Cappy’s head came around sharply. “Your fault, hell! It was all my fault. If I’d been careful it never woulda—” He stopped abruptly.
Ernie’s eyebrows went up. “What’s the matter?”
The girl still did not raise her eyes, but she added simply, “I’m pregnant.”
Cappy raged at himself. “Oh he was stupid, her old man! You never heard nothin’ like it: Kitty’s gonna go have an abortion, and Kitty’s gonna go away to a convent, and Kitty’s this and Kitty’s that…like he was nuts or somethin’, y’know?”
Ernie nodded. This was a slightly different matter. He remembered Midge, and the child. But that had been a time before all this, a time he didn’t think about. A time before the white lightning and the bumming had turned him inside out. But these kids weren’t like him.
Oh, crap! he thought. Pull out of it, old son. These are just another couple of characters to roll. What they got, you get. Now forget all this other.
“Wanna drink?” Ernie pulling the pint of Sweet Lucy from his jacket pocket.
“Yeah. Now that you offer.” The answer came from the open door of the boxcar. From the man who had leaped in from the high bank outside, as the train had slowed on the grade.
Ernie stared at the man. He was big. Real big, with shoulders out to here, and hair all over him like a grizzly. Road gang, Ernie thought, staring at the great, pulpy muscles of the man’s arms and neck.
“You gonna give me a drink, fellah?” the big man asked again, taking a step into the boxcar.
Ernie hesitated a moment. This character could break him in half. “Sure,” he said, and lifted the pint to his own lips. He guzzled down three-quarters of the strong home-blend and proffered the remainder. The man stalked toward them, his big boots heavy on the wooden flooring. He took the bottle with obvious belligerence, and making sucking noises with his thick lips, drained it completely.
He threw back his head, closed his eyes, and belched ferociously. He belched again, and opening his eyes, threw the bottle out through the open door.
“Well, now,” he said, and reached into his pocket. “I didn’t know I was gonna have company in this box.”
“We’re going to Philadelphia,” Kitty said, pulling her skirt down around her legs all the more.
“No, I don’t think so,” said the big man, and it was the final clincher for Ernie. He had suspected this guy was trouble, and now he was sure of it, with the first verbal assurance the man had given.
“Maybe you and me will, girlie, but these two bums ain’t goin’ nowhere but out that door.”
He advanced on them, and abruptly there was a shocked electricity in the car. Ernie was screaming inside himself: No, damn you, you ain’tgonna take my meal ticket away from me! I been milkin’ ’em for fifty miles. Get outta here, you lousy sonofabitch!
Usurpation on the high road. He had planned to boot the guy out the door in a few miles when they got to the next little town. That way he wouldn’t have far to walk to get to civilization, but far enough so they would be near Philly and he could have enjoyed himself at his leisure with the broad. But now this! Damn you!
The newcomer stalked toward them, and Kitty shied back, her hand to her mouth. Her scream split up the silence of the car, accompanied by the rattling of the freight, and then Cappy came off the floor, his legs driving him hard. The kid hit the bigger man with an audible thwump! and carried him backward in a linebacker’s tackle. They went down in a heap amid the pig scum, and for a long minute there was nothing to see but flailing arms and legs.
The kid showed for an instant, and his arm was cocked back. The fist went down into the pile of flesh, and Ernie heard the bigger man’s deep voice: “Aaawww!”
Then they were tumbling again, and the big man reached into the same pocket he had gone for earlier, and came up with a vicious switchblade.
He held the knife aloft an instant—an instant enough to press the stud. The blade came out with a snick; he fisted the knife overhand, and drew back to plunge it into the kid’s throat.
Kitty screamed insanely, over and over again, and her face was white as maggot’s flesh. She grabbed at Feathertop’s sleeve and shrieked in his ear, “Help him! Help him! Do something!”
Do? Do? Feathertop Ernie Cargill was plastered to the cotton bales with fright. He wasn’t gonna do a thing. It was the kid’s fight. He should of known better than to bring a girl on the freights. It was his own—
The kid grabbed the wrist as it came down, bringing the rusty death with it, and he twisted the arm back back back as far as he could. The big man was off-balance, and at that instant the train hit a curve. The big man fell over, and the kid was on top of him. In one flashing, lightning movement Cappy had the knife in his own hand, and he did not hesitate.
