I had not called the police myself, but I was watching from a space in the vertical blinds when Angela, the building superintendent, spotted the gun while hosing down the sidewalks later that morning – her regular ritual despite the drought. I hadn’t moved by the time a pair of detectives came to my door, nor did I move even then; I just lingered by the window in my damp swim trunks, unnoticed.

That’s when Linus arrived.

Linus typically has a hard enough time convincing people that he’s not on drugs even when he isn’t sleep deprived, so it was a small wonder that the detectives let him pass with minimal fuss. They probably made the same assumption everyone else does, that he’s just some harmless surfer-kid. Linus barely even uses the pool.

The detectives both looked my way when I opened the door for Linus, but they didn’t seem interested enough to confront me. They were gone before Linus could steer himself inside.

Linus groaned as he dropped a bulging duffel bag nearly twice his size on the scratched hardwood, right beside a stack of taped-up cardboard boxes. It was clear from his sunken and glazed eyes that he didn’t recognize their meaning, but I saw no point in delaying the conversation.

“Sean is moving out, we’re still going to need a third,” I said, nudging one box with my bare foot.

Wordlessly, he eased himself onto my futon – just then serving as a couch, to maximize precious floor space – and began to pack a bowl.

“He’s leaving his part of the deposit, so we’ll be good for a month, but after…”

-
When Sean came home late that night, I was laying on the hardwood in the dark with nothing but a pillow. Linus was face-down on the futon with his arm slung out in such a way that he looked like he was paddling a surfboard. A police helicopter was circling somewhere nearby and I kept looking to see if the searchlight would pass over our building. It finally did, briefly flooding the courtyard with its eerie glare, just as Sean let himself in.

He stalked silently into the kitchen, closing the partition before turning on the light, but it wasn’t until I heard him start his second dish of rainbow sherbet that I wandered in to join him.

I went right to the freezer for my pack of cigarettes – my own quiescently frozen treat – and bent over to light one from the stove.

“How was your last day?” I asked, trying to ignore how comically emo he looked just then.

“Someone stole my CD player again.”

“I told you you should’ve replaced your window first.”

“Yeah, well.”

He placed his unfinished sherbet on the stack of dirty dishes in the sink.

“Does Linus drive a green Dodge Shadow?”

“I think so, why?”

“He’s got a ticket.” He smirked, then added, “Welcome to Hollywood.”

“Welcome to Hollywood,” I repeated.

-

When I awoke the next morning, Linus was still sleeping and Sean’s boxes were gone. I watched the local news while I had the last of the sherbet for breakfast. The police were investigating the shooting death of a homeless man that I recognized. Afterward, I went for a swim and watched Angela wash down the sidewalks.

He appeared quite sick when he last came by in the summer to tend the lawn as he had done with diminishing frequency, and when I pleaded with him through the gate to let me hire some help, he ignored me as he always had. When he was eventually done- well near dark- I watched from my window as he labored to return his mower to his truck and secure the front gate with its heavy chain and padlock. He did not give the house so much as a backwards glance before he drove slowly and haltingly away. After that, the lawn was allowed to grow taller and wilder than ever, nearly overgrowing the conspicuous pile of red bricks that have lain heaped just outside the front door since they were first deposited there however long ago – presumably leftover from some previous effort to restore the house. Despite several official complaints to the borough by the neighbors, the old man never returned to attend the blighted property.

The package appeared sometime after that. For days it sat on the cracked sidewalk, wrapped loosely in brown paper with very little tape holding it together, but it wasn’t until the day of a brutal thunderstorm that I took pity on the object and took it into my own home. It had no postal mark, no names or return address; it bore only the address of the house written by a feeble hand. The sodden wrapping came apart in my hands and I only needed to lift one corner to observe the contents.

Inside was only this: a queer, leather bound journal of dubious vintage and a great ring of keys which I recognized at once to be the one that the strange old man carried. I set the book out to dry and while I was paging through I observed that it was hand written in a language that I didn’t recognize, but it was clearly the product of much effort for it contained copious notes and graphs the meanings of which, at the time, I could only scarcely fathom.

