"THE PUBLIC EYE" Screenplay by Howard Franklin SHOOTING DRAFT FADE IN: BEGIN TITLES In murky light, a piece of paper sinks in a shallow tin tub. By degrees, faces and forms appear on the page: a swooning woman, (circa 1940) a cop who tries to catch her, a crowd of onlookers standing in the shadows of a tenement house in the aftermath of a murder. Before the photograph has completely developed, it seems to fade in a dreamy DISSOLVE TO: Another submerged page. A new images begins to appear: a thick-ankled stripper (again, 1940) sleeping between shows in her dingy dressing room. Before it has fully developed, this photo also DISSOLVES TO: A new page on which appears a billboard attached to a burning building. It advertises a 1930's sunburn medication: "Put out the flames with SunzoCaine!" Painted flames rises from a sunbather's burnt back, mixing with the real ones. We continue sensuously to DISSOLVE THROUGH black and white, high-contrast photos as they come hauntingly to life (all of them depicting New York, at night, in the late 30's or early 40's) till we END TITLES. We PAN TO the dim red darkroom bulb, under which we begin to hear a faint siren and DISSOLVE TO: ...another red bulb, this one atop a patrol car. EXT./INT. POLICE CAR [APRIL, 1942] - NIGHT We hear a Dispatcher's monotonous voice over a hissing police radio. DISPATCHER (V.O.) Signal 30. Two-three-six Thompson Street. Inside the car, the Young Cop who's driving angles forward in his seat, pressing heavily on the gas. His older partner stares forward, blankly. CUT TO: EXT. 236 THOMPSON STREET - SAME A respectable working-class block. Neighbors are clustered by the stoop in robes, pajamas, undershirts. A woman with young children holds them to her nightgown. All watch as The Cops pull up by the curb and rush from their squadcar. They push their way through the crowd. TEENAGER (in an undershirt, grinning) Third floor. The Cops continue into the building. INT. STAIRWELL - 236 THOMPSON The Cops move stealthfully up the dim stairwell, guns drawn. On the third-floor landing, a door is ajar. Light spills out onto the floorboards. As they ascend, the Cops can see the corpse of a smartly dressed young man inside: It lies face down, its features rudely pressed and bloody against the floor. A freshly-blocked hat lies a few feet from the dead man; he was shot as he came home. On the landing, the Cops move carefully to the door, hugging the wall. They hear someone moving inside the apartment. They freeze, barely breathing. The older Cop cocks his gun, crosses himself, wraps his hand around the doorframe. He jumps into THE APARTMENT crouching, gun drawn. A crackling, blistering sound is heard as a flash of light fills the room, blinding him. COP (blinking as he stands) Jesus. REVERSE: A flashbulb hits the floor hollowly. BERNZY (whose real name is Leon Bernstein and whose professional name is "The Great Bernzini") inserts a new bulb in the giant chrome flash attachment of his Speed Graphic press camera. A cigar is planted in the corner of his mouth. Bernzy cuts a curious figure: He wears an oddly oversized suit that has capacious pockets to accommodate camera lenses, film plates and flashbulbs. His thick-soled shoes are sensible to a fault. He wears a hat but no tie. His face is alert and ironic, his movements rapid and purposeful. BERNZY (to the Cop, deadpan) You scared me. He reaches into his jacket to extract a new 4 x 5 glass film plate (from a bag of plates hung over his shoulder) with a well-practised, unhurried speed. The older cop, O'BRIEN, is annoyed; his comment sounds like an accusation. O'BRIEN We weren't six blocks from here when it come over the radio. Bernzy is lining up another shot; he speaks from behind both cigar and camera. BERNZY I killed him. To get the pictures. The Young Cop has entered. Bernzy waves him back. BERNZY You're casting a shadow. He backs up, obligingly. Bernzy takes his shot. The Young Cop kneels by the corpse. He finds a gun in the waist-band of its suit trousers. YOUNG COP (to O'Brien) Second one this week. O'BRIEN (to Bernzy) Who'd this guy work for, Bernzy? But Bernzy hears a car pulling up outside, a car door slamming. He peers down into the street through the window. BERNZY'S POV: Another Photographer is arriving. He crosses the street, lugging a press camera. O'BRIEN Bernzy! BERNZY I think Farinelli. But he's not lookin' his best tonight... Could you move his hat closer? O'BRIEN What? BERNZY His hat. The hat. People like to see a dead guy's hat. O'Brien grudgingly picks up the hat, drops it closer to the corpse. The flashbulb fires. CUT TO: EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT Bernzy, in the alley alongside the building, is hunched over the open trunk of his sedan on a camp stool. The car trunk has been turned into a darkroom. The truck lamp has been replaced with a darkroom bulb. A drying line is suspended over a shallow tub. (Also in the trunk are two dozen boxes of Wabash super-flash photo lamps, an open box of cigars, a pot of glue, various cameras and lenses, and a tiny, battered typewriter.) Bernzy looks up into the apartment window as the explosion of a flashbulb-fills the window. Bernzy unpins four nearly dry photos on the line, fans them in the air, lays them face down on the trunk floor, and stamps their backs with his identifying imprint: Deco lettering is surround by the stamped outline of an eye, like something on an optometrist's sign. Around the upper and lower lids of the eye it says "CREDIT PHOTO TO - THE GREAT BERNZINI". In the center of the eye it says "THE PUBLIC EYE" He slams the trunk shut. CUT TO: INT. DAILY NEWS BUILDING - NIGHT CLOSE ON a Daily News check, made out to Leon Bernstein. On a stub, the check is carefully accounted for. 1 Corpse (2 bullets @ $1.50 each)............$3.00 Bernzy, riding down in an elevator, folds the check into his pocket. INT. DAILY NEWS LOBBY The elevator doors open, Bernzy steps out. The Photographer we saw leaving Thompson St. steps into the lobby. He only has to see Bernzy to know he's too late. PHOTOGRAPHER Shit. CUT TO: INT./EXT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREET - NIGHT Bernzy drives, his eyes intently scanning the nighttime street. A steady, low hiss is emitted from a police radio, that is gerry-rigged under his dusty dashboard, swaying on its wires. A metal plate on the radio says FOR POLICE VEHICLES ONLY. Bernzy's Speed Graphic, with flash, sits on the seat next to him. As Bernzy reads every shadow and doorway for potential pictures, We see what he sees out the window (buildings and people) in black and white, slightly overcranked: the POV of Bernzy's trained eye. CUT TO: INT. TENEMENT HALLWAY - NIGHT On the landing of the stairwell, a young Puerto Rican Woman wails hysterically as two Cops try to calm her down. She's in her nightgown. A flashbulb fires over her. The narrow stairway is packed with Policemen and Puerto Rican neighbors in their T-shirts, pajamas and robes. A COP leads two Ambulance Attendants, with a stretcher, up the stairs shouting as he goes. COP Clear the way, get back, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon -- Now he passes Bernzy, near the top of the stairs -- COP Bernzy, clear outta here. Bernzy is taken aback -- BERNZY But I hear this guy's walkin' around with a meat cleaver in his head -- ! -- as if it's every man's God-given right to photograph such a rare sight. COP Get the Hell out. As the Cop heads into the Woman's apartment, he speaks to the ambulance Attendants, but looks at Bernzy as he does so. COP Throw a sheet over him. The Cop is suspiciously keen to thwart Bernzy: Bernzy smells something. He turns to a Puerto Rican MAN, the next door neighbor, who watches in his T-shirt and boxers. BERNZY Who is this guy, anyway? MAN (Puerto Rican accent) Working for the Mayor. Visits at night. Bernzy sizes up the elements of the tragedy as the Orderlies bring the victim out of the apartment. He looks at the hysterical mistress and then at her victim/paramour, who is covered with a sheet, but moving (with a comically high protrusion where the meat cleaver is lodged). Bernzy -- his eyes as keen as a fox's -- takes a last look at the covered stretcher -- not a good picture -- then heads quickly down the stairs. EXT. TENEMENT HOUSE - NIGHT Bernzy opens the cavernous trunk of his car. He sorts through a cigar box containing various tools of the photographer's trade, including a scissors he uses to crop prints. He picks up the scissors. He strips off his coat. CUT TO: EXT. TENEMENT HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER The Attendants load the stretcher into the back of the waiting limousine. People watch, Bernzy not among them. One of the Attendants climbs in back, the other gets in the front, next to the Driver. The ambulance pulls out. Siren. INT. AMBULANCE - SAME Bernzy sits in the back of the ambulance. He has cut a square in the back of his jacket collar, then put the jacket on backwards, to simulate a clerical collar. BERNZY (to the Attendant) Better uncover him, son. The Attendant complies. We don't see the corpse, but the handle of the meat cleaver juts up ludicrously into the frame and it moves back and forth as the victim moans. Even Bernzy is taken aback. BERNZY Jesus. Not the thing a priest would say; he crosses himself to cover. Bernzy begins to mutter piously, indecipherably, over the ailing man. He waves something over the man, like a bottle of Holy Water when the last rites are administered. We see what he's waving: a light meter. Still muttering, Bernzy reads the meter. The Attendant looks perplexed -- a dawning realization. ATTENDANT ...Wait a second. From his oversized pocket, Bernzy withdraws a 35 mm camera. He gets his shot fast, before the Attendant can react. SHOCK CUT TO: EXT. STREET - NIGHT A Man in a hat watches as the ambulance comes to an abrupt halt. The Man watches as The back doors open and a "priest" spills out -- half leaping, half pushed. The "priest" lands on his ass in the street (careful to protect his camera) as the Attendant slams the ambulance doors. The ambulance takes off again. The "priest," unfazed, dusts himself off as he hails a cab with a cheerful serious determination. BERNZY Taxi! As the cab squeals away with the "priest", the Man in the hat wonders what he just saw. CUT TO: INT. PHOTO DESK - DAILY MIRROR - NIGHT A photo editor, EDDY, studies the picture of the meat-cleaver victim (we don't see it). EDDY This is a new low, even for you, Bernzy. BERNZY Flatter me all you want. It's still twenty dollars. EDDY You got a release on this guy? BERNZY You got a spirit medium on staff? EDDY You checked with the hospital? Bernzy nods. Eddie opens the big ledger-style checkbook, starts to write the check. BERNZY Didn't even make it to Bellvue, poor bastard. Thank God I was able to administer his last rites. CUT TO: INT. ALL-NIGHT DRUGSTORE - NIGHT In black and white, overcranked, we watch a Sailor and his Girl necking in the rear-booth of a drugstore. WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S.) That's not very polite. At normal speed, in color, we see Bernzy, sitting at a booth near the counter of the drugstore, staring at the young couple. He has a cup of coffee, a plate of eggs and his camera on the table. Bernzy, caught staring, looks up at the WOMAN. WOMAN I know what it's like. I work nights myself. She takes a seat across from Bernzy. She has plain, well-scrubbed features, and wears a raincoat. A Nurse and a Doctor are at the next booth. BERNZY Professional interest... (he puts the camera to his eye) See? WOMAN (ignoring this) Break-time comes, there's nobody to talk to, you feel lonely, right? (a beat) How much you got on you? Bernzy looks at her a beat before picking up the camera again. He shoots the Girl and the Sailor, rather than answer her. BERNZY 'Tomorrow He Sails' -- That's the caption. WOMAN C'mon, how much? There's no harm in it. BERNZY My wife wouldn't like it. Bernzy throws a dollar on the table, collects his camera: he's in a hurry to get away. Meantime: WOMAN Honey, you're not married and you don't have a girl: I saw how you were looking at those two. Bernzy gets up to go. WOMAN Your socks don't even match. He pretends not to hear her, as he heads for the door. She Calls after him, with a plaintive sweetness. WOMAN Oh, c'mon -- come back!... It's lonely out there! CUT TO: INT./EXT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREET - NIGHT Bernzy drives, his gaze unflagging. The Dispatcher monotonously intones a series of drab numbers on the hissing radio. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAY The police radio continues to hiss, O.S., without interruption, as we pan Bernzy, asleep on top of his bed. He's curled up in his clothes. Still panning, we see the apartment. It's exceedingly cluttered -- as unkempt and eccentric as its occupant. The shades are drawn against daylight. On the crowded table Bernzy uses for a desk, there is a payroll check from Time, Inc.: TWO MURDERS. . . . . .$35.00 Pinned to the bulletin board over the desk, there are covers from the New York Daily News, Mirror, World-Telegram, Post, Sun and Journal-American, all featuring Bernzy's photos of classic tabloid subjects: fires, corpses, handcuffed hoods. Piled against a wall are two four-foot-tall stacks of cigar boxes with masking tape labels across their front flaps. These are marked with laundry pencil: "Vagrants," "Drunks," "Strippers," "Rich & Poor," "Coney Island," "Gangsters - Dead," "Miscellaneous Crowds," "Bowery - Night," "Gangsters - Live." Still panning, we see a series of photos clothes-pinned to a laundry line. They show the Bum, sleeping in the box: he seems isolated and diminished in the high contrast of the Speed Graphic photo -- a bright island in a sea of blackness. Pulling back from the photo we see the photos of the curled up bum in the foreground and Bernzy curled up on his bed in the near distance, the police radio on his nightstand. We begin to hear Big Band music over the hissing as we CUT TO: EXT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT We hear the Big Band music as we see a red awning lettered LOU LEVITZ'S CAFE SOCIETY. It shows the club's trademark since the 30's: a squat coffee cup (a remnant of Prohibition, when gin was served in the guise of legal beverages). On the sidewalk outside the polished revolving doors, there is a crush of out-of-towners who wait to enter, dressed in their best. But they'll never be let in. A few Tabloid Photographers, behind a velvet rope, grip their big cameras, waiting for celebrities to come or go. One of them spots Bernzy as he threads his way through the crowd. PHOTOGRAPHER Hey, Bernzy, y'just missed Eleanor Roosevelt French-kissin' the Aga Kahn. BERNZY (still moving) I'll catch 'em inside. PHOTOGRAPHER That'll be the day. Bernzy approaches the beefy Irish doorman, in red livery, who mans the ropes. DOORMAN Behind the ropes, Bernstein. Bernzy parks his cigar in his mouth and extracts a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his ill-fitting suit. The Doorman reads a handwritten note on Lou Levitz's personal stationery. In a woman's hand: "Danny, Please direct Mr. Bernstein to my office, Mrs. Levitz." As the Doorman reads, a patrician-looking Couple in evening clothes push their way to the front. DOORMAN Evening, Mister-missus Armstrong. The Doorman lifts the rope. Mr. Armstrong slips him a bill as they pass through. Bernzy starts to follow, but the Doorman hooks the rope before he can pass. He looks over at the other Photographers, as he hands Bernzy back the note. DOORMAN Kitchen door. Check the camera. CUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT The band music swells, O.S., as the kitchen door swings open and a Waiter exits, tray in hand. It stays open as a Chinese Bus Boy points Bernzy in the direction of the hat check, across the front of the club. CAFE SOCIETY - HAT CHECK Bernzy, all eyes in this New York Mecca, takes up the claim ticket for his camera, steps down into CAFE SOCIETY - MAIN ROOM The big band plays on a bandstand, raised and set back from the tables. A black SINGER is performing, whose double entendres and risque stage manner lend a cultivated air of the illicit to things. In Cafe Society, as in The Stork Club or El Morocco, the seating arrangements clearly denote the "importance" of guests: The dreaded Outer Circle belongs to rich but garrulous businessmen with flashy dates or wives in furs. The Middle Circle is for show biz types, pretty women, professionals, the up-and-coming. The coveted Inner Circles comprises the