Barking for Tears or Tell me you love me, one more time.
Barking at tears. Lena
Olin/Merrill Streep/Demi Moore (CEO)/ / Morgan Freeman/Clint Eastwood/Seymore/Gene
Hackman (Detective)/ Leon (Author/Killer).
Story: Stage: The time is late at night, pouring rain
outside, and the street lights have been out all summer. Sweltering humidity
traps two customers inside the neighborhood bar, the bait, a flickering neon bar
sign signaling ‘Ice cold Beer’ buzzes and flickers reminding the rest of the
neighborhood who they owe.
From street level, the camera pans upward, giving a
view of a second story window on the street side of a glistening rain
soaked brick tenement building. Shades of white and gray dance across the small opening as a
1950's black and white television fights for life. Curtains move ever so
slightly, as if someone is standing, watching, but you know it’s the breeze
you’ve been searching for all night that’s playing with someone else, thirty
feet off the ground. The camera swerves just in time to miss two banged up,
misshapen, metal trash cans as it ascends the broken concrete steps to a screen
door left ajar by the donut boys. What’s left of the wooden door is propped wide
open to let the sweltering heat make its way unabated to the roof. Nasty smells
of poverty and indifference are pulled from hallways having open doors as it
passes. The pungent odor of beer and urine heading away from you is always a
good thing. A light bulb from the lower stoop lights a paperback in someone's
bathroom. The camera focuses on the only remaining light at the top of the
stairs as whispers and the sound of slamming doors announce the intruders
progress. The camera moves upward, step by step. After reaching the landing,
intermittent flickers of light licking the black hallway entice the camera to
swing right. You can feel your heart pounding as you silently watch dancing
lights from a half open apartment door try to escape misery. Muted sounds mixed
with static are calling from inside the hovel. Your on the balls of your feet
and dare not look aside as caution replaces your breathing, and the tickle of
salty sweat dares to sting the corner of your left eye. The camera slowly enters
the apartment. Except for a failing picture tube, the room is dark. Shapes of
brown and black piles of soiled clothing litter the floor and hug the feet of an
overstuffed couch. The camera drops low, as it pans from an open window with
undulating curtains to a spot just below the rear of the couch. As the camera
moves closer, it slowly, gently, rises and assumes a position to the rear and to
the right of the sick, drunk, retired detective. Harry is sitting forward
and is concentrating on a program now being televised from the set. He leans
forward to adjust the reception and at the same time, turns up the sound. The
name of the show is “Antiques from Abroad”. A show dedicated to presenting rare
antiques at auction for the viewing public. The detective leans further forward
as an auctioneer presents the next item. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is one of
thirty such rare novels by Jacques LeMere`. As you all know, he has been writing
mystery novels for thirty years. And as you are all well aware, he only allows
thirty copies of the original to be sold to the public. That is why the opening
bid will be above one million dollars! Gasps could be heard from the crowd. A
long pause, and then the auctioneer continues, as a rare treat, I will read the
first three chapters of sixty chapters for you tonight; .......... the reading starts....
Relaxed, and without looking, Harry pours himself another scotch while
watching the antique show fade into commercial. In the silence, a voice from the
back of the dark, moist, room startles the drinker. The camera pans sharply to a dark corner
and watches intently as a delicate female voice of thirty something calls out to
Harry, “tell me you love me. Please tell me you love me..” the detective
briefly glances over his left shoulder, smiles, and turns back to the set
without saying a word. The antique show is starting again and with every murmur
and whimper, the detective becomes increasingly annoyed by
the muted sounds emanating from the pest in the back of the room. Again, Harry
leans forward and turns up the volume as the auctioneer proceeds with the
reading. Moments later from that same dark corner and needing pity, comes
another cry for attention, “come on Harry, you said you loved me before….please
say you love me one more time...please Harry.” Without turning to look, the
detective raises his glass and stares for a brief moment as tiny glints of light
shine through the golden liquid that has become his priest. He swallows
the mothers milk, and in the same motion, without
looking, he hurls the glass and ice cubes rearward and into that dark corner.
Then, as is talking to the wall, “
damn it, I told you not to bother me when I’m watching television!” “Can’t you
see I’m busy?” Silence filled the room as Harry moved from the couch and sat on
the edge of a coffee table that served as a 'catch-all' and rested between him
and the television. Harry turned the volume up for the last time so he could hear the
auctioneer. The auctioneer was just finishing the second chapter. Harry's
discontent was obvious as he glanced back over his left shoulder, and in a much
softer tone, said, “now see that, you made me
miss part of the show. Can you please shut up until the show is over….I’ll tell
you when!” There was no reply from the innocent voice that begged for love from
the darkness of a filthy kitchen. Without turning, and prodded by the quart of
liquor he’d consumed; compassion overtook Harry as he spoke….“Besides...you know
I love you...haven't I always loved you!” “now be quiet while I watch the rest
of this program...it’s important damn it!”