Once the book was sufficiently dry and the storm passed, leaving behind it a cold, autumn fog, I let myself onto the deserted property using the keys. I was surprised to discover that the front door wasn’t locked at all, but the purpose of the remaining keys-of which there were many- soon became apparent. In the outermost wall of the living-room was a formidable wooden door, like that of a castle, and braced with several heavy latches and locks that matched the apparent antiquity of many of the keys. Other locks appeared to be quite modern and recently installed. Strangest of all, however, was the fact that the door was unseen from the outside, for surely I would have noticed since it would face my property.

At the time, I foolishly thought the door to be nothing more than an unused entrance since covered over on the outside, but the nature of the locks confounded me. Curiosity got the better of me and I committed myself to removing the locks, but mercifully, I never completed that task. That day ended with me miles away at a railroad, carefully placing the keys, one by one, onto the tracks to be obliterated, my mind reeling from so much gin intended to soothe my strained nerves.

The journal now sits on a shelf in my library beside many of my own composition, having spent the last several years attempting to decode its mysteries. But I have taken great pains so that nothing of what I have discovered should ever be seen by anyone, for it would surely be their undoing, as it was mine. I’ve gone as far as to acquire the house legally and now I personally attend to its upkeep and to keeping away curious passersby, though there are seldom any. I have even found a use for the bricks by erecting a wall concealing that frightful portal, feeling that they were intended for that purpose anyway. Sadly, the rumors involving the house and the strange, old man have expanded to include me and they often confuse the two of us. I live an exceptionally private life these days, but that is just as well. I would never dream, so long as I live, to allow anyone learn of what I nearly encountered all those years ago, that unspeakable terror that clawed and shook the door, too impatient for my hand to throw the final latch. Nothing was ever the same after that.

 INT. MANAGER’S OFFICE / GRANTLY HOTEL – DAY

Behind a lavish executive desk sits HAROLD GRANTLY. He wears a neat, black sack coat and nervously primps a thick, black mustache with a tortoiseshell comb. Beside him, wooden window blinds admit the only light into the room; It slants in swathes across his troubled but handsome face.

Neatly arranged on the leather blotter are articles that suggest refinement: an ornate fountain pen, a monogrammed gold pocket watch. But what occupies his interest lays heavy in his palm, a tarnished brass badge that reads, PINKERTON NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY.

There is a knock at his door and he sweeps the badge into an open drawer.         

                  GRANTLY
         Yes?

ABIGAIL, an attractive woman in her 20’s, enters the office. She wears a modest corset dress with her long, dusky hair tied up with a ribbon.

                  ABIGAIL
         A Detective Worth to see you?

He forces a smile.

                  GRANTLY
         Thank you, Abigail.

INT. RECEPTION AREA / GRANTLY HOTEL – MOMENTS LATER

Detective MATHESON WORTH waits patiently at the main desk playfully drumming his fingers on the ledger. He is also handsome, but ruggedly so. His mustache and suit are less kempt, but a sly smile adds to his charm.

Grantly appears from an open door behind the desk and Worth’s posture straightens.

                  WORTH
         Ahh. Good morning.

Grantly directs a cool look towards Abigail who seems to understand. She silently excuses herself.

                  GRANTLY
         Whatever can I do for you Mr. Worth?

                  WORTH
         Detective.

                  GRANTLY
         Pardon?

                  WORTH
         Detective Worth. I’d show you my badge,
         but that seems to be part of the problem.

He leans in closer and flashes a smile. Grantly remains aloof.

                  WORTH (CONT’D)
         You see, someone at this hotel broke into my room
         last night. Lifted it and my service pistol right from
         under my nose!

                  GRANTLY
         That’s quite an accusation.

                  WORTH
         Now, before you start suggesting that I may have been
         careless, I’d like to mention again that I am a detective.
         I tend to notice these kinds of things.

A lone man seated by the front window looks over his newspaper at the two of them. Grantly notices and leans in a little closer.

                  GRANTLY
         Maybe we should discuss this privately.

                  WORTH
         Ordinarily, that might seem like enough, but before
         I could come back down here to lodge the complaint,
         I also noticed that my door would no longer open and
         my room was filling up with poison gas!

He smiles at the man with the paper.

                  WORTH (CONT’D)
         Good morning sir! How was your room?

Grantly tries to draw him back in, to tone it down.