well-born and the famous, e.g., Social Register types, stars of Broadway, prize-fighters and movie stars. Every table has a white cloth, a red rose and a ceramic ashtray that says LOU LEVITZ'S CAFE SOCIETY. Those who eat eat steaks or chops. Everyone drinks champagne or Scotch. Everyone smokes. Bernzy's eyes drink in the rich atmosphere. They seem to be taking photographs without benefit of a camera: DOYENNE WITH GIGOLO, FAT MAN OGLING CIGARETTE GIRL, ACTRESS IN SUNGLASSES, etc., again through the black and white of Bernzy's trained eye, overcranked. The MAITRE D' approaches Bernzy, intending to evict him; his eyes scornfully size up Bernzy's clothes, his overall demeanour. He has an Italian accent. MAITRE D' You have reservations, sir? BERNZY I can see you got some. The Italian looks at him, utterly perplexed by the idiom. BERNZY Forget it. Bernzy shows him the note from Kay. Recovering from his gaffe, the Maitre d' bows his head graciously. He crosses to a section at the back of the room where The club's Hostess -- a beauty -- is pointing out salient features of the room to a delegation of men in business suits (not evening clothes.) She charms them all with some witty remark. As they laugh, the Maitre d' points out Bernzy. She excuses herself, crosses to Bernzy. She looks impossibly elegant next to him, or he looks impossibly unkempt next to her. KAY Thanks for coming, Mr. Bernstein. BERNZY Bernzy. KAY (Mrs. Lou) LEVITZ is in her early 30's, a dancer/actress plucked from some show or chorus by her husband years ago, now groomed like a rich lady. Bernzy follows her toward a set of stairs at the back of the club. As they move, she looks across at the men in suits. KAY Those're Publicity men from the War Department. They wanna shoot a newsreel in here for War Bonds. INT. NIGHTCLUB OFFICE - SAME They enter. She closes the door behind them. The music is still audible from downstairs, but muted. A professional Hostess, in full control of her charm, she immediately crosses to a drinks caddy and pours him a Scotch. KAY There's never been a camera inside. Lou always said "It's like Heaven, that way: they're dyin' to see it." Bernzy smiles, but he looks ill-at-ease, holding his hat. The back wall of the office has a big curtained window that looks down on the nightclub. Memorabilia lines the other walls. Bernzy is studying a photo-portrait of Kay -- a professional glamour shot from her show business days. He looks at a framed photo of Kay with the late Lou Levitz -- squat, bald, nattily dressed. She hands him the Scotch and indicates the short couch. KAY Please. He sits at one end. She sits at the other. The shabbiness of his clothes is especially apparent in these sleek surroundings. He's still uncomfortable. It shows. KAY Is everything alright, Bernzy? BERNZY I'm still in shock. She doesn't understand... BERNZY If I'd of snuck in, I'd feel more comfortable. KAY (a slow smile) Me too. Half the people down there feel more sure they belong than I do. Now he smiles, half-disbelieving. He takes a cigar out of his pocket. BERNZY You mind? KAY (she shakes her head) Lou told me you know everybody in New York, Bernzy: all the crooks and all the cops... He shrugs modestly as he unwraps his cheap cigar. KAY And he said you never take sides, because all you care about is getting pictures: taking sides might get in the way. Please -- take one of Lou's. They're just going t'hell here. She opens a humidor on the coffee table and takes out a big Cuban. As she hands it to him, she seems to study him. BERNZY Thanks. KAY I guess you've read about Lou's brother contesting the will. If Lou'd've wanted to leave Cafe Society to a rug salesman, he'd of left it to him. BERNZY He sells toupees? or carpets. KAY It's hard to tell. He smiles, she smiles... She grows more serious. KAY People say some pretty lousy things about me, Bernzy: she's a cold-hearted girl who married and buried an old man. You've heard that? Bernzy looks at her. He shrugs. KAY I loved my husband. I love this place. It's mine now... It's mine. She seems to want some affirmation of this fact. BERNZY Right. It's yours, now. She gets up abruptly and walks to the window overlooking the club. She draws back the curtain with her hand. KAY D'you know this man? He joins her at the window. He looks down: A young, dark-faced Man, whose heavy, thuggish features contrast with the fine cut of his suit, sits at a table with a woman in decolette. They laugh in an ugly way. BERNZY Never saw him. I'd take a stab in the dark he ain't Society League. On the desk blotter, Kay finds a legal paper, then comes back to the window. KAY He says he was my husband's partner. She hands him the pages. A vulgar, gilt embossed business card is clipped to the top page with a name -- EMILIO PORTIFINO -- and an East Side address. KAY He says Lou owed him money, and now he's my partner. BERNZY Never heard of him. KAY (disappointed) No?... Bernzy shakes his head. KAY Lou didn't need money -- BERNZY (examining the pages) 'Offered as collateral in exchange for services rendered.' KAY -- and he didn't keep secrets from me. BERNZY How would you know? KAY Hm? BERNZY I mean if they're secrets. He smiles. KAY You know how it is -- when you're intimate with someone. Bernzy's smile freezes; he doesn't know. BERNZY Yeah, right. KAY I know Lou bootlegged in the old days. Who didn't? And I know every booking agent who comes in here isn't strictly on the up and up. But Lou was a reputable businessman. BERNZY This is his signature? She nods. She looks out the window, again, at Portifino. KAY He's here every night, not ten feet from the Governor or Walter Winchell. BERNZY Couldn't you just -- ? KAY Throw him out? I want to. But he says he'll go to my brother-in-law, and help him prove Lou's will is invalid. BERNZY Is it? KAY No! but -- I'm a second wife, there aren't any women in this business, and we both know what people say about me. I can't take the chance. As she looks out the window, staring at Portifino, she bites her lip, fretfully -- nothing like the cool elegant hostess she was on the floor of the club. This unnerves Bernzy. If she's just acting (vulnerable) she's doing a good job. BERNZY (clearing his throat) I could find out who he is. She takes his hand in hers. KAY Please. He looks at his hand in hers. Either feeling that she is being over-emotional, or sensing he is uncomfortable being touched, she lets go of him, grows more matter-of-fact. KAY I really don't know what's appropriate, but I'd like to pay you someth -- BERNZY No. KAY I just thought -- He shakes his head. A beat. BERNZY Danny, downstairs, 'suggested' I come in through the back. Looking at Bernzy, she can understand why the Doorman insisted: anybody could. KAY I'm sorry. I'll talk to him about it... He nods. This doesn't seem like quite enough. KAY Why don't you stay and have dinner? She indicates the club, below. BERNZY It's alright. (he smiles, starts to exit) It ain't that big a favor. KAY Next time, then. BERNZY (as he goes out) Yeah, right. CUT TO: CAFE SOCIETY - MAIN FLOOR - LATER Bernzy, rather amazed, wearing a half-smile, stands waiting for his camera at the hat-check, looking out over the club. He looks up to the office window where Kay stands, looking down, smoking unhappily. Bernzy's smile fades: he's enjoying this too much. CUT TO: EXT./INT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/N.Y. STREETS - NIGHT Bernzy drives up lower Broadway, his eyes scanning the street, a steady low hiss being emitted by the police radio... CUT TO: EXT. MEAT DISTRICT - NIGHT A Butcher hauls a bloody carcass on his back. He looks over when the flashbulb fires. Bernzy has planted himself among a row of bloody carcasses hanging on hooks to get the shot. EXT./INT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREETS - NIGHT It's nearly dawn. Bernzy is still driving. His jacket is soaked in beef blood. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAWN Bernzy sits at his desk. On it is one of his file boxes, the cigar lid swung open. He's studying a picture from the box. It is of Kay and Lou Levitz, taken at a Broadway opening night. Under it is a typewritten caption that is yellowed with age. It says "Beauty and the Beast." As pins the picture on his bullet board we DISSOLVE TO: INT. BERNZY'S APT - AFTERNOON In the bathroom, Bernzy is knotting a necktie, quickly but poorly. The bathroom is also the kitchen: it has a hotplate and a shelf of canned soup, canned chile, canned spaghetti. The tiny KITCHEN which Bernzy passes on his way out, has been turned into a darkroom. CUT TO: EXT. STREET OUTSIDE BERNZY'S - DAY Bernzy hurries up the street, fidgeting with his tie. He is greeted by TOM HAYWARD, 30, a man in a seersucker suit with a wry manner and an Ivy League air. He holds a furled newspaper under his arm. HAYWARD Bernzy! Just coming to see you. BERNZY I'm late. Walk with me. HAYWARD What's with the tie? Somebody die? BERNZY Not yet. Hayward unfurls the newspaper, a Daily Mirror. The banner headline (no photo) reads: KILL MOTHER IN JERSEY WITH AX. HAYWARD Seen this? BERNZY Your work? HAYWARD Came off the wires. Couple of seventeen-year-old kids in Greenport, New Jersey. They're screwing in the girl's mother's kitchen, when who should walk in but mom. She starts screaming her head off and -- BERNZY Yeah, yeah: everybody already guessed what comes next. HAYWARD The local police won't let anybody near 'em: no pictures, no interviews. BERNZY I don't leave New York. They approach Bernzy's parking garage. A long line of cars extends out into the street, waiting to enter. But Bernzy and Hayward take no notice of it; it's business as usual. INT. GARAGE - SAME Now we see that the cars are queuing for gasoline. In the filling station of the garage's ground floor, a posted sign reads: HAVE YOUR GAS RATION COUPONS READY (No Coupons, No Gas) HAYWARD It's half an hour, over the bridge. (hurrying to keep up) There's gotta be 30 bucks in this for each of us if the wires pick it up. You telling me this thing's paid for already? He drags a finger through the dust atop Bernzy's sedan. As Bernzy thinks about it, Hayward pulls a silver whisky flask from his jacket, unstops it, drinks. BERNZY Alright. Call Greenport. Find out when the D.A.'s in court. Find out when the arresting officer's in the station house. In a two-bit town like this, he might even work the desk. When the cop's in and the D.A.'s out, gimme a call. HAYWARD Thanks, Bernzy. Bernzy gets into the car. HAYWARD Tell me where you're going dressed like that. Bernzy pulls the door shut without answering. CUT TO: INT. EASTSIDE OFFICE BLDG. - UPPER FLOOR CORRIDOR - DAY In a panelled hallway, Bernzy reads the name on an oak door as he adjusts his tie. He goes in; we read the name on the door: H.R. RINEMAN & SONS, PUBLISHERS INT. ANTEROOM - RINEMAN PUBLISHING - SAME Bernzy gives his name to a RECEPTIONIST. RECEPTIONIST Is it a pick-up or a delivery? BERNZY (put out) I have an appointment. The door to the inner offices and a sympathetic bespectacled young man of 24, RICHARD RINEMAN, comes out, pulling into a coat. Bernzy approaches him, smiling. YOUNG RINEMAN (flustered) Mr. Bernstein. How are you. It's my father who'll see you today. I've a doctor's appointment, I'm afraid. Bernzy already suspects something is amiss, but hides it. BERNZY Sure, that's all right. YOUNG RINEMAN (smiling awkwardly) Well, then -- goodbye. He goes out. Bernzy seems to know the same door is going to open again. It does. H.R. RINEMAN appears, an athletically vigorous 60 year old. RINEMAN Mr. Bernstein? INT. RINEMAN'S OFFICE - LATER Rineman leads Bernzy into his book-lined office: all dark wood and rich leather. RINEMAN Now does one call you Mr. Bernstein or Mr. Bernzini? Or is it just Bernzini? BERNZY I was born Leon Bernstein. But I got the name 'The Great Bernzini' from the gals at World-wide, the big photo agency? They said I had t'be a magician to get to so many disasters so fast. RINEMAN That's marvelous. He shows Bernzy to a chair in front of his desk, speaking as he takes his own seat, behind it. RINEMAN I know my son spoke to you optimistically about publishing your book. That's why he wanted me -- why I wanted to speak to you rather than tossing it back into the mail. Bernzy's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly but with a kind of anger: he's suffered this particular humiliation before. Bernzy's book is on Rineman's desk. It's a "dummy book" -- a manuscript made up of stiff pieces of paper onto which photographs, printed on good paper, have been glued, along with captions. The book lies open to a photograph of a black man with an agonized expression, a fire-truck behind him, his face lighted by the unseen flames of his tenement afire. RINEMAN Of course, from a technical point of view, this is fine work, fine work. It's simply that we don't publish books of this type. BERNZY Listen, Mr. Rineman, please don't hand me that -- please -- 'cause everybody knows Rineman & Sons publishes more photograph books than anybody else. RINEMAN (ever gracious) Well, sir, we publish books of photography. And to my mind, this is instead a most admirable picture book about New York. Not an inferior genre, just different. BERNZY No. You're wrong. This is a book of photography. RINEMAN If I may explain -- BERNZY I know what you mean. Still lifes, naked women gettin' out of bath-tubs, fruit on a plate -- it's a photo, but let's pretend it's a painting. We now see a row of tasteful framed photos on the wall behind Rineman, in precisely the style Bernzy describes. They include a woman getting out of her bath and fruit on a plate. BERNZY I know how to do that, too. I really do. But let's face it, you publish enough of them books already. Everybody does. C'mon, Mr. Rineman: show those other guys. This is the book. Bernzy winks. Rineman is appalled by Bernzy's boastfulness, but hides it. RINEMAN May I say you're not being fair to the photographers we do publish -- Dick Arlen, Harold Briley, Val Armbruster. BERNZY I'm sure they're nice guys, but those arty-farty shots are easy to get compared to something like this (he leans over, points to the open book, feature by feature) -- where you got a big shiny fire truck in front of you, and a whole building on fire behind you, so the light's every which way, and mean- time, this poor son-of-a-bitch is watching his life go up -- RINEMAN Really, I don't doubt the difficulties you must've faced... You're technically superb. BERNZY Right. RINEMAN (hiding his distaste again) But what I see here is a batch of pictures that's too -- sensational and too -- vulgar to justify printing a fine book of photography, which is an expensive thing to do. BERNZY What's vulgar, exactly? This guy? or the fire? RINEMAN Since you obviously have great talent, I'd like to suggest that you apply it to a subject matter that -- BERNZY No -- huh-nh, no. RINEMAN (finally letting his impatience show) Please listen, Mr. Bernstein -- ! BERNZY Don't you think I heard this advice before? I just happen to be right about all this, see? Don't you think I'd rather be shooting flowers or beautiful dames than campin' out with corpses? RINEMAN Maybe you should ask yourself. Sensationalism has its allure. It's potent. It can desensitize a man to the beauty of flowers -- or women. BERNZY What're you, a shrink? RINEMAN Hardly. But the men who do what you do don't usually feel the need to rationalize it like you -- much less be celebrated for it. BERNZY Nobody does what I do. Bernzy takes up the book as Rineman watches. He moves to the door, seizes the knob, but pauses. BERNZY I figure your boy really did wanna publish my book. Tell him I won't hold this against him when I have my big retrospective over at the modern art museum. RINEMAN (his interest piqued, now) You're having a show at the Museum of Modern Art? BERNZY Someday. RINEMAN (a thin smile) Oh... (his certitude restored) If you really disdain the publishing establishment so, why do you crave its acceptance? BERNZY Who the hell else is gonna publish a book? He slams the door behind him. CUT TO: INT. POLICE STATION - NIGHT A door opens and a dozen flashbulbs blaze as a young HOOD, handcuffed to a Cop, enters the room. However, the Hood is covering his face with his unchained hand, so nobody gets a shot. Several Photographers, Bernzy not among them, are clustered at the door. PHOTOGRAPHER 1 Give us a shot, son! COP Clear the way! PHOTOGRAPHER 2 C'mon, one picture! The Hood, his face still shielded, kicks blindly in front of him, clearing the way. He is led toward the booking post. BERNZY, meantime, is