Madonna’s head was lifted; he was listening to the run of my voice. I glanced at Pete DeAngelo, whose eyes were narrowed to slits. Nobody asked any questions so I went on: “Brawley thought he was in the clear. Nobody had known about his appointment with Aiello except the dead man, and as far as he knew, nobody had seen him go in or come out. One person did see him, though. Mike Farrell. He didn’t recognize Brawley but he remembered the pink Cadillac.”
I heard DeAngelo grunt but I didn’t wait. I said, “Brawley wanted to make sure nobody was on his trail. He planned to wait around town until the heat died down, then disappear. He was planning to disappear last night—but we’ll get to that. In the meantime, the morning after the murder, Brawley made some arrangements with a man named Ed Behrenman, a minor soldier in Aiello’s regime. Brawley gave me a cock and bull story about how Behrenman owed him a favor. The truth was Brawley probably had blackmail evidence against Behrenman and forced him to cooperate. At any rate, it was Behrenman who spotted me and Joanne at the Executive Lodge the other morning. While I was here talking to you, you got a phone call. It was from Behrenman, right?”
“You’re telling the story,” Madonna said, but then his lips peeled back and he said, “Yeah, it was Behrenman. Go ahead.”
“After I left you called Behrenman back and told him to stake out the motel.”
“Sure.”
I nodded. “It all fits together like a watch. Behrenman phoned Brawley and told Brawley he had instructions to stake out Joanne and me. That gave Brawley an idea what was up, and he went over to the motel. He wanted to talk to us because he had to know how much we knew, how close we were to finding him out. He must have felt fairly satisfied when he left, because he didn’t panic. He figured he’d thrown us off his trail for good with his elaborate yarn about the money he had in the safe that he wanted to get back. It almost worked—he was a good actor. Almost as good as Pete DeAngelo.”
I shifted my attention to DeAngelo. He had his slitted eyes on me like blades, motionless but ready to cut.
I said, “I can’t prove this but I think DeAngelo must have talked to Judy Dodson after I did. She thought I was working for DeAngelo but when DeAngelo told her I wasn’t, she told him everything I’d said to her. Right, Pete?”
“Go ahead. Dig your grave.”
I went back to Madonna. “DeAngelo knew Mike Farrell was mixed up in this somehow. He found Farrell sometime in the afternoon, probably about the time I was talking to Brawley at the motel. Don’t ask me how DeAngelo found Farrell. He probably just used his head and went looking in all the places he expected Mike to hide, and found him. DeAngelo put the screws to Mike. I don’t know if he had help but I suspect he did. Mike was roughed up pretty hard and it probably took at least two men to give him that kind of going over. You, Tony? Ed Baker? It doesn’t matter. DeAngelo squeezed Mike Farrell dry. He found out everything Mike knew, which wasn’t a hell of a lot, but he did learn that Mike had made a deal with Joanne and me, that the three of us were working together to find the loot. That must have convinced DeAngelo that none of the three of us actually had the loot. From that point on we were expendable—all three of us. He didn’t figure we had any better chance of finding the loot than anybody else, so why leave us around to mess things up?
“By this time Farrell was so badly tortured they couldn’t do anything else but kill him. DeAngelo had to get rid of the body, and he wanted Joanne and me out of the way, so he did the obvious thing: he planted Mike’s body at my house, then phoned the cops and talked to Joe Cutter because he knew Cutter had a personal grudge against me. Cutter came up to my place but he didn’t find the body.”
My eyes roamed from face to face. I returned to Madonna and said, “Now this is important. Everything I’ve told you can be checked—by you, not me. You’ve got the leverage and the manpower for it. Now here’s a question for you. I’ve just told you what Pete DeAngelo was up to. How much of it has he told you?”
Madonna’s glance whipped across to DeAngelo. DeAngelo opened his mouth and began to say something; Madonna said, “Sit down and give your mouth a rest, Pete.”