Retired detective (Clint Eastwood-Harry Callahan/Morgan Freeman/Seymore) is
watching a rare book being auctioned-off on television. To prove its
authenticity, and to wet the appetites of the bidding elite, the auctioneer
decided to read a few pages to the audience, and it’s these words that have
peaked Harry’s curiosity. The detective realizes the story in the book is almost
identical as a
particularly brutal, unsolved killing of a woman twenty years prior! A
major difference between the two, the
book’s story as being read aloud to the overindulgent audience has many more
clues! Just then, he is reminded he’s not alone. From behind his left should
comes the soft, begging voice “tell me you love me”. He ignores it. And
continues watching the tube while sipping on his scotch. Again, from the dark
corner of the room, a distinctive soft, female voice “come on, I love you. Won’t
you please tell me you love me?” He turns his head to the side, but doesn’t take
his eyes off the television…”can’t you see I’m busy, leave me alone, god damn
it!” The soft, female voice persists, ‘if you tell me you love me like you use
to, I’ll leave you alone…” He turns in a pissed rage, if only for a second and
hurls another scotch glass into the dark corner…’Jesus... can't I have a minute
to my self?...Ok, ok, I love you...how’s that god damn it? As if undeterred by
the flying glass...a soft voice answers…”thank you Harry...was that so hard?”
The television show was over and the tiny black and white screen had been taken
over by static. Harry lays back on the couch and reclines to the arm rest. His
eyes close as he covers his head with his forearm. The seven buckets of scotch
start the dance he paid for. The next morning he finds the nag already at it,
only this time with a distinct touch of evil while yelling at the top of her
lungs…”tell me you love me you bastard, Tell me
now!” Head pounding and still laying on the couch..... Harry yells back......”I
haven't killed anything in a long time...don’t make me break my streak, damn it! He starts
coughing and is driven to rise from his sty, “I’ve got to do something. I’ve got
to get cleaned up!" Whereas he ends his search for a drink with a devilish
smile as his eyes come to rest on the last nights old friend laying empty on its side
in the middle of the coffee table. As if a new born, he rises and tries
to walk. With the aid of the burly couch, he makes his way into the bathroom and
slams the door shut. The soft voice from the dark corner of the kitchen gets the last word
in.... ....“the bastard never
said good morning to me!” A quick look to the kitchen reveals a haggard looking
parrot, (named ‘Pretty’ by Harry’s ex-wife) pacing back and forth on the edge of
the sink. If you get close and listen carefully, you can hear her mumbling “I
know he loves me, sure he loves me, I am loved….as hot steaming shower water
pelts the little fishes on the cheap plastic curtain behind the mystery door.
In his best sixty dollar suit, Harry makes his way to the publishing firm
that put the book up for auction. A twenty story brilliant aluminum shaft
of steel encased in glass, located in the middle of Manhattan. Or
Mid-Manhattan as the natives called it. Across the street, for what seemed
like an hour, he sipped on a pint of dumb ass before opening the drivers door
into oncoming traffic. Little did he know, curiosity from above had
already found the two tone cheap sedan sticking out like a sore thumb in the
upscale neighborhood when the bright yellow cab forced the 'hair of the dog' to
bury his face in the torn cloth of the front seat of the 'collectors item'.
To his surprise, the door was still there. He closed it and sat sweating
as he gained his composure. The second attempt was more fruitful as he
darted between slow moving vehicles to reach the safety of waiting pedestrians
on the other side. They looked at him like he was a carnival act, and
applauded as he reached the gray concrete. The scene demanded he fix his
disheveled hair and straighten his tie before climbing the granite steps.
In the reflection of the turnstile mirrored doors, a burned out a detective,
smelling like whiskey stared back as he approached. A familiar shaking
hand assisted him as he pushed on the shiny chrome bar while praying he didn't
trip. He walked to one of the antique lobby phone booths that lined the
north lobby and fell into one. Harry sat sweating in silence as he waited
for the lobby to clear. Finally he stood and opened the accordion door.
