KODAMA: (to Monk) Be cool. (She and Kagen shake hands) Good to meet you. I recall you wanted to make my character a Latina beer truck driver going to law school at night, because that would make Ivan more down, more like the working man.
KAGEN: The demographics you know.
MONK: What brings you here?
ROSS: We donate to the Legal Aid Council.
{Monk and Kodama look equally surprised.}
ROSS (cont’d): No, really. I’m at Ten-Shun now and we were developing a show a few months ago and their attorneys provided technical assistance to the project. My boss, Eddie Mast, took a liking to them and there you go.
{Ross has some of his drink.}
KODAMA: I’m glad you do, the LAC fills a necessary need.
{The two men nod in agreement. SANDI LOFTON, an aging beach bunny and reporter with the Hollywood Journal, appears at Ross’s elbow, butting in.}
LOFTON (to Ross): Is it true you’re considering doing a picture about bin Laden?
{Monk and Kodama perk up.}
ROSS (smiling): I shall demonstrate my usual blasé indifference to you, Sandi.
LOFTON: I heard this from our friends at the American Jewish Association. More than one of whom sits on your board, Alan. And it’s not just Jews who will be upset if this project goes forward.
{She turns to Monk.}
LOFTON (cont’d): What do you think?
MONK: I’m not completely sure, but if other warped people and events aren’t off limits, then why bin Laden? Wasn’t there a musical about the hijacking of that ship, the Achille Lauro?
LOFTON (jerks head at the sign): Figures a lawyer for this group of worn-out hippies and disillusioned revolutionaries with law degrees, that helps welfare cheats and renters duck their responsibilities would say that.
KODAMA (to Monk): Doggone dewy-eyed Taliban simp.
{Monk and Kodama exchange shit-eating grins. Lofton is unsure what to think while Ross looks bemused and tips his drink to someone else from the “industry.”}
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. ROSS’S LOS FELIZ HOME/ESCAPE
ROOM BAR—NIGHT
INTERCUTTING
{Between Ross’s house and Escape Room Bar that Kagen exits.}
{Later that evening, Ross pulls up and parks his late model BMW Z-3 roadster in the driveway of his restored two-story Tudor on a cul-de-sac street in the quiet neighborhood. He gets out and walks toward his home, fishing his keys out of his pocket. There is weak illumination from a nearby lone streetlight. He passes a high shrub.}
ROSS
{—turns toward the shrub at a Sound.}
ROSS: Who’s there?
EXT. ESCAPE ROOM BAR,
CULVER CITY—NIGHT
{Walsh exits the bar, arm-in-arm with a tipsy middle-aged dyed blonde with frizzy hair and a dress too short for her age. They are laughing and kissing as they meander toward his car.}
AN SUV
{—screeches around a corner.}
EXT. ROSS’S LOS FELIZ HOME
{The exec now has a anxious look on his face as an INTRUDER, indistinct in the dim light, emerges from the shadow of the shrub}
ROSS: What is this?
INTRUDER: Judgment.
ROSS: For what?
EXT. ESCAPE ROOM BAR
{Kagen and the woman kiss and grope each other but react to a voice yelling from inside the SUV zooming by.}
VOICE (in SUV): Charlatan.
{A Molotov Cocktail is tossed and breaks near Kagen, exploding into flame.}
KAGEN: Fuck.
{The woman SCREAMS as Kagen beats out the fire that has ignited his sleeve from a splash of lit gas.}
EXT. ROSS’S LOS FELIZ HOUSE
INTRUDER: You know, traitor.
{Ross regains his nerve and charges. The Intruder is startled as he throws his Molotov Cocktail. The bottle explodes on Ross and he’s ablaze.}
ROSS: Oh God:
{Ross has enough presence of mind to drop and roll on the ground as the Intruder runs away.}
END INTERCUTTING
INT. KODAMA’S AND MONK’S HOUSE, BEDROOM,
SILVERLAKE—DAY
{It’s the next morning and the two are in bed under the covers making love in the tastefully appointed bedroom. Morning light creeps in beneath a partially drawn shade.}
CU
{—on one of the judge’s oil paintings hanging over the bed. The work depicts denizens of Skid Row at dusk. Some wear Mardi Gras party masks. In the background, there’s a building with a lit neon sign that reads: “Justice.” The Sounds of the couple’s passionate lovemaking can be heard.}
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. BEDROOM
{A little later and Monk exits the shower back into the bedroom. There’s a towel wrapped around his waist and he’s brushing his teeth. Kodama, in a slip, sits on the bed, using a blow dryer on her wet hair. The radio is on to the local NPR station.}
MONK: You meeting with the Asian Pacific Islander Caucus tonight aren’t you?