                  GRANTLY
         Detective, I-

Worth leans in even closer than before and whispers. His smile now has an edge to it.

                  WORTH
         If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect this
         hotel was a front to make transients disappear
         so you can perform deranged medical experiments
         on them!

Now Grantly smiles at the man with the paper. The context is plain; what a nut this guy is. The man resumes reading.

                  WORTH (CONT’D)
         You don’t seem all that surprised.

                  GRANTLY
         Certainly I am-

                  WORTH
         Your man seemed quite surprised this morning-
         to open my room and find me still breathing.
         Tell me, does your staff commonly wear masks
         like that when they come in to change the linen?
         Surely your guests don’t smell all that terrible.

                  GRANTLY
         I think there may be some gross misunderstanding.
         Will you allow me a chance to explain matters in private?

                  WORTH
         Delightful. Shall we adjourn to your office?

He gestures to the open door behind Grantly.

                  GRANTLY
         I have somewhere better in mind.

INT. BASEMENT HALLWAY / GRANTLY HOTEL – LATER

Grantly and Worth walk down a long, windowless hallway. The doorways to the rooms are all open and dark. Only a few flickering electric sconces light the way.

Worth glances into a room and notices heaps of crumbling plaster in a pool of standing water.

                  WORTH
         Where are we going, exactly?

                  GRANTLY
         I have an office down here. No one will bother us.

                  WORTH
         That’s not quite what I’m worried about.

At the end of the hall is one last door leading into a much larger room. Inside is an ominous surgical slab fitted with leather restraints.

Worth stops at the entrance and turns around.

Grantly pulls a revolver from his pocket and points it at Worth.

                  WORTH (CONT’D)
         Oh, you found it!

                  GRANTLY
         After you, please.

INT. BASEMENT LAB – CONTINUOUS

Grantly follows Worth inside as he closes and locks a formidable steel door.

Without prompting, Worth hops up and sits on the slab.

                  WORTH
         Shall I take my shirt-sleves off?

Grantly approaches and aims the revolver squarely at Worth’s forehead and fires.

Worth pitches backward over the slab and to the floor.

Grantly holds the revolver level, a curl of smoke issues from the barrel.

He steps around and sees Worth twisted on the floor, his face turned away from him.

Grantly crouches down and turns Worth’s head to face him. Worth is unharmed. There is only a black smudge where the bullet struck. His eyes focus on Grantly.

                  GRANTLY
         You’re not with Pinkerton, are you?

INT. BASEMENT LAB – LATER

Both men are now seated in chairs facing each other, both smoking cigars. The revolver now lies on the slab several feet away.

Worth exhales the smoke, regarding it fondly as it rises and lingers in the air.

                  WORTH
         You lead a charmed life, don’t you doctor?

                  GRANTLY
         How do you figure?

                  WORTH
         Someone’s looking out for you.

                  GRANTLY
         You, I suppose. My guardian angel.

Worth smiles.

                  WORTH
         I’m a private investigator. I couldn’t help you if I wanted to.
         Someone believes in your work though, someone with influence.

Grantly looks around him, at the squalor, the rust and dried blood.

                  GRANTLY
         I’m a has-been. What good could possibly come out of my work?

                  WORTH
         What good, indeed.

This seems to resonate with Dr. Grantly. He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. A look of epiphany dawns on him as he enjoys his cigar.

Detective Worth notices the change. He stands, dropping his cigar on the floor. He crushes it out with his wingtip. He takes his gun from the slab and pockets it.

                  WORTH (CONT’D)
         There’s an old saying where I come from,
         God laughs while men make plans.

He walks to the door and opens it easily.

                  WORTH (CONT’D)
         It’ll be interesting to see if that’s true.

He leaves Grantly who does not watch him leave.

The following is a less-truncated version of a story that I submitted to NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction contest. This one is better.

The nurse left work at five o’clock.

Originally, the plan was to wait until the end of his shift at the nursing home and then snatch him up on his way to the parking lot. Then, using the usual method, I would determine exactly how much he knows, and after, pitch the leftovers into the rapids just above Titan Falls.

But, that’s before he skipped out of work early.