He brought it up and down and up and down again, and there was red on the blade, and red on the big man’s shirt, and red on his chest, and red on the floorboards.
Kitty shrieked maddeningly, and fainted.
The kid got off the corpse, and dropped the knife with stunned disbelief. “He—he’s d-dead. Ohmigod…” the kid murmured. “Who’ll believe me? I been in trouble before, but never like this. What’ll I do?”
Kitty moaned, and the kid rushed to her side, cradling her head in his lap. “Kitty, we—we gotta get outta here…we gotta get away before we get to a town or someth—”
“We’re in a town now.” Ernie pointed to the rail yards that had taken form around them. His hand froze where it was pointing. It was aimed dead at a railroad switchman who was staring in at them through the open door of the boxcar, who was cupping his hands, who was screeching at a group of gandy dancers farther down the tracks. The men glanced at the freight train slowing to a stop, and they began hopping the tracks, running for the boxcar in a group.
“Rail dicks!” Ernie screamed, and leaped to run.
The kid was rocking back and forth with Kitty’s head in his lap, whispering, “Good-bye, honey, good-bye…”
Ernie stopped as he pulled open the sliding door on the other side of the boxcar. He stopped, and a strange feeling came over him. He looked at the kids, and memories crowded in on him. He remembered Midge, and the child, and the years in the bands, and all the freights and all the booze, and there was a choking in his throat.
He bent down and lifted the knife from the floor. He wiped the handle—but not the blade—clean on his jacket, and then gripped it firmly.
Stooping, he lifted the boy by his underarms, and stood him on his feet. Then he helped Kitty to rise.
“Go out the other door, and don’t stop running till you’re a long ways from here. You understand?”
“But I—” Cappy began, looking from Ernie to the body of the big man.
“Go on!” Ernie hit him in the arm. “Go on, and be good to her! You stupid son of a bitch!” He shoved them toward the open door on the opposite side of the boxcar, and as the train came to a shuddering halt, they leaped free, and ran off across the rail yards.
The yard bulls and linemen were running up to the boxcar as Ernie sat down on the cotton bales.
It wasn’t so bad. He could holler self-defense. It might be okay. But either way, his time had passed. He was a young man, but he was old, very old; and he was tired. Very tired. Time had made him old folks. It wouldn’t of been right for them kids. Not right at all.
Some people are meant to ride the dark train out, and others not. That’s the way it’s got to be.
He pushed the feathery hair from his eyes.
He was tired, and the dead guy had polished off the last of the Sweet Lucy, damn him. And he smelled of pig shit. But not permanently.
—Elizabethtown, Kentucky, 1959
MOONLIGHTING
FADE IN:
1 BLACK FRAME
CAMERA PULLING BACK OUT OF BLACK while MAINTITLES SUPER OVER. During SLOW PULL BACK we HEAR a VOICE OVER. The voice of MRS. KAY, a middle-aged woman. The voice is filled with heartbreaking anguish and a vengeful madness.
<
br /> MRS. KAY’S VOICE OVER
You may have made a fool of the law, but you’re not going to escape justice. Not if I have anything to say about it!
(cold and flat)
All those kids dead…the whole school building collapsed…did you see all those little bodies? Did you?
PULL-BACK reveals the BLACK FRAME was looking down the barrel of a handgun. We pull back out of the muzzle as the VOICE OVER CONTINUES. (NOTE: Suggest use of a Colt Automatic “Commander” in the polished nickel model; or alternately a .38 Colt Super or .45 ACP. Suggest 3/4 2 barrel shorter than standard; polished nickel for shot that follows.)
MRS. KAY’S VOICE OVER (CONT’D.)
You cut corners on the material, the construction was rotten…sand in the concrete mix…everybody knows it, even if you bought off the politicians at the hearing…
CAMERA HAS PULLED BACK to feature the handgun LARGE IN F.G. As CAMERA MOVES AROUND the gun we see reflected in the flat, highly-polished nickel surface of its bulk the man at whom the gun is aimed. He looks terrified.