DeAngelo closed his mouth slowly, gave me a dark scowl and held it on me while he moved to the nearest chair and sat. Freddie the Neanderthal moved up to stand behind his right shoulder, only a few feet to my left. I turned to keep them in view, and resumed:
“If DeAngelo didn’t keep you posted on events, it was because he wanted to find the loot and keep it for himself. He’s too ambitious to be satisfied with being anybody’s number two man. He remembers how you took over this mob and he figures to do the same to you. With the money from Aiello’s safe, and the incriminating documents that went with it, DeAngelo would be in a hell of a strong position to move right in and take over the organization. Wouldn’t you, Pete?”
DeAngelo’s left hand reached the table beside him and gripped its edge. He didn’t speak.
To Madonna, I said, “Nobody likes to think himself a poor judge of human nature, and you probably don’t want to buy this, especially since Pete’s an old friend and I’m just a troublesome outsider. But think about this. The other night when I phoned you to ask you about the pink Cadillac, DeAngelo answered the phone. He sounded out of breath. I’m willing to bet he had just come in after planting Mike Farrell’s body.
“DeAngelo had learned one vital fact, either from Mike Farrell or from my telephone call here. The pink Cadillac. He knew, or he made it his business to find out, who owned that car. It’s my guess he had to do some detective work to find out, because otherwise he’d have gone after Brawley sooner than he did.
“In the meantime, yesterday morning, I went to Brawley’s to ask him who owned a pink Cadillac. Brawley’s own car was a Jaguar, and that threw me off. He sent me off on a wild goose chase to the boondocks. I was coming back from that when Ed Behrenman tried to run me off the highway over a cliff. Behrenman ended up dead at the bottom of the cliff. There was only one way Behrenman could have known where to find me. Brawley was the only man alive who knew where I’d gone, and I already knew there was a connection between Brawley and Behrenman. So then I knew who’d killed Aiello and taken the loot. I searched Brawley’s house but it wasn’t there, so I went straight to his office. DeAngelo knows what I found when I got there, because DeAngelo got there ahead of me. DeAngelo probably waited out back of the office until the last of Brawley’s patients and employees left for the night. Then, when Brawley came out the back door, DeAngelo shot him. He had a silencer on his gun and he knew nobody was likely to hear the shot. He was so sure he’d find the loot in Brawley’s office he didn’t even bother to keep Brawley alive long enough to make sure. The pink Cadillac was parked right there and that was all DeAngelo wanted to know. He put Brawley’s body in the car, jimmied the door and went inside. He was working on Brawley’s safe when I got there. That’s how he got that hole in his arm, in case he’s told you something to the contrary. We had a little shoot-out and DeAngelo went out the window. He didn’t stay long enough to find out what was in Brawley’s safe, but I can answer it if he’s still interested. There wasn’t anything interesting in the wall safe except a gun. It was a Walther nine millimeter and I suspect it was the gun that killed Aiello.”
“That’s fine,” Madonna murmured. “Only where’s the money?”
“It was right where it’d been all the time. In the trunk of the pink Cadillac. Brawley had a suitcase and a coat in the back seat. He was ready to take off for good when DeAngelo found him. Too bad DeAngelo didn’t keep him alive long enough to ask him a question. Incidentally, by now I’m sure you know they found not only Brawley’s corpse but Joe Cutter’s. I think DeAngelo must have shot Cutter, too.”
DeAngelo shot erect in the chair. “That’s a goddamn lie,” he rasped. It was the first reaction I’d had out of him.
Madonna told him to shut up and said to me, “Where’s the money now?”
I heard the raspy growl in DeAngelo’s throat before I saw him start to move with the
corner of my eye. He had a gun under the loose tail of his sport shirt and he was hauling it out. Big Freddie, slow to react, was taking a surprised backward step when I shot my arm out, extracted the gun from Freddie’s shoulder holster, and snapped it downward just as DeAngelo’s gun leveled on Madonna’s belly.
The report of the gun was startling in that enclosed space. Bone fragments and blood sprayed from DeAngelo’s head. His bodily functions instantly lost their control; his sphincter relaxed and there was immediately the stink of human urine and manure.