The receptionist at the home said that he was supposed to work until eight, but I knew that already. He left without changing out of his requisite red scrubs and was carrying a blue and grey backpack. On his way out, he had stopped to give her a hasty excuse about a sick relative but she didn’t really buy it. And neither do I.

While I am contemplating this new development, one of the patients, an elderly woman, quietly rolls up behind me in a wheel chair and begins tugging on my satin windbreaker.

“So…soft..,” she purrs as she rubs the material between her gnarled, old fingers.

As I edge away from her groping, my jacket splays open and the receptionist notices my hardware tucked into the waist of my blue jeans. A concerned expression creeps across her face.

I begin closing the snaps.

“So, If he happens to come back,” I say, “tell him Detective…Malone from the…police department…would like to have a chat with him.”

It was the best I could come up with on the quick but it seemed adequate enough to set her fears to rest.

I’m about to scuttle out the door when, almost as an afterthought, I inquire about one patient in particular.

“Is this also police business?” she asks.

“Of course.”

He is dozing by himself in the smoking room. Black and white war footage plays on the TV but someone has muted the sound. There’s a burnt butt between his thin, yellow fingers; a small heap of ashes on the floor. I kneel beside him and gently touch his knee.

“Hello, Dad.”

He coughs several times before opening his eyes. Even after, I’m unsure if he knows I’m there.

“I’m not deaf, you know,” he says at last. I smile and nod.

He proceeds to give me hell for not ever visiting and letting him rot in this toilet and I take it. After he has spent his venom I shake it off and get to business.

“Dad, did you talk to the nurse today? You know the one.”

-

My dad was once a key fixture in the Organization and so he had called me personally after he overheard his roommate make a surprising deathbed confession to the nurse in question. My dad had been pretending to sleep in the next bed. His second favorite pastime after actually sleeping.

I’d rather not recount our conversation nor mention how long it took to figure what on Earth he was talking about, but, it turns out that the dying man was once briefly an associate of my dad and had since, like my dad, moved away from the city with a new identity. The two old men had been living in the same room for weeks and neither recognized the other.

The confession was specifically in regard to the man’s role in a certain unsolved and high-profile murder however many decades ago. Certain venerated members of the Organization, including my dad, were mentioned. Also mentioned was a tell-all tape-recording that the man said he had made- location currently unknown.

At the end, my dad said that the man beckoned the nurse closer, whispered something and then handed him a key that had been clutched in his hand. And so great was the man’s relief that he died instantly afterward.

-

“The queer?” my dad blurted out, meaning that no straight male would ever be a nurse. “I told him my ingrate son was coming to kill him. “

I consider telling him how much that complicates things but I get hung up on the idea that my dad, in his current state, could convincingly intimidate anyone. If I were in the nurse’s position, I wouldn’t believe a word my dad said. But that would be my mistake, I guess.

Instead, I just say, “I read somewhere that, through much of history, nursing was a strictly male profession. Since the ancient Romans.”

He narrows his eyes at the TV and says, “I saw that movie once, Caligula? Disgusting.” After a pronounced silence, I take it to mean that the conversation is over. But, as I am leaving , he says to my back, “Be sure to give Florence Nightingale my regards.”

-

Back in my car I eat a Fiber One bar and ponder the next step. If the nurse went home he probably wouldn’t stick around after seeing the state that I left it. The keys that I dug out from the coin dish and the junk drawer are most likely useless but I grabbed them just in case. They are now in a paper sandwich bag in my glove box. My best guess is that the old man’s key is to a safe deposit box and that the nurse has it on his person. There is only one bank for several miles in any direction and it has been closed since four. Unless he has already been there- which I doubt- that places him at the front door at nine a.m.

That means I have to wait.

I stake out the bank from the parking lot of the drug store across the street. I set the alarm on my digital watch and I lay my seat back to watch the stars through my moonroof until I doze off around midnight. Around six-thirty I drift awake and notice a lone car outside the bank- an old, white Volvo- basking, dreamlike, in the pastel radiance of early morning. I retrieve the paper bag from the glove box and fish out a car key. Imprinted into the hard plastic grip is the word, VOLVO.

I have no trouble falling back asleep.