In his best bullshit act of indifference he walked with authority to the waiting
elevator doors. The crystal dial told him his car was on its way down to
save him. The doors opened wide and as the leggy secretaries departed,
like a fish swimming upstream, Harry darted between them and into the waiting
elevator. "Floor?" said the operator..."Floor"? A full minute had
passed before Harry realized the person standing next to him in the red vest was
asking him which floor he was going to! As if startled by his own
discovery, he blurted out 32! The operator turned and smiled as he pushed
the illuminated number 3, and slowly the number 2. By the time the silent
car had reached the 32nd floor, Harry had regained his composure and was feeling
just fine. He smiled to himself as he remembered the crazy bird....'tell
me you love me'. The doors opened without a sound. The teal carpeted
reception area awaited and greeted our hero with a mild scent of jasmine as he
gently slipped into the den of wolves. Offices were separated by huge
glass walls. The chrome handles on the office doors where barely
discernable in the mirrored reflections. He could see standing associates
pacing back and forth as they talked back to an invisible phone. Their
quick, almost hidden glances in his direction told him they had no idea who he
was, why he was there, or if they should dare to find out. It was then, a
girl with a wonderful personality gently took his hand, and smiled back at him
as she led him across the great room. "you must be that famous detective,
Harry!" She melted him again with another smile as she said "we were all
told to expect you, please come this way". Harry followed like a sheet to
slaughter as she led him past several offices under the suspicious gaze of the
curious suits, and down the glass hall to a waiting door in the corner of the
building. Upon entering, Harry couldn't help but being taken-aback by the
drop dead skyscraper view of Manhattan. If just for a moment, he was
breathless. The doors slowly shut behind him as he was left standing in
one of the outer offices reserved for cream. She stepped from the side of
the large room, and from the protection of the oiled veneers and camouflaging
features of the rare African juju punj tree. No doubt cut down just for
this room. "What can my company do for you, Harry?" "But before you
answer, please indulge me as I have my first drink of the day....will you join
me?"
After pleading his case, the publishing house
CEO refuses to tell Harry the real name of the author, even after he explains to
her how dangerous this man is. How many woman may have suffered....she wouldn't
budge. She didn't care about how many woman may have been killed. "I have
worked my whole life to get where I am, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let
you take it all away!" Get out, and if you come back, I'll have you arrested
for harassment!" Harry buys some time, and finally gets one of his lawyer
friends from the old days to bring the case to a judge...the case goes to court;
however, the court rules in the publishing house’s favor, sighting ‘client
privilege and confidentiality’. The publishing house could loose all it’s
authors who use fictitious names/pseudonyms to write novels. If the famous
publishing house betrays a writers confidence, the reputation is lost; and what
is a publishing house without a reputation. Harry was devastated.
Two weeks later, parked across the street from the
impressive twenty story
publishing house, Harry watches as the CEO's secretary appears at the top of the
steps. From where he was parked, he could almost hear her sigh of relief as she
started floating down those polished granite steps. Sauntering, as
if modeling for a crowd, she slips into a waiting limousine. The loud grinding
of the old starter gets Harry's adrenalin pumping as the limo leaves the curb.
Using one of his best undercover techniques, the private eye hangs back in
traffic and follows the glistening limousine to the airport. He slumps
down and watches a set of long legs step out the side door as her tiny gloved hand is
taken by the chauffer. He can hear his breathing, when, from the rear seat, he
also hears whispering...."where are we going?" In disbelief,
Harry watches in the rear view mirror as 'Pretty' starts pacing back and forth
on the top of the rear seat while watching him crouch down in the rear view
mirror. Your not going anywhere, now behave yourself. I'm going to
leave you here for awhile; you make sure no one steals the car. I'm
counting on you! He remembers the heat and rolls the driver's side window
down a few inches so 'Pretty' can get some air. There...that will give you
some fresh air, now behave while I'm gone! He races into the terminal
where he sees the young girl's chauffer get into a 'Air France' passenger line
while she stands across from him watching the luggage. Harry gets into the
same line, about ten people back. He tries to hide himself behind a large
woman with two children. All of a sudden, he sees people looking towards
the swinging doors to the outside....he watches as he hears a woman's voice yelling at the top of her lungs "You told
me you loved me you bastard!" He shrank about two inches when he realized the
sound came in the terminal every time someone opened one of the glass doors!
The sound was coming from his parked car, and his parrot had its head out the
open window, yelling "You told me you loved me, you bastard!" "Your going to
leave me here alone?!!" An officer was approaching the parked cruiser.
Harry hoped he could get to the front of the line first. The secretary was on
the move with 'Air France' tickets in her hand. The chauffer did the 'quick
step' and wheeled her luggage behind her. Harry made it to the counter where
the young blonde's chauffer had purchased two tickets to France. The tension
mounts as Harry tries every credit card he has to find one with enough credit to
purchase a ticket so he can follow the secretary. All-the-while he can hear
the parrot calling him a bastard every time the door to the terminal swings
open. He glances back over his shoulder just in time to see a crowd gathering
around his parked car. He uses his old detective's badge as I.D. and with a
newly purchased ticket, runs to get on board the same plane as the secretary.