KODAMA (wearily): Yes, as you well know.
MONK: I ain’t player-hatin’ baby. I’m all for you running for the State Senate.
{He rases the dripping toothbrush above his head and pumps his fist.}
MONK (cont’d): I’ll door knock the ’hood till I’ve worn my shoes to my ankles for the one true Asian sister who’ll stand up for all our rights.
{Kodama makes a derisive sound as he re-enters the bathroom to finish his teeth-cleaning chore.}
MONK (cont’d, from the bathroom): You said you wanted to do something different than adjudicate.
KODAMA: That doesn’t mean—
{The RINGING phone cuts her off. She leans over and plucks the handset up. Monk re-enters the room.}
KODAMA (into handset): Hello?
{She listens then:}
KODAMA (cont’d): He’s right here, Nona.
MONK: What’s my mother want?
CUT TO:
EXT. MAGNOLIA AVENUE, SHERMAN OAKS—DAY
{Monk and Walsh Kagen, his arm bandaged but not in a sling, walk along the thoroughfare in the San Fernando Valley. Monk has his hands in his pockets and Walsh puffs on a thin Parodi cigar.}
KAGEN: Again, I’m sorry to have bothered your mother, but judges like cops have their addresses blocked by the phone company.
MONK: But they’re aren’t a whole lot of people with my last name.
KAGEN: Yeah, and Thelonious ain’t with us anymore.
MONK: And you’re willing to see if I can find out something about this attack on you and Ross the cops can’t?
KAGEN: According to the piece in this morning’s Journal, you were one of the last people seen talking to him.
MONK: So was the waiter bringing the drinks.
{Kagen snickers.}
KAGEN: But you’ve got story potential, Ivan.
{Monk halts before a bookstore. On its green awning are the words: Mysteries, Murder & Mayhem. Through the window, the proprietor, a rugged individual with a red/browninsh beard, talks animatedly with a customer.}
MONK: So you want to make this into a screenplay? You follow me around while I look for whoever torched you and Ross? I got news for you, Walsh. He might be all doped up now from his third-degree burns, but in a day or two Ross is going to be able to talk and that will be the end of the mystery. His attacker got up close and personal.
KAGEN: But until then who knows what can happen. What if all he has is a vague description?
MONK: You mean of some Middle Eastern perp?
KAGEN: Middle Eastern doesn’t necessarily mean an Arab or Muslim.
{Monk resumes walking and Kagen falls in step.}
MONK: Herv Renschel of the AJA gave you grief, too?
KAGEN: He hasn’t been called the Jewish Farakhan for kicks. I got a few threatening calls the day after I saw Ross. Nobody I.D.’d themselves, but is it a coincidence that the day of the night of the attacks, the AJA ran a full page ad in the Journal denouncing Ten-Shun and the purported project?<
br />
MONK: Just to be broad-minded, what if it’s one of the sleeper agents of the Al Qaeda that did the deed?
KAGEN: Okay.
MONK: Shit. I’ve already had somebody blow up my donut shop once.
KAGEN: Come on, Ivan, you got a rep as a man who goes at it until the job is done. This could be big.
MONK: Not to mention good press for you to get a deal.
KAGEN: I’ll make you a producer if we roll film. Hey, I got enough to cover your nut for a week or so. If we get bupkis, no hard feelings.
MONK: I hope I don’t regret this.
{Kagen beams, clapping Monk on the shoulder.}
EXT. SUPERIOR COURT BUILDINGS, DOWNTOWN
L.A., ESTABLISHING—DAY
INT. JILL KODAMA’S COURTROOM
{A criminal trial is in progress. The defense counsel, MS. WINTERS, is about to talk but Kodama, from the bench, cuts her off. The defendant, MR. REESE, is white, twentysomething, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. He has an American flag tattooed on his tricep and slouches in his chair, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings.}
KODAMA: . . . hold on, Ms. Winters. (to the defendant) Mr. Reese, sit up.