-

My alarm wakes me at eight and I see that the Volvo hasn’t moved and that other cars are parked beside it. I blow the hour in the drug store where I breakfast on a carton of iced tea and a package of oatmeal raisin cookies. After, I use the employee restroom where I have a leisurely BM while skimming a celebrity tabloid. I even have time enough to finish a medium difficulty sudoku puzzle.

At nine o’clock, I leave the store and walk across the street.

I peek into the Volvo and I am not too surprised to see a blue and grey backpack amid the clutter in the back. The key works as well as I had hoped and, in an instant, I’m sitting on the backseat with the open backpack between my legs. I am a little surprised with what I find inside- a buffet of pills, liquids, and miscellaneous hospital grade paraphernalia; all in tidy, individual packages and no doubt missing from the nursing home dispensary.

I return the backpack to how I found it and I hunker down on the floor with my head just behind the driver’s seat. I cover my head with an old, piss-smelling jacket that I find, pretty confident that I will not be seen.

-

Another hour later and the heat and the stink are beyond all comprehension. I am seriously considering shooting out the windows when I hear footsteps and then the rattle of keys. I blot my sweaty palms on my jeans and take my .45 from where it was resting on my stomach. I switch off the safety and discreetly chamber a round before the door opens. Comparatively fresh air wafts past my nose- for which I am grateful- and the car sways as someone climbs into the driver’s seat.  Through the narrow gap where the cushions meet, I see the pasty flesh of a man’s ass just above the draw-string waist of a pair of red scrub bottoms- the nurse.

In situations like this, it is usually best to wait until you’re out on the main road to announce your presence to a mark. It minimizes the flight risk and there are fewer bystanders. It is also best not to wait for the mark to pick up too much speed. The drawbacks of suprising a driver with a gun while you’re traveling at seventy plus are more obvious.

The nurse coaxes the engine to life and opens the power windows- I am, again, grateful- and we idle away from the lot. At the traffic light, I hear him eject a cassette tape from the player and replace it with another.  Then, the voice of an old man comes through the speakers.

I’m probably not meant to hear this, but there’s little I can do at this point so I just relax. I’m immediately taken by the speaker’s voice- frail, but also full of warmth and intelligence and so utterly distinct from that of my father, my closest comparison.  I get the story pretty much as I know it- a local political figure, a union rep, a dirty deal, betrayal, revenge, et cetera-  but with a new perspective that compels me to listen more closely. He laments abandoning his family in the pursuant cover-up, specifically his young son, now a man about my age.

I try to think back to my earliest memories and wonder, how certain am I that my dad is actually my dad?  I imagine a scenario where this old man was my real father, forced to abandon me at an early age for my own protection, that the man that I grew up thinking was my father was merely appointed by the Organization. Then I recalled an argument that took place in front of my high-chair as I ate my Cheerios with chubby, little fingers; my irate, young father resolved that my young mother would have her tubes tied. The spell is officially broken.

When I come back to my senses, I realize that I’ve completely lost my bearings. From my hiding spot, I can no longer hear the recording, drowned out by the rush of the open air and the clatter of the engine. Judging by our speed, I’d say we are on the freeway- southbound, for the way the sun stays hot against my back.  In a another few miles will be the exit to Titan Falls.

Suddenly, I really don’t feel like killing anybody.

I look again and the bare ass peeking at me through the cushions and inspiration strikes me. I drag the backpack into my lap and casually root through it again until I find something I can use. And there they are- two 50 ml vials of ketamine, special K. 

With practiced hands, I load up two hypodermic syringes. I position myself to make a delivery as I try not to dwell on the homosexual innuendo. I steady the syringes, carefully directing each toward an ass cheek. The quivering tips hover closer and closer to the naked skin, almost scraping it. I think about the word, innuendo and wonder if  the person who invented it intended it to sound so provocative, In-you-end-o?

I take a big breath and hold it.

I deliver both barrels, driving my thumbs hard into the plungers. The driver howls and I feel the car pitch rapidly to the left. Someone in the next lane lays on their horn and stays on it until they are out of earshot. The Volvo slows and I briefly see the top of the driver’s head as he attempts to peek over the seat behind him. The car then pitches hard to the right and gravel kicks up and pinballs around the undercarriage.

The car skids to a halt on the shoulder and the nurse turns back around to find me sitting up with my .45 in his distressed and tear-streaked face.