perched on a Sergeant's desk, as the Sergeant reads over a file. Bernzy watches the commotion with the young Hood with interest but no urgency. SERGEANT There's two guys called Portifino with records. But nobody that age or description. BERNZY No record. SERGEANT Not in New York, anyway. BERNZY (baffled) Hm. Maybe he is Society League. As Bernzy gets up, he gives a few cigars to the Sergeant. BERNZY I gotta go take this kid's picture. The Sergeant scoops the cigars into his desk drawer. He looks over at the snarling, defiant Hood. SERGEANT I don't think he wants it took. BERNZY (taking up his camera) Everybody likes to have his picture took. Bernzy approaches the Hood, whose handcuffs have been removed so that he may be fingerprinted. He still covers his face. BERNZY Listen, kid. HOOD Fuck off. COP (to the Hood) Can you write? The Hood nods. COP Sign this. The Hood takes the pen and signs the form, still careful to keep his face concealed. BERNZY You ever heard of The Great Bernzini? I shot Dutch Schultz, Legs Diamond -- these guys never covered their face from me. HOOD I said fuck off. BERNZY I get everybody's picture, while he's alive or after... I ain't met the guy yet looks better after. HOOD (after a beat) You that freak, drives around in a sedan all night? BERNZY That's me. HOOD I heard about you. BERNZY In your line of work, I'm the photographer to the stars. HOOD Yeah, yeah, I heard of you. Them other creeps around? Bernzy looks over to make sure the other Photographers have given up. BERNZY They're over there, smoking. The Hood uncovers his face. The police have worked him over. He has a mean cut under one eye. He gives Bernzy his fiercest, most defiant post. Bernzy squeezes the shutter. When the flash fires, all the other Photographers look over quickly. But the Hood has covered his face, again. BERNZY Thanks. HOOD Fuck off. CUT TO: EXT. EAST SIDE - NIGHT In his parked car, Bernzy reads Portifino's gilt business card under the dashboard light, then looks out at Portifino's residence: A high-priced building with a Moderne facade and a Doorman. Bernzy gets out, tosses his cigar away, stows his camera in the trunk, crosses and enters. INT. BUILDING LOBBY - SAME We watch from outside the glass as Bernzy speaks to the Doorman, bribes him, is directed to the elevator. INT. HALLWAY - SAME Bernzy comes off the elevator, heads down the hallway to APT 7G. The door is barely ajar; a sliver of light falls through the crack, onto the hallway carpet. Bernzy rings the bell. No response. He rings again. Waiting he glances downward casually -- BERNZY Whoops. A shimmering dark ribbon of blood seeps under the doorway. Bernzy pushes the door open a few inches before it hits something solid. He forces the door another few inches, and pulls himself through the opening. INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. - SAME The luxury apartment has a few pieces of furniture and some unopened boxes in it; Portifino has just moved in. But it is Porfitino who lies dead by the door. He is tangled in piano wire. The wire was rigged around the still-living Portifino so that any movement caused it to dig more deeply into him. He killed himself by dragging himself to the door to seek help. Bernzy goes to the telephone, dials a number. VOICE (O.S.) Precinct. BERNZY Homicide, please. beat. Then a voice: CONKLIN (O.S.) Homicide. Conklin. BERNZY Hey, Conklin, it's Bernzy. CONKLIN (O.S.) What's up, Bernzy? BERNZY I was paying kind of a social call on a guy called Emilio Portifino. There is an odd silence on Conklin's end -- and then an edge to his voice. CONKLIN (O.S.) Yes? BERNZY The guy's been murdered. I'm standin' here in his apartment now. (he glances at the corpse) Professional job. I never saw anything like it. CONKLIN (O.S.) Alright, stay where you are. BERNZY I gotta leave for a few minutes. CONKLIN (O.S.) What? BERNZY Just downstairs, to get my camera. (he looks at the corpse) This is somethin' you don't see alot. CONKLIN (O.S.) No. Stay put! We'll be there in five minutes. BERNZY Alright. The address is one-fifteen -- But the phone clicks off. Bernzy sets down the receiver. He looks at the corpse. BERNZY He knew your address already. He picks up the phone, dials another number. BERNZY Kay Levitz, please... PHONE VOICE (O.S.) Who's calling? BERNZY Leon Bernstein -- Bernzy. INTERCUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT A Waiter plugs in a telephone by a table where Kay chats and laughs with some Society Types. He hands her the telephone. INTERCUT TO: INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. Bernzy looks at the corpse as he speaks on the phone. BERNZY You're not gonna have no more trouble with Portifino in the good seats. INT. CAFE SOCIETY Kay is stunned as the other people at the table laugh gayly, obliviously, around her. KAY He's was what?... My God. Hearing her, one of the Men at the table looks at her. She forces a smile. INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. Bernzy looks at his watch. BERNZY Anything you better tell me? Anything I better know before the cops get here? INT. CAFE SOCIETY At the table, the Man smiles at Kay, again. She smiles back only fleetingly, before shifting in her seat, so she can speak more privately into the phone. KAY Bernzy, all I know about him is what I told you. If you're asking what I think you are -- BERNZY (O.S.) I'm not askin' that... INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. BERNZY The Mob did this guy in, it's obvious. INT. CAFE SOCIETY KAY (weak, as if from a blow) The Mob. INT. PORTIFINO'S APARTMENT Bernzy can hear how upset she is. He wants to say something comforting, but he wants to get his picture. He looks at Portifino. BERNZY Yeah. Alright, look, I -- I'll be in touch. I gotta go. CUT TO: INT. PORTIFINO'S BLDG. - 7TH FLR HALLWAY - LATER CONKLIN, in a suit, comes swiftly off the elevator, with two Uniformed Cops and a Man in a gray suit and hat behind him. INT. PORTIFINO'S APT. - SAME Bernzy, having ignored Conklin's request, stands over the corpse, taking a picture. He smokes a cigar. Conklin and the others burst in. Conklin leads the man in the suit to Bernzy as the others set to work, dusting for finger-prints, etc. BERNZY (taking another picture) Conklin. CONKLIN (to the man in the suit) Mr. Chadwick, this is Leon Bernstein, commonly known as The Great Bernzini. Bernzy, this is Inspector Chadwick of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Surprised, Bernzy looks over from his viewfinder. BERNZY Pleased to meet you. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. (CHURCH ST.) - NIGHT Low angle: Tires squeal as an unmarked sedan pulls up to the curb. Bernzy is quickly and closely escorted from the car, up the stairs, like a star witness or a criminal in custody. He raises his eyebrows wryly, wonders what the hell is going on... CUT TO: INT. FBI - CHADWICK'S OFFICE - LATER Bernzy is in front of the desk in Chadwick's clean, non- descript office. One one side of him, a Young Agent takes notes; on the other side of him an Older Agent (gray-haired) says nothing, merely observes. Chadwick stands behind his desk, in front of two steel filing cabinets. He interrogates Bernzy in the humorless G-Man style. CHADWICK What was your business with Portifino? BERNZY I told you. I was just calling on him as a favor to a friend. CHADWICK Right. What did you say your friend's name was? BERNZY I didn't say. Chadwick waits a beat: Bernzy offers nothing. BERNZY What're you investigating here, anyway? I mean, what was this guy -- CHADWICK Did your friend have business dealings with Portifino. BERNZY No. CHADWICK Detective Conklin tells us you know many members of the mob in New York. BERNZY I also know a lot of cops and wash- room attendants. It's the only way a photographer stays in business. I mean a tabloid photographer, not a Steiglitz or a Steichen. YOUNG AGENT (for his notes) Excuse me. Steigle or -- ? BERNZY The second and third best photographers in the country. Nobody asks who's first. CHADWICK Don't mobsters sometimes say they won't let anybody but you take their picture? BERNZY That's right. I'm sure you get t'know a lot of criminals in your line of work, too. Chadwick, impervious to humor, stares. BERNZY Maybe not. CHADWICK Was Portifino with the mob? BERNZY I dunno... Was he? CHADWICK I ask the questions here... How did he do it? How did he come to town and set himself up so fast? BERNZY Look, you know more about this guy than I do, that's obvious. I call Conklin, right away you guys know the address, now you're tellin' me he's in business -- Chadwick brings his fists down hard onto the desk, rattling the lamps, ashtray and desk-set. CHADWICK Tell us how Portifino made his money! BERNZY I don't know anything. I see the guy once for five seconds, next time I see him he's dead. (he looks around) I have to get to work now. CHADWICK Oh? You have a job? BERNZY (wearily, patiently) I'm a free-lance photographer. If I'm not on the street at midnight, the world passes me by. CHADWICK Tough way to make a living... You were hoping to get money from Portifino, is that right? BERNZY What? CHADWICK You intended to blackmail him. BERNZY This is a joke. (he looks to the others) It's a gag, right? CHADWICK Mr. Bernstein, you came to this country from Russia when you were six years old. BERNZY (getting up, putting on his hat) Alright, that's it. I got my cell meeting in half an hour. He reaches for his exposed film plates on the desk. But Chadwick traps his hand there. CHADWICK Where you going? How d'you know you're not a suspect in the murder of Emilio Portifino? BERNZY This is the stupidest interrogation I've ever seen. You're telling me more than I'm telling you. Already I know this guy got rich quick doing something the Feds don't like. Already I can see you're tryin' to keep it quiet, and when you bring up Russia, I figure it's something treasonous. Chadwick begins to speak, but the Older Agent -- alarmed by Bernzy's perspicacity -- takes over. OLDER AGENT Mr. Bernstein, thanks for your cooperation. We're sorry if we've taken you away from your work. This is a time of war, and we hope you'll keep your conjectures about Mr. Portifino to yourself. Fact is, we know nothing about the man, and hoped perhaps you did. Bernzy doesn't believe the last part, but keeps it to himself. BERNZY Yeah, okay. So if I could just get my film plates back... OLDER AGENT We can't give them to you. Not for a few days. BERNZY He's news tonight. I won't be able to sell 'em in a few days. OLDER AGENT Stop back here at Inspector Chadwick's office in the morning. He'll give you the proper forms to fill in. Bernzy looks from face to face, seeing he has no choice in the matter. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - NIGHT Bernzy comes down the stairs of the F.B.I. building and begins walking, camera in hand. Across the street, a car starts up as Bernzy heads up the block. It begins to follow him, keeping a discreet distance. Bernzy turns off the avenue, onto the sidestreet. The car makes the turn too. EXT. SIDESTREET As Bernzy moves along the dark sidewalk, he realizes the car is following him. He picks up his pace, but the car follows suit. Almost reflexively he begins to load a film plate into his camera, but the car accelerates, and overtakes him on the sidewalk. Two MEN get out -- thick-featured and thuggish -- while a third Man stays behind the wheel. The Men close in around Bernzy. Each takes one of his arms. The camera falls to the ground; the lens shatters. They drag Bernzy gruffly into the car. BERNZY You boys work for Farinelli, right? (recognizing one of them) It's Tonio, right? Bernzy's attempt at affability is futile: grimly serious, they push him into the car. BERNZY (as he's stuffed into the seat) At least pick up the damn camera! CUT TO: EXT. STREET - NIGHT The same car pulls up and parks. As one of the Thugs pulls Bernzy out, Bernzy reaches back to pick up his smashed camera. CUT TO: INT. FARINELLI'S OFFICE - NIGHT The panelled office might belong to a well-off insurance agent with a weakness for ugly nick-nacks. Farinelli rises to his feet as Bernzy is pushed into the room. He is an overweight, mid-level capo of 55. Two of his lieutenants are sitting on a couch. FARINELLI (to his goons) What're you pushin' him around for? We know this guy. (he shakes his head) Have a seat, Bernzy. Want a drink? BERNZY You got coffee? He gestures to one of the Hoods to fetch coffee. FARINELLI You know Mikey and Sal? The two lieutenants nod from the couch. SAL is lean, with a particularly arresting face (we will see him again). LIEUTENANTS Hiya, Bernzy/Bernzy. FARINELLI Bernzy, you found the body of this punk Portifino, right? Bernzy nods. FARINELLI So what d'you know about him? BERNZY Nothing, really. FARINELLI 'Nothin.' Then why'd you call the Feds? BERNZY I didn't. FARINELLI You didn't. BERNZY I found the body. Not the first I ever found. I called the cops, like I always do. They called the F.B.I. Annoyed, Farinelli turns to his lieutenants, speaks in Italian. After a brief tirade, he turns back to Bernzy. FARINELLI Okay, so you didn't call the Feds, we was misinformed by a police stooge. I'd still like to know how you knew Portifino. BERNZY I didn't. Not really. The Hood returns with coffee from someplace outside. But Farinelli, annoyed by now, directs him to put it on a side table (instead of giving it to Bernzy). FARINELLI You didn't, not really... Then what were you doin' in his apartment, if I may ask? Bernzy studies Farinelli a beat before answering. He can see how agitated Farinelli is about all of this. BERNZY I met him the other night. At Cafe Society. He said he needed somebody to take his picture. He offered good money. FARINELLI You don't do commissions. I offered you plenty when my sister's boy took communion two years ago. Close on Bernzy, caught in a lie. BERNZY That's right, I don't. Do commissions. But I got a nose for news. Talkin' to this kid, it smelled like there might be somethin' in it. FARINELLI (getting up) Oh! So that's all there is to it? Bernzy nods; he watches as Farinelli moves next to his seat, looms over him, smiling. But his face turns fierce as Farinelli kicks the chair out from under Bernzy, who flops onto his back and hits his head on the tiles. Bernzy lies on the floor, more stunned and humiliated than hurt, and looks up at the half-circle formed around him by Farinelli and his thugs. Bernzy stares up at Farinelli. He raises his right hand to God. After a long beat, Farinelli extends his hand, to help him up. FARINELLI Okay, Bernzy. As it is, I gotta trust you. You never crossed nobody, got no interest in dough, do nothin' but take pictures, noon and night. He circles his arm around Bernzy, and walks him to the door. FARINELLI What is it with you, anyway? Dope fiends live better than you do. You're a fuckin' freak, you know that? BERNZY Yeah, well, like the guy who shoveled the elephant shit said to the circus owner, 'What? And give up Show Business?'. Farinelli laughs but grips Bernzy a little too tightly. FARINELLI Don't go around talkin' about this dead little fuck, awright? We begin to hear lively music play, anticipating the CUT TO: EXT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT The usual crowd is gathered by the ropes. The other Photographers watch sullenly as the rope is raised for Bernzy. INT. CAFE SOCIETY - SAME Bernzy is looking upward, toward the windowed office as he crosses the club. He is therefore taken unawares when a Man at a good table catches him by the sleeve -- MAN Surprised they let you in here, Bernstein. I'll complain to the management. Bernzy sees ARTHUR NABLER, a likable man, 57-years-old, overweight, seemingly unaccustomed to the dinner clothes he's wearing. At the moment, he's drunk. A Woman is with him at the table, much younger than he is, attractive in flashy way. NABLER Siddown, c'mon, sit! Bernzy glances up at the office again -- BERNZY Half a minute. NABLER Don't be a pill! How else you ever gonna sit right here... 'Hack makes good,' eh Bernzy? Meet Vera Hixon. Vera, this guy's the best shutterbug in New York. (to Bernzy) You seen my show? BERNZY It's on my calendar. 