Chickens will suspend their pecking order whenever one of their number gets sick. They all turn on the weak chicken and peck it to death. Ed Baker and Tony Senna had their guns in their fists before the echo died, but they were pointed at DeAngelo, not at me. DeAngelo’s actions, and the expression of his face, had been all the admission of guilt any of them would ever need to see. Before the body even began to slump in the chair, Senna and Baker had put bullets into it.
Tony Senna and Freddie herded us outside to the pool; the stink inside was offensive. Baker was doing something about the body. Madonna came outside behind us and we all stood ranged around the poolside furniture. Nobody wanted to sit down. Joanne trembled violently and clung to my arm. She said to Madonna, “Nobody double-crosses you, do they?”
“Not more than once,” he said with a grimace. “You have to understand the rules of the game, honey. The winner is the last one left alive.” He said it with a straight face.
I set the briefcase on a round metal umbrella table and opened the hasp with a key. Senna tugged out his gun and trained it on me but I only glanced at him, and upended the open briefcase to dump its contents on the table. Folded documents, photos and two packages of recording tape tumbled across the table in a littered heap.
I said, “That’s a sample, mainly to prove to you that I really do have the stuff. You can do whatever you want with this. Most of it’s worthless now. The blackmail evidence against Doctor Brawley is somewhere in here, and quite a bit of stuff that would have nailed Aiello for tax fraud if he were still alive. Now, of course, it’s useless. The film you had on Joanne has been destroyed. The evidence on Frank Colclough and Stanley Raiford has already been mailed to the FBI, so I doubt those two will get very far with their primary election campaign before they’re indicted.”
Madonna gave me a hooded glare. “That’ll buy you a ticket to the graveyard. You know that.”
“No. The rest of the documents from Aiello’s safe are still under my control. They’ll be turned over to the appropriate federal agencies if my contact doesn’t hear from me regularly. I’ve got you over a barrel. You know as well as I do what’s in that collection. If it’s released, some prominent noses are going to bleed, yours included. It’ll crack the whole state open like an oyster—it’ll blow your whole stinking mess of an organization ten miles in the air.”
“Then why don’t you release it?”
“Because it’s my life insurance. Mine and Mrs. Farrell’s.”
“You’re a pretty smart son of a bitch, aren’t you? What about the cash?”
“It comes to three million, one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, in unmarked, untraceable bills.”
“That’s not what I asked and you know it.”
“It’s in a safe place,” I said. “You don’t need it. And I can’t think of anybody it ought to be turned over to. If it went to the law it’d just end up lining some crooked politician’s pocket. So I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to the money. Mrs. Farrell and I plan to honeymoon in Las Vegas a few weeks from now. I plan to win one hell of a lot of money when I’m there. Say a quarter of a million dollars, this trip, and I’ll repeat it every year or so until I’ve won three million, one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars across the roulette tables. I’ll declare it as income and pay taxes on it. I leave it to you to make the arrangements and see to it that Las Vegas comes across. Any slip-ups and a few pieces of warm information will start to dribble into the FBI’s hands until you straighten out.”
I grinned a tight grin at him. “Any questions?”
He said in a low growl, “What the hell do you need all that money for?”
“I want to buy my kid brother an operation so he can play the trumpet again.”
I took Joanne’s arm and walked her around the pool to the back gate. Madonna said something behind us, and Tony Senna was there with the key by the time we reached the gate. He opened it and let us through. I heard the gate click shut behind us, and the snap of the lock. We walked around the end of the house, across the lawn, and got into the car. Joanne gave me a long slow smile. I started the car and pulled out of the driveway. I looked in the rear-view mirror, but nobody was following us.
By Way of Introduction …
This story was written in the mid-1980s as an original screenplay. The producer to whom it was delivered sent back a note indicating his disappointment with the script. He wrote, “The story is too old-fashioned. It has a beginning, a middle and an end.” I’m not making that up. In that estimable gentleman’s honor, I have divided this narrative version of the story into three acts, labeled—well, you’ve already figured that one out.