MRS. KAY’S VOICE OVER (CONT’D.)
You don’t get away with it, Mr. Canoga…there’s a due bill on sixteen dead kids…
CAMERA has PULLED BACK sufficiently to show us the gun held by a tearful, coldly angry, fortyish woman on whose face is written a memory of crushing sorrow. CAMERA AROUND HER and HOLDS HER LARGE IN F.G. to show the man sitting behind the desk, the man we saw reflected in the polished surface of the gun. The large logo on the wall behind him reads:
COLONY CONSTRUCTION COMPANY Sonny Canoga, Pres.
SONNY CANOGA is in his early forties but retains the rugged self-centered good looks of a college wingback; and he’s just that brawny across the shoulders. He is extremely good-looking in the manner of a comic book superhero: blond, expensive haircut, formidable jaw, clear blue eyes, silk shirt open to the sternum, one discreet gold chain: Mr. Wonderful, who could sell sandboxes to Arabs and get away with it. But now he’s showing another aspect of his nature: his cowardice.
[MORE]
He’s terrified with this woman pointing the gun unwaveringly at his head. Nervously, he toys with a long LETTER OPENER that has a replica of the distinctive Colony Construction logo at one end. We see now that we are in:
2 INT. CONSTRUCTION OFFICE—NIGHT—ON SONNY
Sweating, toying with the opener, he tries to reason with her, tries to be forthright, but we can tell from his manner that he’s lying, just babbling to stop her from blowing him away.
SONNY (dissembles)
This isn’t right, Mrs. Kay…this isn’t fair! You can’t come in here and make threats like that…I’m not responsible!
(beat)
I didn’t pick the land they used to build on. It was soft ground, it settled, the school went down from landfill, not what my company did!
3 MOVING CAMERA AROUND SONNY TO MRS. KAY IN B.G.
She holds the gun level, straight out in front of her, not with both hands gripped around the butt as TV cops do it, but steadily, with one hand.
MRS. KAY (flatly)
Say: Giselle.
SONNY (uncomprehending)
What?
MRS. KAY
Say it. Say: Giselle.
SONNY (slowly)
Giselle…
MRS. KAY
Again. Say: Giselle, and say: I’m sorry.
SONNY MRS. KAY (almost together)
Why do you…? Say it!
SONNY
Giselle…I’m, I’m sorry…
MRS. KAY (softly)
My daughter. I want her name on your lips when you die, Mr. Canoga.
(beat)
Her death is on your hands, now I want her name on your lips.
Through preceding dialogue CAMERA COMES AROUND to POV from BEHIND Sonny. Suddenly the door to the construction office bursts open and a large man in uniform, STATE TROOPER FRED LAMONT, smashes through as CAMERA ANGLE WIDENS to FULL SHOT. Another woman is behind him.
4 FULL SHOT—ALTERNATE ANGLE—ON ACTION
As Trooper Lamont wrestles with the slight Mrs. Kay, who seems to possess the deranged power of a dozen lumberjacks. He has grabbed her from behind and wrenches her arm toward the fiberboard ceiling. The gun goes off.
CUT TO:
5 INTERCUT
The logo on the wall above Sonny’s head explodes from the random shot. He dives out of the chair.
CUT BACK TO:
6 SAME AS 4—WITH THE ACTION
Trooper Lamont wrestles the gun away from her.
CUT TO:
7 INTERCUT—THE OTHER WOMAN
Still standing in the doorway, trying to swallow her fist. SARAH BIEBER, an extremely plain-looking, very thin woman of indeterminate years, but past the bloom of youth. She’s trying to look years younger with a wildly inappropriate hairstyle. It just looks pathetic. She’s what used to be called a lonely spinster. She stares wide-eyed.
