was ...


EXT. FLENDER RESIDENCE - DAY
A super-sized faux Tudor monstrosity
on a leafy cul de sac.

Porsches, Beemers and Benzes dot the landscape.
A HISPANIC HOUSEKEEPER waters a garden
in the dappled sunlight.

INT. FLENDER LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Carrie sits in a big wing chair.
Sipping a beer.

Eyes roaming the large, lush room.
Slowly nodding. She looks at --

GAY FLENDER (mid-30’s),
splayed out on the couch.

The kind of blinding beauty that stops traffic.
Azure eyed. Chestnut mane. Curvy.

With shiny, toned gams.
The stuff of dreams.

CARRIE (V.O.)
And there she was.
A solid-gold siren
from the right side of the tracks.
(beat)
The problem with a sex addiction
is it spills over into
your professional life.

Gay lights a cigarette
with trembling hands.

CARRIE (V.O.)
Take Gay Flender.
I had met her
at her dead husband’s office --
and within one hour we were playing
‘frisk the perp’ at the Motel Starlet
on the wrong end of Pico.

Gay rummages in her Prada bag.
Pull out a prescription bottle.

Pops a pill.
Takes a sip
from her designer water.

CARRIE (V.O.)
Guess it was a combination
of my carnal knowledge --
and the three martini lunch.
Of course, I had to
cut if off right away.
I mean, I was working
for her husband’s partner.
And I learned the hard way
hat mixing work and play
is like looking for love
at the Neverland Ranch.

Carrie sips her beer.
Smiles grimly.

CARRIE
Nice joint you have here.

GAY
Thank you.
We just did a complete re-model.
We used Brendan of --
(gasps)
Thanks for -- coming on -- such --

She breaks down.
Softly sobbing.

CARRIE
I’m so sorry -- Gay.

Pause.

GAY
The fucking bastard
had it coming.

CARRIE
Excuse me?

GAY
Don’t get me wrong,
I loved the jerk,
but he was a fucking crook.

Carrie takes a pull
from her bottle.
Narrows her eyes.

CARRIE
How so?

GAY
He’d pad the budget
on his movies
and pocket the difference,
never paid profit participation,
and he --
(whispers)
Stole people’s projects.

CARRIE
So he was old-school Hollywood.
(off Gay’s nod)
This is the point where I ask you
if he had any enemies --

GAY
Enemies?
The whole town hated him.
But watch, now that he’s dead,
he’ll be a martyr.
Full-page ads in Variety,
a Peter Bart column, the works.
(beat)
Isn’t it a bit early
in the day for a beer?

CARRIE
I’m having a --
personal crisis of my own.

GAY
What happened?

CARRIE
Let’s just say --
I’m unlucky in love.

GAY
I’m so sorry --
(stares, thinking)
Are you sure you’re
up for this?

Carrie drains the beer.
Eyes bore into Gay
like kleig lights.

CARRIE
(quiet, terse)
I never let my personal life
affect my work.
In fact, when I’m upset
and my nerves are frayed,
my focus becomes razor-sharp.

GAY
That’s nice.

CARRIE
(stands)
So where should I start?
I mean, if the whole town --

GAY
(gets up)
Start by checking out
the freaks at his
production company.

CARRIE
The whole company?

GAY
Don’t worry.
It’s now only five people.

PUSH IN ON Carrie.
Lighting up a smoke.

CARRIE
Now that’s what I
call a mini-major --