Sissy, I can’t help but think, then I notice that the old man’s voice continues to play over the car stereo. His tone is sentimental.  He speaks of love and regret. Then, he asks for forgiveness and there is a noticeable warble in his voice when he addresses the listener as his own dear son.

In the stunned silence that follows, I watch the nurse’s  face soften and his eyes get lazy. Soon, he slumps with his back to the door and continues down until he is nearly horizontal.

-

I stand next to the Volvo on an old, iron bridge that crosses the river at the bottom of a deep gorge. Far above is the bridge where the freeway spans the gorge at its height. It’s an impressive sight from this angle, but easily missed from above; most people drive by too fast to notice. The mist and the shade combine to make it twenty degrees cooler down here. It is too close to the falls to allow recreation and too remote to allow a decent view, which makes it ideal for my needs. 

In my hand is the cassette tape, the only tangible thing connecting the former lives of an old man and, until recently, his unknown son. Unfortunately, it is also what my father feared- a confession implicating him and the entire Organization.

Today, I didn’t come here to throw anything in the water. It just seemed like the best place to think.

In my inventory of the car, I found a mini Phillips-head screwdriver- ideal for dissecting audio cassettes. Later, I will swap the actual tape inside with that from another, less-incriminating cassette; I found an old Jesus Jones cassette that will do perfectly. I will send back the mangled and unplayable remains to the office and the actual tape will live on in a new body and will be returned to the nurse.

The nurse still lays unconscious in the passenger seat using the piss jacket for a pillow.  The backpack of drugs tells me very clearly that he has little intention of returning to the nursing home. It was likely his escape plan all along. If all else goes to shit, he’s got about a thousand dollars in that bag, if he knows how to collect.

When he finally wakes up, that’s the best I can offer- to equip him as he embarks on a new life in the criminal underworld, to help him disappear. If there is anything that I’m good at that I can bestow on anyone else, it is how to properly burn your bridges so I can’t find you. 

He probably won’t like my second offer.

The following is an extended version of a scene that I just wrote for a screenwriting contest. I’m placing it here because it earned me my first official praise as a writer and I guess I’m a little sentimental about it.

EXT. JAZZ CLUB – NIGHT

Jaunty swing music spills out into the rain slicked street as a dapper DOORMAN opens the door. With a bow, he ushers in a gentleman in a dark suit and white fedora. A neatly-folded bill appears between the man’s manicured fingers and the doorman takes it graciously.

INT. JAZZ CLUB – CONTINUOUS

The club is pure decadence. Decco flourishes are everywhere. But, the most dazzling feature, by far, is the spectacular view of the SAN FRANCISCO BAY.

The man removes his hat and not a single hair on his well-groomed head nor in his swarthy, thin mustache is out of place. He gives the BLUSHING BEAUTY behind the counter a wink and a smile and then he gives her his hat. This is, in essence, ROMAN HOLIDAY.

Roman skirts the bustling dance floor until he comes to an empty seat at a round-top where a stunning red-head doesn’t look up from her whiskey sour. Her name, SUSIE HOMEWRECKER.

On stage, the band shifts tempo; they play a slow, sultry number. The dancers on the floor make a similar adjustment.

SUSIE
This is the last time you’ll keep me waiting, Roman.

Roman comes up behind her and tilts her head back to kiss him.

ROMAN
Susie, you are, as always, a vision.

She does not succumb to his copious charisma and shrugs him away.

SUSIE
Have a drink.

He lingers behind her, stunned by rejection.

ROMAN
Sounds delicious.

He takes his seat across form her as a WAITER presents him with a sturdy drink.

ROMAN (CONT’D)
Thanks, Kenny.

Roman is about to take a swallow.

SUSIE
Hold on.

She reaches beneath the table and draws out a silver flask, likely from her garter. She removes the cap and dumps the contents into Roman’s drink until it is almost overflowing.

ROMAN
What’s this?

SUSIE
Arsenic.

ROMAN
How adventurous.

He gulps down the drink and she remains silent until the empty glass is on the table.

Roman tugs at his shirt collar. His face is flushed and his eyes watery, but he refrains from coughing.

ROMAN (CONT’D)
Quite a kick. I can’t place the taste.