CUT BACK TO:
8 MEDIUM SHOT—TROOPER & MRS. KAY
As she lands a hard, short one over his heart. The trooper gasps and manhandles her across the room to the sofa, gets her down with difficulty, and manages to cuff her. She is hysterical now, crying, trying to beg the trooper:
MRS. KAY
Oh please…please don’t stop me…please…he has to pay…please…
9 WITH SONNY—MEDIUM SHOT TO FULL SCENE
as he gets off the floor, the letter opener still in his hand.
[MORE]
He is wild-eyed and furious, reacting to being almost a dead thing. He comes for her, the letter opener held aloft.
SONNY (wild)
You lousy, crazy, stinking old bat! I oughtta pull your goddamed head off!
Trooper Lamont steps in front of him, calms him with his body. He takes the letter opener away from him. He speaks levelly, softly.
LAMONT
It’s a good thing Miz Bieber came in late to work on your books, Mr. Canoga. She called us just in time.
SONNY (furious)
I’m gonna press charges! She tried to kill me! You saw her, both of you saw her; you’re witnesses!
Mrs. Kay is slumped over her knees, sobbing softly.
10 ANOTHER ANGLE FEATURING SARAH
as we see the scene shooting past her. Her reactions of intense concern for Sonny underline the action.
LAMONT
Take it easy now, Mr. Canoga. You’re okay. This is bad, but no sense in getting yourself all unlaced.
Sonny starts to harangue him, but pulls up short. There is a mean twist to his otherwise extraordinary good looks. He breathes deeply, composes himself, and becomes the trained smoothyguts again. He smiles one of those buttery smiles.
LAMONT (CONT’D.)
I’ll be takin’ her by St. Anne’s for a quick stop in the emergency…and she’ll be at the station when you get ready to sign the complaint. If that’s what you really want to do.
SONNY (thin smile)
You’re right. Absolutely.
(beat)
And I want you to know the State Police’ll be getting some terrific glowing story about you, Trooper. Your commandant’s gonna know you saved my life. There’ll be a big promotion in this one, you can bet on it. I give you my word!
Lamont frowns at all this unctuousness. He tries to be polite. But he obviously doesn’t like the way Sonny is sucking up to him.
LAMONT
Well, that’ll be just fine, sir. I’m just glad we got here in time.
(beat)
Oh…here…
He hands him the letter opener. Sonny refuses it.
SONNY
No indeed. You keep it. A nothing little gift. Just one of our new giveaways with the storm windows. My appreciation.
The trooper places it on the desk with a smile.
LAMONT
Thanks anyway, Mr. Canoga. I don’t get much mail.
He goes to the weeping woman and gently, kindly, raises her from the sofa till he’s almost hugging her. We get the feeling he is sy
mpathetic to her actions. He turns her to the door and they move off, passing Sarah Bieber, who still stands frozen, eyes wide. As they pass out the door…over his shoulder:
LAMONT (CONT’D.)
I’ll see you at the station, sir. If that’s what you really want to do.
Then they’re gone.
11 LONG SHOT—PAST SONNY TO SARAH
As she stares at him, still wide-eyed. Then suddenly the membrane breaks, and she rushes to him in F.G. She flies into his arms, trembling. She hugs him tightly. Her words of adoration and concern are AD LIB muffled and run-on, incoherent. He kisses her. He pats her back as he holds her, strokes her hair.
SONNY
It’s all right…it’s okay…I’m fine…you saved my life.
(1/2 beat)
Again.
CLOSE ON THEM as they stand together. She comes up for air, looks at him intensely.
SARAH
Oh, my God, I was so frightened. I came in to…you know…to do just a little more work on the loose ends in the books…just in case they subpoena…
His face tightens. He grips her shoulders too tightly.
SONNY (snake smooth)
Now c’mon, Sarah, honey. You can’t just be mentioning that all the time. You gotta make it one of those things we know and don’t say. I love you, so it’s okay, isn’t that right?
She looks away and in EXTREME CU we see she is tormented.
SARAH (confused)
I…I…don’t know…
SONNY (tougher)
It’s love, Sarah. I’m not talkin’ about what we do here on the sofa, I’m talkin’ about love!
He has an almost tv evangelist tone to his voice.
SONNY (CONT’D.)
How many people ever feel this in their life, darlin’? How many do you think?
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