MR. REESE
{—glares at Kodama then reluctantly obeys.}
RESUME
{—Kodama talking.}
KODAMA (cont’d): Mr. Reese, you and your friends are charged with a serious matter. You may think that because the man you chased and, by your own admission, fought, turned out to be Guatemalan and an undocumented worker, and not of Arab descent somehow mitigates the circumstances, but they do not in my courtroom, sir. So I suggest you make some effort to pay attention to what’s going on, because I do take attitude into account should there be a sentencing. (to the defense lawyer) And counselor, do a better job of preparing your clients.
MR. REESE
{—looks at Ms. Winters, frowning.}
EXT. CONTINENTAL DONUTS, CRENSHAW
DISTRICT, ESTABLISHING—DAY
{It’s late afternoon at the donut shop—with a massive plaster donut anchored on the roof—on Vernon Avenue owned by Monk. The regulars are seen through the large picture windows sitting inside, talking, playing chess, and so forth.}
INT. CONTINENTAL DONUTS
{Monk selects a chocolate crueller from the case. ELROD, the six-foot-eight, muscled ex-con manager of the establishment looks on disdainfully.}
ELROD: You will have to do penance for that.
MONK: “Keep up appearances, there lies the test.”
{Monk bites into the donut with relish.}
ELROD: You can quote Churchill all you like.
MONK
{—is shocked that Elrod can place the quote.}
ELROD (cont’d): But that doesn’t change the fact that you are backsliding, weak to the allure of butter and sugar.
MONK: Night school must agree with you.
{Monk walks into the back of the shop and then a right along a short hall. He unlocks a heavy screen door protecting an inner door.}
INT. MONK’S INNER SANCTUM
{Monk steps into the Spartanly furnished room. There’s a cot, a small refrigerator, CD boom box, several old school file cabinets, a carburetor on top of one of the cabinets, a new model PC on a sturdy wooden table, and a comfortable swivel chair before it.}
{Monk turns on the boom box which is tuned to a jazz station. He sits down, finishes his snack, and fires up the computer.}
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. WILSHIRE OFFICE OF HERV
RENSCHEL—DAY
{Monk stands at the window, looking out on the city. Kagen sits on a couch before a coffee table, a fine china coffee set before him.}
{HERV RENSCHEL, early sixties, lean and rangy, has a crew cut topping a lined face that bespeaks of his experiences from the Six Day War to being a political infighter. He prowls back and forth on the carpet before them.}
RENSCHEL: You guys crack me up.
MONK (turning): I try.
{Renschel stops and glares at the detective.}
RENSCHEL: I know about you, Monk, the black nationalist private eye.
MONK: I do my best to give everybody a fair shake, Renschel. I don’t wear my race on my sleeve.
RENSCHEL: What, you leave your kafir in the trunk?
KAGEN: If we could stay on point, gentlemen.
{Renschel leans against his messy desk.}
RENSCHEL: Are you interrogating any Arab organizations in this quest for the attackers?
MONK: If that’s where the case take us.
RENSCHEL: Somehow I doubt it will.
MONK: Doubt all you like. I know you were on a radio show the day the Journal leaked that Ten-Shun was considering the Bring Me the Head movie. You didn’t parse your words too much when you said that a judgment should be levied against Ross and Kagen.
KAGEN: He said that?
RENSCHEL: I have a right to my opinion.
MONK: But did you put your words into action, Renschel? Like that time after the ’92 riots when you and some of your more eager members jumped those kids coming out of Canter’s on Fairfax?
RENSCHEL: There had been two gang shootings in that neighborhood in less than a week.
MONK: So any blacks would do, huh? Only these guys were UCLA basketball players and you got the shit sued out of you.
RENSCHEL: I’m a big enough man to admit my mistakes, Monk.
KAGEN (gesturing): We all want the same thing here, find the guilty party.
RENSCHEL: I can say without fear of contradiction, the AJA had nothing to do with these distasteful incidents. I suggest, as I did to the police, that you and your UPN Herculot Perot here could better use your time following up leads elsewhere.
MONK: Like with Josef Odeh?
RENSCHEL (nodding): I’ll give you credit, Monk, you do your homework.
MONK: Like I said, I try.
EXT. WILSHIRE BOULEVARD—CONTINUOUS
{Kagen and Monk walk away from Renschel’s office building and toward the latter’s fully restored cobalt blue ’64 Ford Galaxie parked at a meter.}
KAGEN: This Odeh I gather is a leader in the Arab Community?
MONK: Yeah, he’s considered a moderate, particularly compared to your boy.