'Brooklyn Rhapsody,' Winter Garden Theatre. But I work nights. VERA It's a beautiful show. She squeezes Nabler's arm in her hands and rubs her cheek against his shoulder. NABLER I know what you think: why should I go see a bunch of Arty's old columns dramatized when I already read 'em. Nabler drains his Scotch. BERNZY Untrue... I never read 'em. But Nabler's mood is turning sour as his high winds down. He can't seem to find a Waiter to bring him a new Scotch. NABLER Waiter! (getting no response) I'm dyin' here... I'm 57 years old. You think she'd've looked at me six months ago? BERNZY C'mon, Nabler. NABLER Best shutterbug in New York. You know what that means? It means his pictures are catching birdshit at the bottom of the cage six hours after the papers come out. Just like my columns used to do. Nabler tries to attract the Waiter, again, but seeing what's happening, Vera tries to ease the glass out of his hand. VERA Arty -- ? He pulls the glass away from her. NABLER At least if you write books or paint pictures they say, Alright, he had no money, no life, not even a steady girl, but look what he painted, look what he wrote. (he answers his own question) She wouldn't of pissed on me, six months ago. VERA (rising, upset) Excuse me -- BERNZY (half rising, politely) Miss Hixon. (to Nabler, when she's gone) Arthur, I think you better apologize to the lady. Bernzy gets up, but Nabler grabs his hand. NABLER You're giving me advice about my love life?! Eager to escape, Bernzy tries to wrest his hand away. But Nabler clings to it: he's as deadly earnest as a dying man. NABLER Listen to me, Bernzy, listen to one who knows: Nobody could love you. No woman could ever love a shabby little guy who sleeps in his clothes and eats outta cans and cozies up to corpses so much he starts to stink like one. Bernzy, sucker-punched, attempts to remove his hand. BERNZY Arty, you better get a refund from that charm school -- NABLER (he won't relinquish Bernzy's hand) And for what? Drunks and stiffs -- BERNZY Y'mind? -- I got a bird in the oven -- Bernzy pulls his hand away, but Nabler is not in control, blubbering and shouting, melancholy and drunk. NABLER -- thugs and bums and whores and creeps -- He draws attention: it sounds like he's shouting epithets. We move with Bernzy, who is stoical and swift, past the glittering crowd. Nabler is blubbering and shouting under the music but Bernzy isn't hearing him. We see what he sees, but this time it's in color -- it's life, untransmogrified: Men and women laughing, drinking champagne, eating steaks, hands held across tables, words whispered into lovers' ears, the music smooth and gay. The music rises. CUT TO: INT. KAY'S OFFICE - LATER It's suddenly quiet. The band is on its break. Bernzy staring out the window, sees into the club where Nabler is trying to get Vera to sit down with him again, but she pulls away, stalks out. KAY You should know I got worried. I called the police -- two hours ago. He looks at her -- annoyed. BERNZY What'd y'do that for? Obviously, she meant well. He softens. BERNZY Look, I -- I don't do favors f'r people, I can't. Y'see what happens? I walk in here with an invitation, you give me a drink, it's beautiful up here, I'm feelin' good about myself -- next thing I know I'm rollin' around on some gangster's floor. They look at each other. KAY I'm sorry. BERNZY Yeah... She goes to get a cigarette by the desk. He looks down into the club, sees Nabler, then asks -- BERNZY Why'd you ask me up here in the first place? KAY ...Lou trusted you, Bernzy. I told you, he -- BERNZY C'mon. Lou thought I was just like the flies outside, buzzin' around to get Rita Hayworth's picture -- KAY It's not true. BERNZY -- A little parasite, preyin' on people's misery. You're not the only one knows what people say about you... KAY It doesn't matter what they say about you, Bernzy. Not unless you believe 'em. He looks at her. Her words seem to get to him, or maybe just she does. He looks away, down into the club again. He watches NABLER, as struggles to his feet, throws money on the table, and staggers away. BERNZY It's not over because Portifino's dead. Somebody else is gonna come in and tell you he's Lou's partner. By the desk, holding a cigarette, she speaks quietly. KAY I figured. She takes a seat on the desk, as if for support. BERNZY I think Lou was involved in somethin' bad... Evil. She nods, determined to be strong, determined not to be emotional, although she knows she's in trouble. He looks back into the window. BERNZY I could prob'ly find out what it is. I could do that. He sees her reflection in the window. She stares off somewhere, trying not to cry. KAY (quietly) You don't have to. Bernzy is staring at her reflection. He sees himself, too: the ill-fitting suit, the ludicrous pockets. CUT TO: EXT. EASTSIDE DRIVE - NIGHT In black and white, we see a stretch of walkway by the East River, thick with couples who stroll and kiss. Bernzy drives by slowly, watches keenly, afflicted by the strong feelings Kay has stirred up in him. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. - CHURCH STREET - DAWN The building to which Bernzy was brought for interrogation. INT. FEDERAL BLDG. - LOBBY - SAME In the overscaled marble lobby, Bernzy pleads his case to a uniformed Watchman. BERNZY He's gone? He promised he'd give me back my plates this morning. WATCHMAN Then why don't you come back when it really is morning? BERNZY It's morning at the Daily Mirror. It's morning at the Post. I gotta make a living, just like you. WATCHMAN Sit over there while I phone somebody. The Watchman gestures to a marble bench by the elevator alcove. He himself goes to the marble reception desk, to make the call. As the guard dials, Bernzy walks straight past the bench, into the elevator. The doors close behind him. CUT TO: INT. 4TH FLOOR HALLWAY (FBI) - SAME Bernzy comes off the elevator, onto a long hall with offices on either side. Some doors are open; we can hear the vacuum cleaner of a janitor. Bernzy comes quickly down to the hallway, to the office at the head of it -- Chadwick's. A pail and mop stand outside, but when Bernzy peeks into the open door, the office is empty. He enters. INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE Bernzy hurries behind the desk, to a steel filing cabinet, one of two. It is locked. He studies the lock. His only light comes from the hallway, through the frosted glass. He jiggles the lock. It won't budge. He searches for the key in the desk drawers. Can't find it. He looks at the other filing cabinet. It has no lock, but is marked "UNCLASSIFIED MATERIAL." This seems less than promising but Bernzy unrolls the top drawer, anyway. He takes out his cigarette lighter, strikes the flame. It throws a wavering flame over the file tabs. He finds the one he WANTS: "PORTIFINO, EMILIO." INTERCUT TO: INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - SAME Chadwick charges in. CHADWICK Where is he? The Watchman, who by now has two other Uniformed Guards with him, points to the clock-style indicator on one of the elevators: 4TH FLOOR. They all get into the available elevator. INTERCUT TO: INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE Bernzy opens the file. We read it with him. The pages are attached to a manila folder from the top, like a medical file: PORTIFINO, EMILIO Deceased 6/3/42 ALL FILES EXPUNGED, TRANSFERRED TO WASHINGTON, D.C. 6/3/42. BERNZY Damn. In frustration, he turns the page, to see if there's more. There is a second page, on which all the print is blacked out. A third page is likewise obliterated. INT. 4TH FLOOR HALLWAY Chadwick and the three Guards come hurriedly off the elevator. INT. CHADWICK'S OFFICE As the footsteps of Chadwick et. al. echo down the hallway, Bernzy pages past several more blacked-out pages, before coming to the last page, on which a single sentence remains: SEE ALSO "CL(assified) FILE #42784 -- "BLACK GAS" The waving lighter flame excites a sense of evil as we come close to these sinister sounding words -- "BLACK GAS." Bernzy knits his brow -- but has no time to wonder: the silhouettes of Chadwick et. al. are on the frosted glass. As he digs into the file cabinet to re-insert the goods, we watch the silhouettes growing nearer and nearer on the glass. Bernzy rolls shut the drawer just as the door swings open, plops himself into Chadwick's chair, puts his feet on the desk (a more insolent, but less incriminating pose). CHADWICK What is this? BERNZY I'm not leaving till I get back my plates. Chadwick looks at Bernzy suspiciously. He plunges his hand into his pants pocket, extracts a ring of keys, moves swiftly to the locked file cabinet, opens it. He pulls out Bernzy's plates (in a pouch), spreads them on the desk, counts them. Then he puts them back in the pouch, back in the file, and locks it. He turns back to Bernzy, seething. WATCHMAN Should I call the cops, Inspector? Chadwick is thinking about it. CUT TO: INT. PARKING GARAGE - DAWN OPEN CLOSE on a poster which shows G.I. Joe -- his weary face smudged black with battle. The enemy advances from a distant hill. Joe stands beside his jeep with a gas can -- but only a last drop of fuel is left. "DO YOUR PART! SAVE A GALLON FOR G.I. JOE!" proclaims the poster's bold slogan. Then, in lesser letters: "Rationing Saves American Lives." Bernzy stands in his underground parking garage, studying the poster, his brow knitted. By the concrete wall beyond the pumps, a teenage grease-monkey reads a "Shadow" pulp on a folding chair. BERNZY You got any Black Gas, Freddy? FREDDY What kinda gas? BERNZY Black Gas. (guessing) Black -- I dunno -- black market gas. FREDDY (confused) Only gas we got here is Texaco. BERNZY (he sees it's futile) Thanks. FREDDY There's somebody was lookin' for you, Mr. Bernstein. BERNZY Oh yeah? CUT TO: INT. STAIRWELL - BERNZY'S APT. - SAME As Bernzy comes up the stairs he sees a man in a tweed sports- coat with leather arm patches hunched against his front door, reading the New York Times. He looks up from his paper when he hears Bernzy, comes to his feet, smiles pleasantly. BERNZY What're you doin' up at this hour? Like I don't know the answer. Bernzy is unlocking his door. AARON is his younger brother. INT. BERNZY'S APT - SAME Aaron is unfazed by the disarray of the apartment. BERNZY I'm not comin' with you. Coffee? Aaron has the same New York accent as his brother but uses the grammar of an educated man. AARON It's inconceivable to you I just came over for a little visit? Aaron examines the photographs on Bernzy's desk as Bernzy fixes coffee in the bathroom: he pours coffee grinds into a saucepan. BERNZY Yeah it is. AARON (he joins Bernzy) Just come sit with him for half an hour. Bernzy imitates the voice of an aged, immigrant Jew from the Lower East Side, via Russia, i.e., his father. BERNZY 'Such a vaste, Leon. Vit' your beckground, it's a tregedy. Your bruther Aaron's a learned men, a professor, vit' a beautiful vife -- end you? you drife eround in a car all the night teking pornogrephic pictures, eating in drugstores all alone. Breaks my heart, Leon, it breaks en old men's heart.' He goes back to the coffee, uselessly stirring the grounds. AARON I don't know what to say. I spend my life defending you. But when it comes down to it, I don't know what the hell you're doing down here -- BERNZY See for yourself; it's no big secret. AARON Believe me, you look around this place it leaves you with a few questions. BERNZY What's that s'posed to mean? AARON Forget it... He's a professional immigrant. He's the ultimate outsider. But he's an amateur, compared to you. BERNZY Yeah? I wonder if you'd say that if you'd seen me at Cafe Society last night. I mean inside. Bernzy strains the coffee, and pours it. AARON Yeah? So who invited you? Lou Levitz? BERNZY He's dead, Professor... How would you know him, anyway. I thought guys like you didn't read the tabloids. He moves into the main room. Aaron follows. AARON I read the tabloids, Leon. I take an interest in my brother. I'm glad you're an insider now. What's that got to do with Pa, rotting on his ass down on Delancey Street? BERNZY Other people're startin' to take an interest in me, too, alright? When the time comes, when I get my book published, I'll go see Pa. AARON D'you really think your own father's opinion of you needs to be validated by a publishing house? BERNZY No less than anybody else's. They look at each other, as Bernzy hands him a mug of coffee. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAY The shades are drawn against the daylight. The police radio hisses at low volume. We find Bernzy, slumped asleep in his clothes, in a chair. On the armrest is one of his cigar box files marked "Prizefights." Around Bernzy there is a litter of photos of Kay with her husband, ringside. Bernzy holds a picture of Kay in his hand. He fell asleep holding it. The telephone rings, shrilly. Bernzy answers it, groggily. BERNZY 'Lo? (he listens) Oh yeah? Right. He hangs up the phone. He looks at the picture in his hands -- then at the squalor around him -- then at Kay, again. CUT TO: EXT. HAYWARD'S CAR/HIGHWAY - DAY Bernzy rides in the passenger seat of Hayward's sportster on the Palisades Parkway. Hayward drinks from his flask. HAYWARD The D.A.'s in court till five. BERNZY We'll be finished by three. CUT TO: EXT. GREENPORT, NEW JERSEY POLICE STATION - DAY Bernzy and Hayward climb the steps of the almost rustic police station. Bernzy has his camera. HAYWARD How you gonna do this? BERNZY Don't worry about it. Everybody likes to have his picture took. CUT TO: INT. GREENPORT POLICE STATION - SAME Bernzy is talking to the earnest, red-haired SERGEANT POINTER. Hayward stands in the background, watching. HAYWARD We had a whole crowd of boys in from New York last week. Nobody gets to see those kids. BERNZY I don't see how the kids matter, Sgt. Pointer. Do you? POINTER What're you talkin' about? BERNZY I don't see that it takes a whole lot of courage to hit an old lady with an ax. POINTER It's sick, is what it is. BERNZY That's what I'm sayin'. It's sick. But to walk into a house with some sick kid runnin' around with an ax -- that's courage. POINTER What're you gettin' at? BERNZY We'd like to meet that man arrested those kids. POINTER That'd be me. BERNZY ("surprised") It was you? Then it's your picture I wanna take. My colleague, Mr. Hayward, would like to take down your words. What it was like. You've prob'ly seen our series in the Saturday Evening Post. 'Brave me in blue'? POINTER Yeah. Oh yeah. INT. SERGEANTS' OFFICE - LATER In an office with three desks, Bernzy has just taken a picture of Pointer in uniform. He is lining up another one. Pointer smiles -- pleased by the attention -- and swells his chest. Suddenly Bernzy breaks off in seeming exasperation. BERNZY No. No, this upsets me. This really upsets me. POINTER What's wrong? I do somethin' wrong? BERNZY You? No. You should be on the $50 bill. It's just not gonna work. Bernzy smiles sadly, starts to pack up his camera; Pointer watches forlornly. POINTER Mr. Bernzini, I think you owe me an explanation. BERNZY (reluctantly) ...Who said no pictures of those kids? It was the D.A., right? POINTER All of us agreed. BERNZY But it was the D.A. said it first. Pointer doesn't deny it. BERNZY You see what I'm saying? You ever caught a fish on vacation? Pointer nods. BERNZY You get a pictue of yourself after you caught him? POINTER Sure. BERNZY With the fish, or without him. POINTER No pictures of those kids. That's final. BERNZY And I'll tell you why, Sgt. Pointer. There'll be plenty of pictures of those kids when the D.A. gets his conviction. You caught the fish only he's in the picture. (turning to Hayward) Ready, Hayward. Pointer watches as they go out the door. POINTER (calling out) Wait! CUT TO: INT. GREENPORT STATION - LATER Pointer stands alongside the two 17-year-old prisoners. The girl is a pretty redhead; her Boyfriend a good-looking athlete. All three are posing: the Girl pouts like a starlet; the Boy sneers; Pointer is corn-ball stern. BERNZY This is beautiful. Just like I pictured it. IN Bernzy's viewfinder: Pointer is not in the shot. As the shutter clicks, we CUT TO: EXT. HAYWARD'S CAR/ROAD - DAY They ride back to New York. HAYWARD (laughing) He wasn't even in the shot? BERNZY They'd just crop him, anyway. I got one of him, too. I'll send it to his mother. 