The plane trip was
uneventful.....plenty of free scotch.
After arriving in France, Harry follows the girl to a waiting limo where she
is ushered into the rear seat. Harry flags a waiting Peugeot and motions for the
cab driver to follow the limo. He tells the cabbie to ‘stay back’ as they
negotiate the entwined mountain roads. Harry sees the limo slow and then drive
down a dirt road to a vineyard field. He tells the cab to stop on the top of a
small hill where he can watch the show. The secretary has stopped at a vineyard
where she gets out of her car, and after walking through vineyard rows, started
shouting and pointing to an older man working between rows. Harry watches as the
older man motions to an old barn...as he points, and as the girl turns to look,
the field worker hits her over the head and knocks her to the ground. Watching
as he steps out of the cab, Harry sees a much younger man running from the large
barn. The kid runs over to the older gent and hidden by the rows of grapes, the
two of them carry the beaten young girl back to the barn. Fog was starting to
move down the slopes and into the fields. Harry figured he'd use the cover of
the rows and the fog to move down to the barn without being seen. It works!
The secretary is abducted by the author of the mystery novels, and his
accomplice son. The young secretary is taken to the barn unconscious. Harry
watched through a crack in the old barn wood, as the two sadists tied the limp
girl to a large post in the middle of the barn. Harry turns to see the cabbie
running towards him. "What are they doing to that young girl my friend? Harry
explains to the cabbie 'it's a matter of life and death! go get the police!"
After sending the cabbie for the police, Harry aids in arresting the deadly
author and his son. The French tabloids print the whole story. Harry's on top of
the world. The author and his son have written 30 novels and committed perhaps
thirty unsolved crimes against women in as many countries. There may be more
killings they are responsible for over the years, and Harry is going to be on
every one. They always committed the crimes in other countries other than France
and returned home. They wrote a novel depicting the crime; however, they only
allowed a small, limited printing. The books have become rare and valuable
because of the limited printing, and the collectors have powerful ties to
government and the wealthy who, as we know, covet rarities. The detective
finally gets his due when the killers go to trial and are convicted. However,
they are shipped/extradited from one country to the next facing trial after
trial and are accumulating sentences. It’s in all the papers.
Dressed in his Sunday best, and back in the states, Harry is standing in front
of the CEO of the publishing house while she chastises him for ruining her
career, he has two surprises for her.
1. With a smile, Harry tells her, the author has escaped in Denmark. His son
remains in custody.
2. She watches uneasily as Harry fumbles with something in his hands. Harry
smiles again, and after waiting long enough for the suspense to make her crazy,
Harry says..." I've got a present for you"...and as he reaches across the desk
she backs away from him, but he insists, and hands her the small package. “we
found that in the killers personal effects at the farm in France. We believe
it’s the last novel he was working on. I assume you want it?” Whereas she backs
up to the floor to ceiling glass windows with a view of the world, and rips the
brown paper from the manuscript. She was breathless, and as she raised her head
to take one last look at Harry, she smiles and blurts out “this is our property
your know, we still have him under contract!” The detective smiles, and as he
turns he says “ I thought you would like to have it...by the way...the last
chapter is an interesting read….he continues smiling as he walks to the waiting,
open door, being held open by the secretary who's life he saved. She kissed him
on the cheek as he slowly passed...the two of them smiling at each other.
Before exiting the polished glass archway, Harry had one more thing to tell
her….”his last novel was about killing the beautiful, female CEO of a large New
York publishing house who betrayed him by revealing his real name to a retired
detective!. She looked startled for a second, then blurted out.. “you think this
is going to scare me, everyone knows I never revealed his real name!” the
detective turned to face her again…and with a smile...”yes, you and I know, but
does he?...after all how did I find out where he lived? And as he turned to face
the secretary, he smiled again and without looking, said "who's going to tell
him any different?" I’m sure the fact that he escaped in Denmark will
raise the price of his last novel?. And with that, Harry turned and walked
through the door, leaving the sly vixen to contemplate the rest of her short
life. While waiting for the elevator, Harry watched through the thick glass
walls that encased her office and separated the two, as her body went limp when she finally
realized the implications of that last chapter. Harry smiled as she moved her
magnificent hips and long legs to position herself on the edge of her custom
made, imported desk….waiting for the phone to ring? She slowly raised her head
and threw her long hair back. As the elevator doors closed......that smile she
gave, was all his, and as a voice in his head kept saying... "tell me you love
me, come on Harry, tell me you love me one more time! Without thinking, he
blurted out..... Oh shit! when he thought of his parrot that is still in his
car that got towed from the airport three weeks ago! Harry whispered...not to
worry...as he smiles....she'll tell me she loves me one more time.......
to be continued...all the best. RJ