{Monk hooks a thumb in the direction of the AJA office.}
KAGEN: So why do we need to talk to him?
MONK: It’s pretty fascinating what you can find on-line added to some old-fashioned working the phones, Walsh. One of the service organizations Odeh sat on the board of was caught up in the Justice Department net around the hawala method of money laundering to the Al Qaeda. {Monk unlocks the car and the two get in.}
INT. ’64 FORD GALAXIE
{Monk cranks the car to life and pulls away from the curb.}
KAGEN: So this charity was a front that skimmed off money to the terrorist network?
MONK: That seems to be unclear. But the point is that Odeh was tainted and did some back-peddling. He proclaimed he knew nothing of money transferring, etcetera. He wasn’t arrested, but I bet he’s been under watch.
KAGEN: But he could be jiving, and he really was part of some scheme to move funds.
MONK: Something like that.
KAGEN: You gonna be more objective this time?
{Monk lets some silence drag.}
MONK: You’re right, Walsh, I was being unprofessional. I’ll be on point.
{Kagen winks at him.}
EXT. ’64 FORD GALAXIE: DAY
The car zooms along.
EXT. MASJID AL-FALAH ISLAMIC CENTER,
INGLEWOOD: DAY
{Monk and Kagen walk up the steps of the Center and stop at a locked door where there’s an intercom.}
CU
{intercom as Monk bends to it and pushes the button to speak.}
MONK (into intercom): Hi, I’m Ivan Monk with Walsh Kagen to see Jabari Hatoom. I had an appointment.
WIDEN
{Monk lets go of the button and the door BUZZES. Kagen opens the door.}
&n
bsp; INT. MASJID AL-FALAH ISLAMIC CENTER—
CONTINUOUS
{Monk and Kagen stand in a foyer. A twentysomething east Indian woman, SUNAR, in her hijab—head covered, long dress—comes out to greet them. As is the custom, she does not offer her hand.}
SUNAR: Gentlemen, this way.
{Monk and Kagen follow the young woman past a spacious worship area with a podium, classrooms, and into a spotless stainless steel kitchen off a well-lit hallway.}
INT. KITCHEN—DAY
{Monk and Kagen are ushered in by Sunar who departs. JABARI HATOOM is African American, tall, balding, early thirties, and dressed in slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He has the garbage disposal unit out and on a table, working on it with a screwdriver. He smiles upon seeing Monk.}
HATOOM: Homeboy.
{Hatoom puts down his screwdriver and embraces the P.I.}
MONK: Glad you could see us.
{They disengage. Monk indicates Kagen.}
MONK (cont’d): This is Walsh Kagen.
HATOOM (shaking the director’s hand): Man, what a pleasure. You don’t know how many times I’ve seen The Plunderers and One Deadly Night.
KAGEN: That’s flattering. And how is it you know Ivan?
HATOOM: He busted me.
{Kagen regards Monk.}
MONK: Long time ago, when I used to do bounty hunting.
KAGEN (to Hatoom): And you converted in prison?
HATOOM: Exactly.
MONK: Will you set up a meeting for us with Odeh?
{Hatoom is uncomfortable.}
HATOOM: I have not made the call.
MONK: I know it’s hard, Jabari, but you know good and well it’s the Muslim community that has to step up if there’s an extremist running around.
HATOOM: Is that just another way to say we have to be good, shuffling handkerchief heads? Being a Muslim is not synonymous with being a terrorist, Ivan. And depending on the political winds, freedom fighters become rebels become evil-doers.
MONK: Odeh put himself in the mix, Jabari.
KAGEN: What am I missing here?
{Hatoom and Monk exchange a look.}
HATOOM: Odeh demanded and got a meeting with Alan Ross two days ago.
KAGEN: Does everybody read that Journal rag?
HATOOM: A possible movie about bin Laden that would invariably put our community in a bad light was bound to draw attention, especially in these times.
KAGEN: But that’s the point; my idea is ultimately that the film is about tolerance. I’ll admit I’m exploiting bin Laden because, well, frankly, like any out-size madman, he’s great pulp material. I’m not a student of Sam Fuller and was an A.D. on a couple of Frankenheimer’s films for nothing. Look guys, great villains and the horrors they commit make powerful statements about us. From King Leopold and the Congo to Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge as depicted in The Killing Fields . . . that’s show biz, fellas.
Show Business Is Murder Page 17