'Case I ever gotta drive through Greenport. Chuckling, Hayward sees a roadside filling station. HAYWARD I gotta stop in here. EXT. HAYWARD'S CAR/FILLING STATION - LATER An Attendant is filling the tank. Hayward takes a large sheet of gas rationing coupons from his billfold. Bernzy's eyes narrow. He knows the coupons are significant, but plays it cool. BERNZY How'd you get so many stamps? HAYWARD Guy at my garage sold me some extra. As Hayward pays the Station Attendant, Bernzy takes the stamps, examines them. BERNZY Extra? Where's he get extra? HAYWARD (drinking from his flask) I don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Bernzy continues to study the stamps as Hayward starts the car, moves toward the highway. HAYWARD What's so interesting about those stamps? BERNZY Let's go. As Hayward pulls out onto the highway, we hear a car horn scream as we SHOCK CUT TO: EXT. LOWER WEST SIDE - NIGHT The horn comes not from an oncoming car, but from a parked one: the head of a Man murdered while driving is pressed up against the steering wheel, causing the horn to blow ceaselessly. The front end of the car is wrapped around a pole. O'Brien, the cop we saw in the first scene leans into the car (parked in a deserted quarter, near the docks) and guides the dead man's head back onto the seat (his hat falls off). The horn stops. Beside O'Brien stands his partner, the Young Cop. There are bullet holes piercing the driver's door. The windshield is shattered. O'Brien swings around when he hears someone coming up behind him. O'BRIEN Jesus. It's Bernzy. He takes up his camera to get a wide shot -- the car in all it's devastation. BERNZY His hat fell off. O'BRIEN Huh? BERNZY Could you put it back on, please? People really like to see a dead guy's hat. O'Brien replaces the hat, begrudgingly, again. O'BRIEN Maybe I should pull his dick out. Maybe they'd like to see a dead guy's dick. BERNZY The News'd prob'ly buy it. (he squeezes the shutter) I might have some trouble over at the Mirror. O'BRIEN (of the corpse) Who'd he work for, Bernzy? BERNZY Spoleto. O'BRIEN Spoleto and Farinelli. Spoleto and Farinelli, all month long. Like rabid dogs fightin' over some stinkin' bone. Bernzy says nothing, keeps his eye to the viewfinder. CUT TO: EXT. RIVERSIDE DRIVE - EARLY MORNING Bernzy is sitting on the stoop of a magnificent Beaux-Arts townhouse. He consults his watch. A long black sedan pulls up to the cub, on the opposite side of the street. Kay gets out, followed by a middle-aged Italian Man in a suit and hat. Bernzy sits up, watches keenly as they talk, with evident agitation. Now the Man catches sight of Bernzy, takes Kay's arm rather gruffly, and walks her across the street to him. MAN Bernzy, I want you to tell Kay who I am. BERNZY Kay Levitz, Marc-Antony Spoleto. Spoleto's Lieutenant gets out of the car, stands in the street. SPOLETO No -- you to tell her who I am. BERNZY Mr. Spoleto has the East Side of Manhattan all to himself. KAY Lucky for us we're on the West Side. SPOLETO That's no way to talk to your new partner, Kay. (to Bernzy) You tell her, Bernzy. He walks off. He joins his Lieutenant, who walks him back to the car. LIEUTENANT Bernzy gonna set her straight? SPOLETO If he's thinkin' straight. LIEUTENANT (as they climb into the car) Why wouldn't he be? SPOLETO Look at him, over there: it's like that movie with the Hunchback and Sasperilla. Bernzy, in his rumpled clothes, stands with Kay, in her nightclub finery. LIEUTENANT Y'mean Esmerelda. SPOLETO (he signals the Driver) Whatever. They pull out. INT. KAY'S TOWNHOUSE - KITCHEN - LATER (MORNING) Bernzy and Kay sit at the kitchen table. A black Maid is at the other end of the enormous room, working; Bernzy speaks softly. BERNZY If somebody could get his hands on the gas coupons, if somebody could control 'em, there'd be a lot of money in it. Like if this was Prohibition, and there was only one source of liquor. KAY Lou wouldn't of done that. He has two nephews in the service. BERNZY I'm talking about lot of money. KAY He wouldn't do that. BERNZY He did it!... If there's one thing I know it's that most people ain't human when there's enough money involved... I got pictures of guys killed over 50 cents. For somebody, that was enough. She doesn't argue this time. KAY So that's it? Lou got himself involved with these hoods and now I'm stuck with them for partners. BERNZY They don't have partners. You'd be out. KAY (drawing breath) I see. BERNZY Unless. KAY Unless what? He gets up. He moves as he talks. BERNZY This thing -- this Black Gas -- it's big: the Feds are up in arms, there's corpses poppin' up all over town, who knows who's involved: the Mob, definitely; the Feds, probably, maybe the cops... What's bigger than the War? What's uglier than somebody stealing from the fighting boys to feather his nest? If I can get just one incriminating photo there's a front-page uproar, not just tabloids: they're exposed, humiliated, indicted. KAY And I get to keep the club. Bernzy nods. She thinks, and then she looks straight at him. KAY Why're you doing this? He looks at her, unwilling or unable to answer. The Maid brings them coffee. When she's gone, Bernzy sits across from Kay again. BERNZY I need to know what Spoleto said to you. Don't leave out nothing. KAY He had two men with him, an accountant and somebody rough, to intimidate me. He said he wanted to see the books, and when I refused he said "You'd better ask your boyfriend about me." BERNZY Boyfriend? KAY Yeah... He meant you. Bernzy nods. He tries to be matter-of-fact about it. KAY He knew you'd been there, up in my office -- he seemed to know a lot. BERNZY He's got at least one waiter on the payroll by now. KAY I guess so. Whichever one heard Portifino ask you to take his portrait. BERNZY (keenly) What? KAY He said Portifino offered you cash. BERNZY Who did? KAY Spoleto. BERNZY Portifino never offered me -- I never even talked to Portifino. Bernzy gets up; he starts pacing. KAY I'm just telling you what he said. BERNZY That was something I made up when Farinelli asked me how I knew Portifino... Christ Almighty. He is agitated -- knows he onto something. KAY I don't get it. BERNZY There was just four or five of us in that room -- Farinelli, two of his lieutenants, two of his hoods. KAY (still confused) I'm sorry, I -- ? BERNZY One of Farinelli's men is selling information to Spoleto. How else could he know that? I made it up on the spot. KAY What're you gonna do? CUT TO: INT. CAMERA SHOP - DAY The clerk rings up a sale for Bernzy in a shop crammed with film, cameras, lenses... CLERK One-sixty-six. Bernzy pays the Clerk as he drops a few boxes of film marked INFRA-RED into a paper sack. CLERK You gonna get some more shots in a movie house? BERNZY Someplace even darker, I think. Will it work? CLERK I don't know. Can't say, really. The Clerk staples the bag. CUT TO: INT/EXT. BERNZY'S CAR/SUBURBAN STREET - NIGHT The bag of film from the camera store lies on the seat, torn open. Bernzy is already gone from the car. EXT. SUBURBAN STREET Bernzy walks in shadow, on a self-important Long Island street of mock-Tudor houses and stone villas behind low walls. EXT. STREET Bernzy climbs a six-foot wall, legs waving maladroitly. At the top, he peers over, manges to pull himself flat onto the wall, then swiftly drops down into THE GARDEN where he almost breaks his neck: the property drops off steeply inside the wall, where a storm drain is covered in old ivy. Bernzy squats among the shrubs which are set two feet inside the wall. He looks: The stone house is guarded by a few men in suits. In the bushes, Bernzy extracts a camera from one of his pants pockets and a long lens from the other. He begins to screw the lens onto the camera body, but freezes when he hears a Guard's footsteps crunching on the gravel. Bernzy's POV: the Guard swings a flashlight back and forth over the path, onto the shrubs, up along the wall. When the Guard has passed, Bernzy screws on the lens. He aims the camera at the house. VIEWFINDER POV: The silhouettes of two men are visible behind curtains in a front room, but the laughter of many men can be heard. Panning, we see the stone arched entranceway to the house. A Guard sits on a stone bench on the front porch. He sits beneath a tile plaque that says VILLA SPOLETO, illuminated by a tiny bulb. This is the only illumination on the porch; the rest of it is in near-darkness. The front door opens, the Guard stands. It's too dark to see the faces of the two men who exit, but Bernzy takes a shot anyway -- "blind." The Men then veer camera left to the driveway, crossing an area of total darkness. He looks at his watch: 11:28. CUT TO: EXT. GARDEN - LATER Bernzy consults his watch, again. 2:12. He hears noises from the house, seizes the camera. VIEWFINDER POV: The door opens. This time, several men exit, alone or in groups of two or three: the meeting is breaking up. Bernzy can see no faces, shoots blind. They all veer off into the darkness of the driveway. He clicks the camera, advances the film -- click, click, click. ON THE PATH two Guards on their rounds hear the soft clicking in the shrubs. They move nearer, carefully. The 1st Guard takes the gun from his holster, cocks it. IN THE BUSH Bernzy hears their footfalls, freezes. ON THE PATH the Guards hear a soft rustling in the bush. The 1st Guard takes the gun from his shoulder holster. The two Guards advance slowly, shining their lights. The 2nd Guard moves to the bush where Bernzy is hiding while his partner covers him, gun cocked and aimed. In a swift, decisive move, he parts leaves and branches of the bush, exposing the ground behind it. REVERSE: Bernzy is not to be seen. The 2nd Guard shines his beam into the bush, then up along the wall. Shooting low from the other side of the bushes, we see the dirty, ivy-covered storm drain cut into the drop-off at the edge of the property. Only Bernzy's white-knuckled hands can be seen as he holds on from inside the drain. The 2nd Guard drops to his knees, shines his light along the base of the wall, under the bushes: he is right over Bernzy. We see into the drain, where Bernzy is having a hard time holding on. The Guard is painstakingly thorough in his examination of the area behind the bushes. After an eternity: GUARD 2 Must be them squirrels. He releases the bush and he gets up. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - LATER Bernzy works feverishly in his darkroom. He coaxes a print to life by agitating a tub. In fact, he has two tubs, and he moves from one to the next in his zeal to see the pictures. We see into one of the tubs: The lighter parts of the picture have appeared -- the stone bench, the plaque which says VILLA SPOLETO... Now slowly the faces of two men come into view, i.e., what was invisible to the naked eye is visible to the infra-red. Bernzy grasps the print with tweezers, hangs it onto the drying line. DISSOLVE TO: INT. DARKROOM - LATER Now the drying line is filled with shots of men leaving Spoleto's house. Bernzy is still over the chemical tub; he hasn't found the face he seeks. BERNZY C'mon -- come on! Now a face comes slowly into view, on the dark part of the porch. It is SAL, the lean-faced lieutenant who was sitting on the couch in Farinelli's office when Farinelli grilled Bernzy. He is on Spoleto's arm in the picture. BERNZY Sal, you beautiful jerk. He lifts the photo out of the tub, triumphantly. But then his eye catches sight of the photo now coming to life in the second tub: A Man in a conservative blue suit -- a WASPY gray eminence -- is coming out of Spoleto's front door. BERNZY (quietly) Holy shit. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - LATER (MORNING) Bernzy, at his desk, takes up a finished print of Sal. He puts it in an envelope. He writes on it in grease-pencil: FARINELLI. CUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT CLOSE ON the palm of the Italian Maitre d' as a Man slips a bill into it. The MAN, in a dinner jacket, has a stern but florid face; his Wife has a supercilious bearing. As they move: MAN Table No. 7, Fredo. MAITRE 'D I'm afraid Mrs. Levitz is at No. 7 this evening, Mr. Brown. The Man looks across the room as they move. He sees Kay sitting across from Bernzy; they speak intently. MAN (not concealing his distaste) Who's the gentleman? MAITRE D' I believe he's a poet who recently escaped Mr. Hitler. MAN That's still no excuse, is it. MAITRE D' No, sir... Exactly. He pulls out a chair for the Wife with an old-world flourish. ON BERNZY and KAY. Bernzy slides the envelope marked Farinelli across the table cloth. BERNZY This is an incriminating picture of the informer, Sal Minetto. Kay takes the envelope. They sit in a banquette, the music playing across the room. BERNZY You got a safe or something? At home? She nods. BERNZY If I wind up dead, you give the picture to Frank Farinelli; but I'm giving you the picture, which guarantees I ain't gonna wind up dead. KAY I understand. She slides the letter into a beaded pocketbook, lying on the table, next to an open bottle of expensive Scotch. Bernzy looks around him -- the beautiful nightclub, its well- dressed patrons, the polished musicians. BERNZY My father's been in this country 27 years, it's like he never left Russia. Sittin' here, I know just what he must feel like. KAY Means you need another drink. (she pours him one) That's how they all get the impression they belong. BERNZY That's all it takes, huh? She nods. They drink. A beat. KAY You okay? BERNZY It's startin' to work. She smiles. The music plays, something lush and evocative. For a long, exquisite moment he really does believe he belongs. But then a dapper Man in dinner clothes leans over Kay, drapes his arm over her. MAN Kay! KAY Henry, how are you? (she comes to her feet) Please meet my friend Leon Bernstein. Bernzy, this is Henry Haddock, Jr. HADDOCK Mr. Bernstein. (turning instantly to Kay) I've half the M.G.M. brass over there, dying to meet you. KAY Of course. She turns back to Bernzy. BERNZY G'ahead. She scoops up the bag with the letter, nods soberly to Bernzy (i.E., she let's him know she won't let go of it) and walks off with Haddock, who circles his arm around her. He whispers in her ear and she laughs musically. We hold on Bernzy, alone at the table, watching Kay -- ever- charming, ever-beautiful, meeting half a dozen men in dinner jackets. Bernzy is suffering. He gets up abruptly, heads for the door. We hold for a moment on the glittering club, as the music swells and people laugh, and then abruptly we CUT TO: EXT. QUEENS APARTMENT HOUSE - NIGHT Bernzy stands in a dreary silent street in Queens. The club could be a million miles away. He holds a page from the phone book. A name, address and phone number are underlined -- those of SALVATORE MINETTO. INT. APARTMENT HOUSE HALLWAY - SAME A Woman holds the door partly ajar to speak to Bernzy. WOMAN Hold on. I'll get him. Bernzy waits. We can hear a comedy program on somebody's radio echoing down the hall. Now Sal comes to the door, in an undershirt. BERNZY I'm Bernzy. The photographer -- SAL I know who you are. BERNZY I'd like to come in. SAL What for? BERNZY It has t'd do with Mr. Farinelli. (quietly) And Mr. Spoleto. Sal opens the door. Bernzy enters. INT. APARTMENT He follows Sal through a foyer, into a salon, with high dark furniture and worn doilies. Sal's wife, listening to "Amos 'n' Andy" on the radio, watches them pass. INT. KITCHEN Sal closes the door behind them, hooks the latch. Bernzy, meantime, takes an envelope marked "SAL" from his pocket. SAL You got your nerve comin' here, little man. Bernzy gives the envelope to Sal. BERNZY Open it. Sal stares at Bernzy angrily for a beat. He takes up a steak knife from the counter, lets it rest ominously in his palm. But then he uses to knife to slice open the envelope. Seeing the picture of himself with Spoleto, he merely stares. BERNZY There's three others just like it, in sealed envelopes marked 'Farinelli.' I gave 'em to people I trust. Anything happens to me, they get sent to Farinelli. Sal continues to stare at the photo. SAL I don't have no money. BERNZY I don't want any. CUT TO: INT. KITCHEN - LATER Bernzy paces, listening keenly. Sal sits at the plain wood table, with a bottle of beer, running through the story quickly, in the present tense. SAL Portifino's just a stupid punk in D.C. but he's fronting for somebody willing to sell him the stamps from inside the A.P.O. BERNZY O.P.A. SAL Huh? BERNZY Office of Price Administration. SAL Yeah, right. But then he can't figure how to unload 'em. Knows nobody. The heads of the Five Families won't touch 'em on account of their gettin' amnesty from the Feds to work with the Italian mobs against Mussolini. Then he hears Lou Levitz on some radio show: Friend to the Stars, one- time bootlegger, Mr. New York... He figures maybe an old-timer like Levitz knows how to unload hot coupons. Levitz is interested, alright: he's got a hot young wife to support -- Bernzy looks up keenly -- SAL and he sees there's maybe millions in it. He don't have to lift a finger: he just turns the stamps over to Spoleto for a fat percentage. Would you siddown, please?! BERNZY (he doesn't siddown) Levitz' wife knew about it? SAL I didn't say that. BERNZY Did she? SAL How should I know. BERNZY (pacing again) Go on. SAL Then Levitz dies. (sniggering) I guess the old Jew was makin' so much he figured he was in Heaven already. Bernzy stops pacing; Sal realizes his "gaffe," which seems intentional. SAL Whoops... Anyway, Portifino's such a half-wit he figures with the middle- man dead he's free to sell the stamps to somebody else. By this time, he's met Farinelli, so he goes to him. Never mentions Spoleto. The asshole. He signed his death warrant. End of story. He throws up his hands with finality, gets out of the chair. BERNZY Wait a second. Didn't they lose the source? The inside man? SAL They tortured him first, got the name of the source. BERNZY Who's they? Who killed him? SAL Who knows. Everybody was after this guy. BERNZY Who killed him? SAL Farinelli. Bernzy paces, cogitates. BERNZY So Farinelli gets the name and kills him. Which means Spoleto doesn't know the name till you tell him. Sal goes to the ice-box. He blinks nervously. SAL Yeah, I guess so. BERNZY Gee, Sal: isn't Farinelli gonna be upset about that? SAL (getting a bottle opener from the drawer) Who knows? Bernzy reaches into his pocket, takes another print of Sal, tosses it into the drawer. BERNZY 'Who knows'? You're not stupid. What's Spoleto gonna do to protect you? Sal snatches the picture from the drawer, stuffs it in his pocket. Bernzy takes out another print, wedges it between the salt and pepper shakers. BERNZY What's Spoleto gonna do? SAL (snatching up the photo) Would you stop?! I told you what I know. Bernzy drops a print to the floor. Sal is about to retrieve it, but sees it's futile. Bernzy is already holding another print. BERNZY Is Spoleto gonna assassinate Farinelli? Is that it? SAL (softly, resigned) No. It's worse. Much worse. BERNZY Tell me, Sal. Sal sinks back into the kitchen chair, drops his face into his hands. BERNZY Tell me. Bernzy flips another print; it flutters to the floor, lands at Sal's feet, where he stares down, head in hands. Sal mutters two words into his hands. We don't hear them, they're lost... But Bernzy seems to hear them. His face grows keen. BERNZY What? Sal looks up angrily, filled with self-disgust. SAL A massacre, you son of a bitch, a massacre! Spoleto's gonna wipe out Farinelli's whole gang -- all my paesan -- and I'm gonna tell him where and when. Bernzy stares at Sal with astonishment as he slowly takes a seat across from him. He is silent. This is more than he bargained for. Eventually he speaks, quietly. BERNZY I need to know where and when too, Sal. You're gonna tell me where and when too, okay? SAL (disbelieving) Whaddo you wanna know for? If you're thinkin of goin' to the Feds, they just wanna cover this up. Bernzy is thinking. Sal shouts. SAL Whadda you wanna know for?! Bernzy looks up. A beat. Then: BERNZY I wanna take some pictures. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - NIGHT Bernzy is hunched over his portable typewriter, pecking away. He pulls the page out of the matchine -- a single-spaced letter -- and reads it, mumbling and pacing. He sits back at the desk, signs the letter, takes up an envelope (beneath which Kay's photo still lies on the desk), puts the letter inside, and seals it. On the envelope he writes: MR. ARTHUR NABLER, BEEKMAN APARTMENTS, then TO BE OPENED IN THE -- At which point the telephone rings. BERNZY H'lo? (he listens) Awright, don't move: I'm coming. CUT TO: INT. KAY'S HOUSE - NIGHT Kay, in a bathrobe, visibly shaken, opens the door, and Bernzy comes in. He takes her by the arms. BERNZY What happened? What'd he do? He backs her deeper into the foyer, back toward the imposing staircase. KAY He was here with three men... thugs... and he kept asking -- He eases her onto the stairs, where they sit -- KAY -- "Who's the source, Kay? Who's the inside man?" BERNZY Did he hit you? KAY (she shakes her head) He says that comes next time. BERNZY It's bullshit. He knows the name. Sal told him. He just wants to know if you know. You're trouble if you know... You don't know, right? KAY No! I didn't even know what he was talking about! BERNZY (penitent) I know, I know, I didn't mean that... Lou had no right t'do this thing to you. He didn't deserve you. He didn't know what he had -- he didn't -- Bernzy draws up short when he realizes what he's saying, what boundary he's crossed. A beat. He clear his throat. He digs in his pocket and takes out the picture of the gray eminence on Spoleto's porch. BERNZY Know this guy? KAY Thatcher White. He comes to the club. He's a big lawyer in Washington. BERNZY He was the Governor of Philadelphia. He had cabinet posts in two Republican administrations. He has an honorary post at the Office of Price Administration. KAY (joking) He my partner, too? When Bernzy says nothing -- merely puts the picture away -- she realizes it's true, realizes how big this thing is. KAY (frightened) My God. BERNZY Don't worry about it. They're finished when I get the pictures. They're all a bunch of bums when I get the pictures. KAY Pictures of what, Bernzy? CUT TO: INT. MOVIE HOUSE - NIGHT OPEN ON the screen, which shows a newsreel about the War effort. It is strong stuff -- Nazis on the march, smudge- faced G.I.'s in foxholes, coffins of Americans, draped with the flag. Bernzy sits alone in the giant movie house -- but he looks anxiously up the aisle -- expecting somebody. The newsreel concludes with a fervent pitch for fuel conservation: "Remember, every gallon you save could mean the life of a boy Over There." As the cartoon comes on, Sal slinks into the theatre, takes the seat next to Bernzy's. SAL Farinelli takes all the boys to dinner every so often. He's takin' us Friday. That's when he's hit. BERNZY Where? What time? SAL Dinner's at eight. I get up to take a leak at 8:15. Spoleto's men come in a minute later. BERNZY Where? SAL I don't know where, yet. We never do. He always calls us around 6:30, the day of the dinner. (with bitter irony) F'r safety... It's usually some little family place or other. In Little Italy. BERNZY (wincing) Fam'ly? SAL Don't worry. He takes the whole place over f'r the night. BERNZY Call me as soon as you hear on Friday. Even before you call Spoleto. SAL (shaking his head) Spoleto's lieutenant's gonna be with me when the call comes. But he'll leave right after. Then I call you. BERNZY Don't fail me, Sal. We see the cartoon on the screen: some creature gets blown up with dynamite, or has a safe fall on his head. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - NIGHT We are on the door as Bernzy's key scratches in the lock. He comes in, wearily, closes the door behind him. He is startled when he hears a voice behind him. VOICE H'lo, Bernzy. Bernzy swings around, startled. A figure sits in the darkness, at Bernzy's desk. He switches on the light. It's Arthur Nabler. NABLER I came to apologize for the other night. Bernzy looks at his desk: Nabler's hat sits over the spot where the letter is (or was) lying. NABLER The crazy thing is, I'm in love with Miss Hixon. BERNZY Yeah. I kinda figured... You didn't by any chance -- Nabler lifts his hat off the envelope: it's torn open, now. NABLER It was addressed to me. It said "To be opened --" BERNZY "In the event of my death." Only I got kinda busy. I didn't get that far. NABLER I figured -- once I opened it... Why're you doing this, Bernzy? BERNZY Why? It's what I do, ain't it? (he gestures at the tabloid pictures pinned everywhere) Murders, fires, drunks: Life, as it happens. My motto for 23 years. NABLER This is death as it happens. BERNZY That's the main thing about life, isn't it? Death? I mean, half the shots are get are somebody just Before or just After. For once I'll get During. NABLER You could stop it. Go to the cops. BERNZY Really? Think that'd stop it? You been spendin' too much time at Cafe Society. It's a war, Arty, these guys aren't gonna lay off. They're gonna do it fast or they're gonna do it slow, but they're gonna do it... Why don't you tell them photographers in Europe to stop the War? NABLER It's not their war -- BERNZY This ain't mine. NABLER Isn't it? BERNZY What's that supposed to mean? NABLER I thought you never took sides, Bernzy. BERNZY What're you gettin' at? NABLER You're doing it for her. BERNZY You're nuts. NABLER Am I? Bernzy looks at Nabler a beat -- incensed by his glib certitude -- then grabs one of his cigar box files and empties its contents onto the desk: the photos rain down in abundance, covering the desk and spilling onto the floor. They all show fires: buildings ablaze, people running from blazes, firemen carrying children from blazes. As the camera plays over this fantastic display, Bernzy goes to grab another file. BERNZY Here it is, Arty: the whole history of New York here with me in this dump, and it ain't because I went around interferin' -- hosing down fires or tellin' people to behave nice -- Bernzy unloads an equally plentiful load of dead gangsters onto the desk and floor -- growing more and more passionate in his own defense -- BERNZY They pay people to do that stuff -- cops, firemen... I'm an artist -- you're fuckin' right, I am -- and I let people do whatever the hell they're gonna do 'cause that's the only way I can do it right! Nabler grabs Bernzy's arm just as he's about to unload a third file. NABLER Stop it!... Jesus, Bernzy, I may be the only one in New York who thinks you are an artist instead of some kind of animal -- and even I'm not so sure about this thing. It has a stink to it... (he shakes his head) Still, if I thought you were doing it for some kind of crazy fame or glory, I wouldn't say a word. I know how much it hurts to be ignored -- not even reviled, just ignored. But if you're doing it for her, you're risking your life for nothing. For less than nothing. BERNZY You're gettin' me and you mixed up. NABLER I hope so. She's cold, Bernzy. She took old Lou Levitz for everything he was worth and everybody knows it. BERNZY (dismissing this) She's just like everybody else in New York, makin' the best of what she has. NABLER No... Maybe I have been spending too much time at Cafe Society -- just like you've been on the street too long... You give your whole life to something nobody could love and you wind up a sitting duck. You know everything about everything, except what other people take for granted. BERNZY That's enough, Arty. NABLER A mansion on the West Side, a place on the South Shore -- she milked Levitz so dry he sold himself to a worm like Spoleto. I wouldn't be surprised if she was in this thing from the first. Bernzy, incensed, grabs Nabler by the collar -- NABLER You don't hit people, Bernzy. You can stare at things that'd make a brute squeamish. But you don't hit people. That's not what we do, people like us. Bernzy looks at Nabler. He knows he's right. He lets go of him, walks to the door, opens it. BERNZY G'night, Arty. Thanks for the apology. Nabler puts his hat on. He moves to the door. He speaks with sincerity. NABLER Do me a favor, Bernzy. Tell her what you're gonna do. Tell her you're gonna attend a shootout. If she has any feelings at all for you, she'll try and stop you. Nabler goes out the door. CUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT Bernzy stands near the entrance, holding his book of photographs. He stares across the room to a far table where KAY sits with a large group of well-dressed Men and Women. They're drinking champagne and martinis. A Man is telling a story. Everyone -- Kay included -- laughs riotously. Bernzy turns to the Italian Maitre d' at his side. BERNZY Give this to Mrs. Levitz, wouldja? Tell her I'll pick it up Saturday. MAITRE D' You don't wish to -- ? BERNZY Changed my mind. Bernzy watches as everyone at the table laughs again. CUT TO: INT. BOWERY BAR - NIGHT A toothless WOMAN sings the last line of a ribald bar song in a filthy place with sawdust on the floor. Those drunks who are still conscious (many lie with their heads on the tables) applaud haphazardly. Bernzy takes a flash shot and the Woman raises her glass to him. He finds his own glass and raises it to her. He's in his element, here. CUT TO: INT. CAFE SOCIETY - NIGHT CLOSE ON Bernzy's book. A female hand turns the pages. As we see one vivid, ironic or profound vignette after another (a cleaning woman mopping the floor in Grand Central, her human scale diminished by the overspreading dome; Puerto Rican teenagers sleeping on a fire escape; an old man carrying all his possessions from his burning tenement) we begin to understand the power of the book as a book: it's a complete world. Some of the pictures have captions, e.g.: a picture of a corpse -- THE STAR ATTRACTION -- alongside a picture of the excited crowd which has gathered: FIRST NIGHTERS. They're cleaning up the club around Kay; chairs are overturned on tables. She picks up the book, and heads for the door. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAWN Bernzy is sleeping. The police radio hisses. He stirs. Kay stands over him, still in her evening clothes. She's holding the book. KAY Why're you giving this to me? Bernzy clears his throat as he pulls a pair of trousers from a chair next to the bed, drags them on, gets out of the bed. BERNZY You shouldn't be here, Kay. This is really no place f'r you t'be. Disconcerted by her presence here, he drags the cover over the bed, makes a rushed and futile attempt to tidy the place up. (The photos he dumped onto the desk and floor still lie on the desk and floor.) BERNZY Didn't -- didn't that maitre d' tell you? I just wanted you to hold onto this, that's all. Just till after -- He trails off. KAY After what, Bernzy? He looks at her. Nabler's advice is ringing in his head. BERNZY It's somethin' nobody ever got pictures of before. Nobody else ever will. KAY What is? BERNZY (almost defensively) If I guy could get pictures of a live volcano, say, that would be worth it, right? KAY What're these pictures, Bernzy? Why're you afraid to tell me? He takes a seat on the bed. He can't look at her. BERNZY So far you don't seem to go along with the popular view that I'm some kind of an insect. KAY Is it gonna be so much worse than what I've seen in here? (She's still holding his book.) BERNZY Yeah. Yeah it's worse. (a beat) Spoleto's wiping out Farinelli's whole gang. A massacre. He watches her, watches keenly for her reaction. But it's hard to read: she seems stunned, but keeps it to herself. KAY What happens if they see you? BERNZY I know what I'm doing. KAY Then why're you giving me the book? BERNZY They ain't gonna see me. KAY Bernzy -- why're you doing this? BERNZY Why? She looks at him, and he looks at her. Perhaps he doesn't know the answer. BERNZY It -- it's what I do, that's all. She looks at him. KAY That's all? He nods. Is she disappointed -- or relieved. KAY When. BERNZY Don't ask me that. KAY Bernzy, please -- BERNZY No! A beat. KAY Do you wanna make love to me, Bernzy? BERNZY Why're you asking? 'Cause you think I'm gonna die? She starts to leave; he grabs her hand. BERNZY I didn't mean that. He brings her face to his almost urgently and kisses her on the mouth. KAY Wait -- please -- She walks to the police radio, still crackling, and switches it off. We hold on the radio as she steps out of frame. KAY Okay, Bernzy. Now. Still holding on the radio, we begin a SHORT FADE: FADE IN: INT. BERNZY'S APT. - DAY OPEN ON the day-date calendar on Bernzy's desk. It's torn to FRIDAY. Panning, we find Bernzy's hands, rummaging on the desk for something. Amid two or three open boxes of INFRA-RED film, and two roll- loading cameras, Bernzy finds a ball of string. He is holding a doorstop (a graded piece of wood). With the string, he deftly ties the camera piggyback to the doorstop, sets the timer, puts the camera on the floor. The lens is angled up toward body level. The shutter kicks down toward zero, making a distinct sound, ki-ki-ki-ki-ki. But it stuck around five seconds. BERNZY Dammit. He picks it up, finds an oil can, puts a drop of oil on the timer, sets it again. Ki-ki-ki, etc. This time it ticks down to zero, and the shutter clicks. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APT - LATER Bernzy, pacing, consults his watch. It's almost 6:30. CUT TO: INT. SPOLETO'S OFFICE - SAME Spoleto paces behind his desk, consults his watch. His office is more richly furnished than Farinelli's. CUT TO: INT. SAL'S APARTMENT - EVENING Sal paces the hallway of his apartment, consults his watch. Spoleto's LIEUTENANT watches him. The phone, sitting on a high table in the hallway, rings. Sal seizes it. SAL (into the phone; cheerfully) Hello? Hi, Mr. Farinelli. d'Angelo's Cafe. Sure, I know it. See y'later. He hangs up the phone, his artificial cheeriness gone. SAL d'Angelo's -- I guess you heard. LIEUTENANT d'Angelo's. (sympathetically) You're feelin' kinda rotten, huh? SAL You know it. LIEUTENANT (putting on his hat) You'll get over it. The Lieutenant pulls a gun, wrapped in a rag, from his coat. We hold on Sal's uncomprehending eyes as the gun fires twice. Sal falls to the floor as the Lieutenant flees. Sal's wife comes into the hallway, begins shrieking. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - EVENING Bernzy, muttering nervously, occupies himself by gathering up the photos he spilled onto the desk, collecting them back into their cigar box files... BERNZY C'mon, Sal, come on... He consults his watch. 7:08. DISSOLVE TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - LATER The alarm clock says 7:20. Bernzy paces. The files have been completely restored and sit neatly on the desk. Bernzy moves briskly to a chair with a pair of trousers draped over its back. He goes through the pockets, unfolding scraps of paper and old flashbulbs, till he finds what he wants: the page of the phone book with Sal's name, address and phone number. He goes to the phone, dials. BERNZY (into phone) Lemme speak to Sal, please. (listening) Oh. God. I'm sorry. Bernzy hangs up the phone. He sinks into his chair, stunned and defeated. He knocks the newly re-filed boxes of pictures off the desk; they go scattering in every direction. CUT TO: EXT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - NIGHT The Lieutenant of Spoleto who killed Sal pulls up across from Bernzy's apartment. He kills the engine, sets the handbrake. INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - SAME Bernzy, still sunk into his seat, suddenly comes up, infused with new vigor. He rummages through a disorganized bookshself, seized by some sort of inspiration, mumbling to himself. BERNZY ...'he takes the place over'... 'always takes the place over'... He finds a book, plonks it onto the desk, takes a seat. ON the PHONE BOOK: he pages through quickly till he finds a page headed RESTAURANTS. The numbers are listed geographically, i.e., EAST SIDE, WEST SIDE, CHINATOWN. Bernzy's finger finds the column titled LITTLE ITALY. He starts from the top, dials a number. As it rings, he consults his watch. Twenty of eight. PHONE VOICE (V.O.) Bonotelli's. BERNZY I need a reservation f'r tonight. PHONE VOICE (V.O.) Of course, for what time? Bernzy hangs up. His finger moves to the next number. He consults his Timex, again. INT. /EXT. LIEUTENANT'S CAR/STREET - SAME Spoleto's lieutenant is wrapping his gun in a fresh rag. INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - SAME Bernzy holds the phone. ITALIAN VOICE (V.O.) Clam House. BERNZY I need a reservation for tonight. ITALIAN VOICE (V.O.) Yes, and what's the name, please? Bernzy hangs up the phone, again. EXT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - SAME Spoleto's Lieutenant holds the door for an Old Woman leaving Bernzy's apartment. He tips his hat, and enters. INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - SAME Bernzy is on the phone, checking his watch, as the phone rings. We see the page of the phone book: seven restaurants have been crossed off. BERNZY I need a reservation for tonight. WOMAN'S VOICE (V.O.) (Italian accent) We all booked tonight. BERNZY Already? WOMAN'S VOICE (V.O.) Private party tonight. BERNZY (sitting up keenly) Oh yeah, sorry to hear that. Maybe tomorrow... You still at the same address? INT. HALLWAY - SAME The Lieutenant approaches Bernzy's door quietly. INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - SAME Bernzy tears the page from the phone book, grabs his hat, his camera, the camera affixed to the piece of wood... Someone knocks on the door. He looks up. INT. HALLWAY - SAME The Lieutenant waits. He knocks again. INT. BERNZY'S APT - SAME Bernzy is frozen, as he sees the doorknob rotate, one way, then the other. INT. HALLWAY - SAME The Lieutenant picks the cheap lock almost effortlessly. INT. APARTMENT He takes his gun out as he enters the darkened apartment. He swings around when he hears a Voice. It's the police radio. He moves stealthfully past the darkroom -- sees the photos hanging on the line... Then into the bathroom. Now he sees Bernzy's silhouette, behind the shower curtain, cowering in the stall. He aims his gun at it, then swiftly draws back the curtain. It isn't Bernzy: it's an old fashioned portrait camera, with a hood, on a tripod. MAIN ROOM The Lieutenant returns, switches on the light. He sees the curtain swaying in the breeze. He crosses to the window, parts the curtains. HIS POV: Bernzy has descended the fire escape. CUT TO: INT. EXT/BERNZY'S CAR - NIGHT Bernzy watches in frustration as a Workman guides a truck which is backing up into the street, blocking traffic in both directions. Bernzy slams the wheel, curses his luck. He looks at his watch. Four minutes before eight. The moment the narrowest semblance of a lane is clear, he passes two other cars and drives through the narrow gap, passes it, and speeds away. CUT TO: INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - SAME The Lieutenant is on the phone. LIEUTENANT (into phone) I looked. He ain't here. INTERCUT TO: INT. SPOLETO'S OFFICE - NIGHT Spoleto, on the other end of the line. SPOLETO (he thinks; into phone) No matter; we'll get him later. He hangs up the phone. He looks over to THATCHER WHITE, the Republican gray eminence. SPOLETO Bernstein got away. White glares, as if at an incompetent servant. SPOLETO We'll go ahead with the hit, as planned. WHITE Is that really wise, Mr. Spoleto? SPOLETO He don't know where it's gonna happen. He don't know it's d'Angelo's. We're home free. CUT TO: EXT. D'ANGELO'S CAFE - NIGHT d'Angelo's is a simple storefront building with a plate glass window, filmy curtains, a plainly-lettered sign. A neon clock in the window says TIME TO EAT. Right now it's two minutes before eight. REVERSE: BERNZY stands across the street from d'Angelo's. He has his camera around his neck, the time release camera in hand. Through the filmy curtains he can see that no one is eating inside, i.e., no one from Farinelli's gang has arrived yet. One door down from d'Angelo's, he sees a gap between the buildings which leads to a rear alley. He looks both ways before crossing the street quickly. EXT. ALLEY BEHIND D'ANGELO'S Through the screen door, Bernzy can see a black Scullion in an apron. He scrapes potato peelings into a metal can by the door. Beyond him, we can see d'ANGELO and MRS. d'ANGELO, the middle-aged couple who run the place. They are preparing food at the stove. Bernzy gestures to the Scullion, trying to lure him out into the alley with bills he waves in his hand. The Scullion looks at his boss, back at Bernzy. He picks up the metal can, and walks it back into the alley. BERNZY Listen, whaddo they pay you here? The Scullion empties the trash into the dumpster. BERNZY Two-fifty? Three bucks a week? The Scullion just stares. BERNZY (giving him three bills) Here's two month's pay. (and another one) Here's three months, I got no time to haggle. SCULLION What'you want? INT. KITCHEN The Scullion re-enters. He picks up a tray of water glasses and looks to the Chef. The Chef nods. The Scullion carries them toward the dining room, passing through a narrow HALLWAY that connects it to the kitchen. DINING ROOM Four square tables have been pushed together to create a single rectangular table in the center of the restaurant. The cafe's other tables have been pushed to the outside walls, for tonight's private party. The Scullion sets the tray with water glasses on one of the tables pushed to the side. CUT TO: EXT. D'ANGELO'S - SAME Bernzy stands pressed against the front door, looking at his watch. It's 8 o'clock. He watches the street nervously as A DARK SEDAN turns the corner onto the street, up the block. BERNZY Fuck. The Scullion unlocks the door behind him and Bernzy ducks in. INT. DINING ROOM The Scullion leads Bernzy through the dining room back toward the hallway, cautioning Bernzy to wait while he makes sure the coast is clear. EXT. STREET The car pulls up in front. INT. D'ANGELO'S HALLWAY Bernzy is moving one of the tables pushed to the side of the restaurant closer to the hallway. Through the curtained window, he sees FARINELLI getting out of his car. Bernzy ducks down beneath the level of the windows. He adjusts the table cloth of the table he just moved, bringing it closer to the floor on the dining room side. The Scullion opens the door of a closet in the hallway, and beckons Bernzy to come. Bernzy looks behind him, to the door, as he scurries, low, toward the closet door. THE CLOSET is ridiculously cramped -- filled with mops, brooms, buckets, lightbulbs. Just as FARINELLI opens the cafe's front door The Scullion lifts a broom in the closet and Bernzy ducks under it. DINING ROOM Farinelli sees the Scullion replacing a broom in a closet, and closing the closet door. The Chef hurries down the hallway, past the Scullion, to greet Farinelli and his Men. There is a great deal of obsequiousness and hand-kissing. Everyone speaks in Italian. EXT. STREET Another car pulls up, and four more of Farinelli's men get out of it. INT. CLOSET Bernzy, impossibly cramped in the dim closet, gingerly lifts a roll loaded camera on a strap out of his oversized jacket pocket. He can hear the Italian voices. A bucket wobbles and he has to freeze. He secures the bucket, and lifts the camera strap over his head and onto his shoulders. INT. DINING ROOM Farinelli and his men are sitting down as three more gang members enter. INT. CLOSET Bernzy looks at his watch. It's ten past eight. He's soaked in sweat and very cramped. He can hear the muffled voices of Farinelli and his men. We can feel the heat, the darkness, the anxiety of this claustrophobic eternity. INT. DINING ROOM The Chef is serving wine around the table as Farinelli, at its head, speaks in subtitled Italian. FARINELLI I got some news just before I left the house... This time it's Sal. The Men take the news without evident emotion. FARINELLI (to the Chef) Leave us. The Chef nods, and heads up the hallway. INT. CLOSET Bernzy checks his watch. He gingerly shifts his position, in order to remove the time-release camera, on its graded piece of wood, from his other suit pocket. He can hear the muffled Italian voices, outside: they're discussing how to avenge Sal's death. EXT./INT. ALLEY BEHIND D'ANGELOS/CAR A long car idles in the alley. Inside are four of SPOLETO'S MEN, carrying automatic weapons, and a Driver. The Lead Assassin studies his watch. INT. CLOSET Bernzy studies his watch, then sets the timer on the time- release camera. INT. KITCHEN The d'Angelos set the last few pieces onto an antipasto platter. The screen door is yanked back: Spoleto's men run through the back door. d'Angelo, Mrs. d'Angelo and the Scullion drop their utensils and duck down behind the counter. Mrs. d'Angelo crosses herself. INT. CLOSET Bernzy hears the running footsteps of the Assassins. In one hand he holds the time-release camera; the other grips the knob of the closet door. DINING ROOM As Spoleto's Men come into the dining room, a few of Farinelli's men see them and go for their guns. But Spoleto's men already have their guns ready and aimed. LEAD ASSASSIN Don't try it. On your feet. Behind him, we see the broom-closet door sway open slowly. INT. KITCHEN The d'Angelos and the Scullion crawl out by the screen door. INT. DINING ROOM Spoleto's men are arrayed (weapons aimed) on either side of the table, i.e., looking across the table, not toward the kitchen and not toward the street. As Farinelli's men stand, ostensibly obedient, some dive, some upend furniture for cover, others go for their weapons. One races for the front door. Spoleto's Men open fire, even as Bernzy rushes to the edge of the dining room, already taking his first shot. [N.B.: The sudden, brutish violence of the scene has the paradoxical effect of making it feel longer, in the inexplicable way a car wreck seems prolonged for the drivers. A series of inter-locking cuts -- hand on gun, shells on floor, splattering of tablecloth, flare from gun, hand on camera, etc. -- extenuates time like a slowed-down nightmare in which the dreamer tries to flee something menacing.] Bernzy kneels behind the table set against the wall outside next to the hallway -- the one he moved earlier. Bernzy kicks the time-release camera: it slides out toward the side wall, aimed upward at the killers and ticking down. The scene is sensational, nearly surreal, with bright lights flaring in every direction... spent shells bouncing off the ground... food, wine and blood spattering onto the white table-cloths. Bernzy stands for his second shot as The Assassin opens fire on Farinelli's bodyguard, who has managed to pull his gun. Then he spots Bernzy. Bernzy's camera is aimed at the Assassin even as the Assassin turns to kill him. Brazenly, Bernzy continues to shoot. Through Bernzy's viewfinder, we see what he's seeing: his own murder. Just before the Assassin pulls the trigger, one of Farinelli's Men, who has managed to pull his gun, shoots him. Bernzy, seemingly impervious (or possessed) is already advancing the film. Bernzy is only partly hidden by the table and its overhanging cloth: his feet show, he must stand half-erect every time he takes a picture. We feel is protected not by the table as much as by his single-mindedness: he is an appendage of the camera. A bullet tears into the lip or leg of the table Bernzy uses for cover. There is a violent shudder. He is not sure, and we are not sure, if he has been hit by a bullet, or stung by the table itself. He just keeps shooting pictures. By now there is a horrible litter of wood, cloth, food, blood and corpses on the floor. ON the time-release camera, next to a corpse: it is stuck, at five seconds, as it was at Bernzy's apartment. The Lead Assassin gives the signal. The shooting ends as abruptly as it began. Farinelli and all his men are dead. They leave by the front door. But the last Gunman to leave looks curiously over his shoulder, as if he thinks he saw something. Then he hurries off, to catch up with the others. EXT. STREET The Assassins' car is parked in the street. The last Gunman approaches it but still seems dissatisfied. Sirens are heard, growing closer. INT. DINING ROOM Bernzy rises unsteadily to his feet. He winces, but whether he is wounded, or merely reacting to the devastation around him, we still don't know. He cocks his ear as he judges how far off the sirens are, i.e., how much time does he have. He begins to take pictures of the massacre's aftermath. Hearing someone crunch over glass, he looks up. The curious Gunman has returned. As the sirens draw nearer, the Gunman raises a pistol. A distinctive noise is heard from the side of the room: ki- ki-ki-ki-ki-click. The Gunman swings around, thinking it is one of Farinelli's men, wounded but not dead. As he fires into a corpse -- Bernzy makes a run for the back hallway. The Gunman whirls around again, to fire at Bernzy, but Bernzy's gone. As the sirens draw very close now, the Gunman flees by the front door. EXT. STREET A police car rounds the corner -- EXT. STREET Low Angle, on the running board of the getaway car, as the curious gunman jumps into the car, even as it squeals away. STREET The police car screeches to a stop in front of d'Angelo's. INT. DINING ROOM Bernzy has re-entered. He kneels down to get the time-release camera. We see a GUN aimed at him, at the end of an arm. VOICE (O.S.) Hold it! Bernzy looks up. It's O'Brien, the cop. O'Brien puts down the gun when he sees Bernzy's face. O'BRIEN Jesus, Bernzy. (he looks around the room; he's horrified) What the hell is this? Bernzy snatches up his camera, starts to move toward the back exit. O'BRIEN Where you goin'? What the hell's goin' on here? Berzny keeps moving, then turns and runs. CUT TO: INT. NABLER'S APARTMENT - NIGHT Nabler, asleep by the radio (which plays an opera), is aroused by somebody pressing his doorbuzzer, frantically. INT. HALLWAY Nabler opens the door. BERNZY C'mon, Arty. Now. CUT TO: INT. ELEVATOR - NABLER'S BLDG. Bernzy and Nabler ride down. Nabler's pulling on his coat. Bernzy is unloading the time-release camera, shielding it from the light within the ample folds of his oversized jacket. NABLER What if Spoleto finds you? BERNZY He's finished the second you get these to the papers. He caps the film in a can and gives it to Nabler. BERNZY I'll get arrested first, with any luck. Now Bernzy reachs into his pants pocket to get out a roll of film already in a can. When he does so, his coat swings open. NABLER Jesus, Bernzy: You're bleeding. Indeed, a spreading stain of blood soaks Bernzy's shirt on the right side of his torso. Bernzy presses the roll of film on Nabler. BERNZY Take those to the Mirror, The Post, The Telegraph, The News, Life Magazine -- NABLER I know the routine. CUT TO: EXT. NABLER'S BLDG. - NIGHT As Bernzy and Nabler come out of the building they see Two police cars -- one astride and one nose-to-nose with Bernzy's sedan. The Policemen are on the street. The eldest of them approaches Bernzy, gently pulls Bernzy's hands behind his back, and cuffs him: like every other cop in New York, he knows Bernzy. POLICEMAN Sorry, Bernzy. He is led toward a police car. NABLER F'r God's sakes, he's bleeding! BERNZY (as he disappears into the squad car) Go, Arty. Now! Nabler hails a cab. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. (CHURCH STREET) - NIGHT Bernzy is led up the steep stairs. INT. FBI CONFERENCE ROOM - LATER Bernzy sits at a table in a large conference room. The table is packed with law enforcement personnel, mostly in suits. Some of them we recognize: Chadwick, the FBI agent; Chadwick's superior, the Older Agent; Conklin, the homicide detective. Various men are smoking and various ashtrays are filled. Somebody's yawning. Time has passed. CHADWICK (to a D.A.) Read him the statues about with- holding evidence again. Bernzy is beginning to look weak. BERNZY I told you, I had no evidence. CHADWICK Then how'd you happen to be there? BERNZY How am I anywhere? I'm psychic. One of the Cops smiles. The Older agent, seeing it, is incensed. OLDER AGENT You're out of your league here, Mr. Bernstein. The police may take this lightly but I'll be goddamned if the Bureau's gonna let a picture peddler create a scandal in the O.P.A. that's gonna undermine morale and hurt the war effort. Bernzy removes a blood-soaked handkerchief from his side, crumples it up. BERNZY (groggy but annoyed) I didn't create the damn scandal. CONKLIN (tossing him a fresh handkerchief) Just tell us where the pictures are, Bernzy. Nobody here's enjoying this. BERNZY (looking at the Older Agent) I'm not so sure. OLDER AGENT Put him in jail. CONKLIN Sir, he's bleeding. OLDER AGENT Put him in jail! As two uniformed Cops go to Bernzy's chair, an officiously swift WOMAN enters and whispers in the Older Agent's ear. OLDER AGENT Hold it... The Chief of Police is coming in. The CHIEF OF POLICE enters, carrying a stack of newspapers. A Young Cop in a suit follows him, carrying a larger stack of newspapers. The Feds stay put, but the police personnel all rise in recognition of his rank. CHIEF Stay down. The Chief and his Assistant deal the newspapers onto the big table. As they hit the table, and various people seize them eagerly, we cut from tabloid cover to tabloid cover. All of them carry full size front page photos of the shooting. The pictures are grainy, owing to the infra-red film, but this gives them an even more nightmarish aspect. The rigidly set faces of the killers are plainly visible. The bullets flaring from the gun barrels are seen like streaks of light. One tabloid shows a mesmerizing shot of the murdered Assassin staring straight at the camera, when he had a bead on Bernzy. Others show the staggered, falling, or crumpled bodies of the victims. At least two tabloid have the fortuitous shot (taken by the late-functioning timer camera) of the Curious Gunman shooting Bernzy: the Gunman is in the foreground, with his back to us, his shooting arm extended, his hand and gun plainly visible; Bernzy is in the background as he waits for the trigger to be pulled. The double-bold headlines read as follows: GAS WAR!!!!! SHUTTERBUG SHOOTS MOB SHOOTERS POISON GAS! PHOTOS SHOW: THEY KILL THEIR OWN SHUTTERBUG SEZ: "I DID IT FOR G.I. JOE!" MOBFIA AT WAR! The shot with Bernzy in it is headlined -- THE GREAT BERNZINI! Another tabloid splits the page between two photos -- Thatcher White -- HE SOLD OUT G.I. JOE -- and Bernzy -- HE SAVED HIM! Finally, we see a copy of the New York Times, without a photograph, and with a non-bold headline over a discreet column below: PHOTOGRAPHER'S PICTURES SAID TO DEPICT BLACK MARKET CONFLICT -- Ex-Governor White Implicated In Rationing Scandal. Meantime, the Chief of Police speaks. CHIEF According to the Times you're going to be lauded on the floor of the Senate tomorrow. Senator Watkins will officially thank you for saving the lives of American servicemen... How'd you manage to get the shot of yourself? BERNZY Timer. CHIEF Right... I have an advance copy of Walter Winchell's Sunday night broadcast, lead item. (reading) 'Good Evening, Mr. & Mrs. America, etc. Tonight a tip of the hat to one Leon Bernstein, better known as The Great Bernzini. Many's the night your reporter has seen Bernzy, the s'posedly sorcerous shutterbug at Hanson's all-night drug-store -- one face among many of New York's silent army of dedicated newspapermen...' As they Chief reads, we pan the faces around the table. The reactions range from amusement (among the cops) to consternation (among the Feds) to outrage (the Older Agent). CHIEF 'But Friday night, Bernzy proved himself a great photographer, a great New Yorker, and a great American. His first ever photos of the Mobfia at war nips in the bud what was potentially one of the foulest scandals in American history. Two nights ago, only a select few knew the meaning of the phrase "Black Gas." Now, thanks to Bernzy, we all know, and we all cry out against this shameless profiteering. Thank you, Bernzy, for saving the lives of countless American's Over There. Thank you on behalf of this reporter, all Gotham, and all America.' The Chief looks up from the page, to Bernzy. Bernzy, clinging to the blood-soaked handkerchief, has passed out. CHIEF Get him to the hospital. CUT TO: EXT. FEDERAL BLDG. - NIGHT As Bernzy, conscious but weak from his loss of blood, is led down the stairs outside the Federal Building, propped up by two cops, it is he who is now in the public eye. He is surrounded by a mob of reporters and photographers, shouting questions and popping flashbulbs frenetically. REPORTERS/PHOTOGRAPHERS How'd you know about it, Bernzy/ Bernzy, give us a shot!/Why'd you do it, Bernzy?/Bernzy, over here!/ Give us something, Bernzy!/Mr. Bernstein!/Bernzy!! Bernzy smiles as he is led down the stairs, a peculiar, blissed out, half-delirious smile. He is half-delirious from his blood loss, the frenzied atmosphere, the incessant flashes of light. Bernzy's POV: The Reporters scream, the flashbulbs pop blindingly, until there is such a frenetic burst of bulbs, the screen is bleached white. The WHITE SCREEN holds for some seconds, and then we FADE IN: INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - NIGHT Bernzy, hat in hand, enters a hospital room with flowers in it, and soft light. He approaches the bed, where Kay lies, holding in her arms a new-born Infant. A rather stern Nurse in metal-framed glasses waits to take the child back to the nursery. KAY H'lo, Bernzy. Almost shyly, he approaches the bed, smiling at the child. He sits on the edge of the bed, takes the child's hand. BERNZY She looks just like you. Thank God. Kay smiles. But then she's crying. Bernzy nods to the nurse, who takes away the child. BERNZY What is it? What's wrong? KAY I was so lost... so lost. He strokes her face. BERNZY Forget about it. It's all over... Talk about lost. I used to think it was like a rule. Once you gave yourself over to something different, something other, somethin' normal people turned their backs on, you lost your chance to be normal. To be human. Just to be human. As we hold on him, staring into space, thinking, we hear Kay, trying to get his attention, to break his reverie. KAY Bernzy?... Bernzy! CUT TO: INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY Bernzy's position and Kay's are reversed, i.e.: he's the one in the hospital bed, she sits over him, trying to get his attention. This hospital room -- the real one -- is harshly lit; there are no flowers. Bernzy is hooked up to an I.V., attached, at the other end, to a dripping bottle. The same stern Nurse stands over the bed. KAY Bernzy? As Bernzy comes to he sees Kay, her face close to his, speaking quietly. He seems utterly disoriented -- not ready to leave his dream. Kay looks to the Nurse who nods and goes out. KAY The bullet went in and out. You lost two pints of blood before they brought you in, lousy bastards. Kay smiles sweetly, but Bernzy is cold and unresponsive. He stares at her face. She wonders what's wrong with him. KAY Bernzy? You okay? BERNZY (a beat) You made a deal with Spoleto... You told him about Sal and me so I wouldn't get the pictures. She looks at him. BERNZY What'd he give you? He got the Black Gas and he gave you the club in exchange for no pictures? KAY He said he wouldn't hurt you, that was part of it, too. Bernzy knew it was true but didn't want to believe it. KAY Bernzy? BERNZY Why'd you do it? KAY I was afraid you'd get hurt -- BERNZY Answer me. KAY (a beat) I couldn't take the chance of losing the club. It's like you with your pictures. You'd do anything for your pictures, right? She wants him to absolve her. KAY (a beat; quietly) ...Please say yes. BERNZY ...Right... Bernzy turns his face away from her, to the wall. KAY Bernzy? BERNZY Why didn't you just ask me not to take the damn pictures? KAY Nothing would've stopped you from getting those pictures. You're a fanatic. BERNZY You'd be surprised what I'd of done for you. KAY (in pain) Then you should thank me. You got your pictures. Now you're gonna be rich and famous. BERNZY (dryly) Thanks, Kay. A beat. He can't look at her. KAY When did you know? BERNZY The minute I heard Sal was dead. Why else would Spoleto take the chance of killing him just before the big event?... So, you see: I knew goin' in, Kay. You don't have t'feel guilty. I didn't do it for you... I did f'r me. KAY I wanted you to do it for me. He won't look at her; he can't. KAY If just once you'd said to me, 'I'm doing it for you, Kay,' I never would of called him. BERNZY You really figure I'm a complete sucker, even now. KAY I kept trying to get you to say it. I tried so hard. How many times did I ask? We hold on him, his face to the wall. He doesn't want to believe it. It's too painful. KAY Everything they say about me is true, I guess. If I loved Lou at all it was for what he could give me, I don't mean just money. And everything they say about you, too: you'd run over your grandmother to get the right picture. But this was different. It was different, Bernzy. You didn't know there were gonna be any pictures when you started to help me. And for once I was talking to someone who didn't want a better seat, or an introduction. You didn't know enough to bribe the maitre d' -- much less judge me. The night we sat there and had a drink I knew they were all watching. I knew they were whispering. For once I didn't give a damn. You sat there in your lousy suit and you were the only one who wasn't a climber or a schemer or a snob, and for once I didn't feel like one, either... (she touches him) This was different, Bernzy. Wasn't it? (vulnerable; she needs to know its true) Wasn't it, Bernzy?... Bernzy, facing the wall, closes his eyes, the pain is so great. BERNZY Why'd didn't you ask me, Kay? Why didn't you just ask. KAY The same reason you couldn't tell me, I guess. She gets up and goes to the door. KAY Please don't hate me too much. She goes out the door. He stares at the wall, speaks quietly to himself. BERNZY I wish I could. He closes his eyes to hold back the pain. CUT TO: EXT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT VERY CLOSE ON a Middle-Aged Woman who shouts almost ecstatically, her mouth rimmed with too much red lipstick. WOMAN It's him! Around her, a kind of pandemonium breaks loose. As Bernzy, with Nabler on one side of him and Hayward, the Ivy League, alcoholic reporter on the other, comes out the door, The crowd -- as big as a mob -- presses in. There are dozens upon dozens of Reporters and Photographers. The Reporters shout for Bernzy's attention and the Photographers take a never-ending series of flash shots. Autograph seekers thrust tabloid covers and pens at Bernzy, or autograph books, or copies of Life Magazine. Grinning Teenagers and Mothers of G.I.'s just want to touch him. Bernzy, in his street clothes and ostensibly recovered, is emotionally muted, without his usual quick eyes, purposeful movements, rapid steps. He offers an occasional wave, or a tepid smile, but he seems totally overwhelmed. As they descend the crowded stairs, a 60ish, well-dressed, Man in the crowd is more or less pulled into their immediate orbit by Nabler. Nabler shouts; he has to. NABLER Bernzy, meet my publisher, the eminent Albert Gerard. GERARD Mr. Bernstein, I've followed your work for years -- NABLER (cutting off the bullshit) He says if I write an intro for your book -- what's it called? -- BERNZY (looking out at the crowd) 'The Public Eye' -- POLICEMEN (B.G.) Hiya, Bernzy!/Congratulations! Bernzy smiles at them as they pass -- but the smile is fleeting. NABLER With an Arthur Nabler introduction for 'Public Eye' he'll guarantee a double-sized first printing. (to Gerard) What was the advance you mentioned? Gerard quotes the figure as they pass through a particularly loud section of the crowd, a particular dense thicket of flash-bulbs. NABLER (smiling, never missing a beat) Smile everybody, Time Magazine. Bernzy moves along automatically, buffeted along by the crowd: people extend their hands, poke their smiling faces in front of him. NABLER So -- can we agree to this deal in principle. GERARD We have the greatest enthusiasm. BERNZY Right. GERARD Are you okay? BERNZY Don't like to have my picture took. NABLER Mr. Gerard's on the Board at the Modern Museum. He says there's real interest there, as well. GERARD I have to keep mum on the matter -- conflict of interest -- but there's more than enough support already. BERNZY Right. GERARD (to Nabler) Is he okay? NABLER It's this crowd... We'll speak to you tomorrow, Albert. (he steers Bernzy through the crowd) Car's over there. As Bernzy continues to be photographed, and shouted at, to have autograph books and tabloid covers thrust at him by people with pens and pencils, he and Nabler and Hayward make their way to the curb, where Bernzy's sedan is parked. Nabler gives Hayward the car keys. As they get in the car, the crowd presses in: they're desperate to make contact with Bernzy. NABLER (to Bernzy) This'll blow over before your bandages're off. Bernzy and Nabler get in back; Hayward takes the wheel, turns back to Bernzy. HAYWARD You allowed to drink? NABLER He can have a short one. I asked inside. When Hayward starts the car, the police radio crackles to life. HAYWARD It's your town, Bernzy: what'll it be? Cafe Society? Even in Bernzy's distracted state, this is like a slap in the face. BERNZY Huh? Nabler takes him by the shoulders and speaks to him, low and intent. NABLER Goddamit, Bernzy: let it go. This is what you've been waiting for your whole life. Whatever it took, it's worth it. BERNZY Let it go? Somebody pounds on the window. NABLER Let it go. BERNZY How do you do that? NABLER I don't know. Nobody does. Welcome to the real world. You're just like everybody else now. Only you're gonna get fawned over by a lot of jerks when our book gets published. BERNZY (a beat) It's my book. I'm writin' the introduction. NABLER (secretly pleased) Fine... (turning to Hayward) Let's go to the Stork Club. Hayward begins to ease the car away from the curb, but it's hard with the mob outside. He points to the police radio, crackling, an added distraction he doesn't need. HAYWARD How d'you turn this damn thing off. He looks for the switch. BERNZY You can't. HAYWARD Huh? BERNZY You can't turn it off. HAYWARD Here's the switch, right here. BERNZY I said you can't turn it off! HAYWARD Like I say: it's your town, Bernzy. He puts the car in gear. CUT TO: EXT. STREET - NIGHT When we cut outside it is to black and white. We don't hear the mob: we hear the police short-wave hissing. As Photographers run alongside the car to poke their cameras at the windows, as teenagers chase after the car, as the grim-faced Policemen try to guide the car through the morass of humanity, as an Older Woman begins to cry, it is a series of Bernzy-like tableaux, the silent images filled in only with the hiss of the radio. The car gets free of the crowd and continues up the street. We crane up to watch it, as it disappears into the New York night. FADE OUT: THE END