The organization that was to have filmed this one tumbled into Ozymandian ruins, like most independent movie companies, and Marksman went to a shelf in my house where, like most unfilmed scripts, it remained unread by anyone except a producer and the author’s agent and the author’s wife.
In its original form the script is 105 pages in length. It would have made for a movie about 95 minutes long; but a screenplay contains a great deal of white space. It is in fact no longer than a novelette, or extended short story. A screenplay is nothing more than a sheet of instructions for filmmakers and actors to keep at hand while they assemble their movie out of such components as they may have gathered. Often it’s true that the tricks attributed by cineaste critics to “marvelous directorial touches” are in fact specified clearly in a writer’s screenplay before a director ever gets near the picture; but generally speaking, a screenplay does not (or at least should not) tell directors how to direct, actors how to act, cinematographers how to photograph, or audiences how to feel. The screenplay simply tells us what happens. It’s up to the actors, the director, the photographers and the sound team, the editors and the audience to interpret these happenings. The writer creates the story, but everyone has to bring something to it—the writer alone does not make a movie unless he also happens to be producer, director, cast and crew.
Screenwriting Rule One: A script is a blueprint for illusion, and its every sentence must meet one of two criteria—it must be dialogue, or it must begin figuratively with the words “we see” or the words “we hear”.
If the camera can’t see it or the microphone can’t hear it, then it cannot be filmed, and therefore it doesn’t belong in the screenplay.
In preparing this story for publication in narrative form, I’ve eliminated the abbreviations and jargon that may make screenplays annoying or confusing. (How many readers can be expected to know that because of an obscure Hungarian director’s pronunciation in the 1930s, “MOS” means “Mit-Out Sound,” which is filmese for “without sound” or “silent”?) I’ve added bits and pieces in order to clarify events—a few lines or words here and there, in the effort to make it readable. But I have not tried to disguise its origins; it remains quite staccato. In movies people rarely talk in long paragraphs—everything’s a one-liner. It’s best to leave those essences alone.
I think most screenplays that are padded into novels turn out to be anemic novels at best; a movie script is a simplified form of storytelling because it is external—it cannot go inside a character and feel what that character feels, nor can it deal very effectively with ideas of any complexity.
This was not yet a shooting script; it was a second or perhaps third draft, and because of minor revisions it contained a few loose threads, unnecessary characters and incomplete thoughts. Those probably would hav
e been caught by the writer on the next go-round, or by a director or producer, or at least by a script supervisor on the set. In the present situation, however, if the reader should chance upon an incongruity or mistake, please blame it not on the writer—never on the writer!—but on the Optical-Character-Recognition scanner that rendered the script into computer-editable form.
The Marksman is an action-suspense story, in which changes in the main character are triggered by violent events. It contains very short scenes and jump-cuts; I haven’t tried to smooth them over. It does not confine itself to the viewpoint of any single character in a scene, as narrative fiction ought to do. It makes leaps in logic, understanding that actors can bridge those by creating appropriate shifts in the ways their characters change their minds about one another and therefore change the ways they behave with one another. It asks the reader to become camera and microphone—to imagine and visualize the people and events that are depicted in blueprint form—and it provides plenty of leeway for the stunt wranglers and FX enthusiasts who have become the tail that wags the dog of commercial cinematic storytelling. All this may make more work for the reader; I hope it does not harm the story.
—Brian Garfield
Los Angeles: October 2002
A Beginning …
On a sagging cot in a flyspecked room in an inner-city flophouse, a man tosses and turns. In his sleep he’s hearing a racket of combat—explosions, automatic weapons, screams. Against his eyelids images flash like the intermittent flare of artillery on a battlefield at night.
He pushes the half-awake nightmare away. The effort is enough to exhaust him. After a few moments his breathing steadies and he rises in a sweat, disoriented for a moment before he recognizes his drab surroundings.
He hasn’t shaved in a while. His brown hair is stringy. There’s a wicked long scar across his temple; the old wound makes his head ache—makes him wince when he bends over to get into his rumpled old clothes.
Hit and The Marksman Page 17