SUSIE
I told you, dumb-ass, it’s arsenic.

Roman’s smile barely fades as he raises the glass again, this time to his nose. 

ROMAN
You’re upset with me. I can tell.

SUSIE
Goodbye, Roman.

Susie grabs her handbag and moves to get up from the table. Roman signals for her to wait a moment. He grabs the waiter as he passes by.

ROMAN
Kenny, some chilled champagne- straight away.

The waiter nods and hurries off.

SUSIE
You probably don’t realize how little time you have, and I doubt you would want to spend your last few moments with me.

ROMAN
Don’t be so cruel to yourself. If anyone deserves to watch me die in agony, then surely it’s you.

She stands and slings her bag over shoulder.

SUSIE
I’ve made other plans, sorry.

ROMAN
Susie…

Roman offers a sneaky smile. His hand is beneath the table. There is the sound of his thumb coaxing back the hammer on a gun.

ROMAN (CONT’D)
I must insist.

A silenced shot blows a hole through the draped table cloth and into Susie’s thigh. She bites hard on her lip but lowers herself, calmly and quietly, back into the chair.

The other guests at the adjacent tables take no notice.

Roman politely offers her his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding. She snatches it out of his hand and discreetly cinches it around her leg.

The waiter returns with a sterling silver champagne bucket and two glasses. He sets a glass in front of Susie.

SUSIE
None for me, thanks.

Roman sends the waiter away and removes the bottle from the bucket, placing it on the table.

ROMAN
Your other engagement wouldn’t be with Detective Rossi, would it?

SUSIE
He said that you hit the warehouse already.

ROMAN
That dirty dick. What does he know?

Roman empties the ice from the bucket into a nearby plant. He then sets the bucket under the table. Susie looks perplexed.

ROMAN (CONT’D)
Just a moment.

Roman crawls beneath the table and a moment later, there is the faint sound of retching. Susie smiles at an onlooker at the next table. Roman then smoothly slips back into his seat and wipes his fingers with his napkin. Susie is revolted.

SUSIE
Well, did you?

Roman reaches into his dinner jacket and removes a dark, leather cylinder embossed with elaborate designs and text.

SUSIE (CONT’D)
You slick son-of-a-bitch.

She gawks at the prize in amazement.

SUSIE (CONT’D)
I don’t get it? If you got what you want already, then why meet me at all?

ROMAN
What if I were to tell you that this item can lead to much more wealth than it could ever draw at an auction.

SUSIE
How much more?

ROMAN
I was hoping you’d be interested.

Roman twists the tube in both hands and it opens to reveal an ancient parchment closed with a ghastly-looking wax seal.

SUSIE
What in the hell is it?

He breaks the seal with an ominous snap. He unfurls the parchment on the table. The text is alien and bizarre.

ROMAN
Think of it as a treasure map.

SUSIE
No shit. But, I ask again, why me?

Roman looks deeply into Susie’s wide green eyes.

ROMAN
I love you-

Just then, every electric light goes out in the joint. A wave of confusion passes over the many guests. The band falls out of time and quickly stops. Elsewhere, many of the waiters are already lighting candles.

A waiter places a lit candle between Susie and Roman. Susie face is radiant in the glow- a coy smile on her lips.

Across the table, Roman looks out over the harbor, his face half-veiled in shadow.

SUSIE
Did you arrange this too?

Roman’s attention returns to the parchment, the broken seal in particular.

ROMAN
-I’m afraid I might have.

He forces a smile.

ROMAN (CONT’D)
Perhaps it’s nothing. Where was I?

Susie leans back in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest.

SUSIE
You love me.

ROMAN
Ah, and what better token of my adoration for you could there be than the promise of limitless wealth and power?

SUSIE
That’d be some valentine. But, how do you get all of that from this?

She gestures to the parchment.

SUSIE (CONT’D)
I mean, can you even read it?

ROMAN
Well, not exactly, but I know a guy.

SUSIE
You know a guy.

Roman rolls the scroll up like it were a newspaper and stuffs it into the cylinder.

ROMAN
I know I can’t convince you here and now, but if you only let me take you to-

SUSIE
-your guy.

ROMAN
Doctor of Linguistics, thank you. And yes, he will dispel any and all doubts you may have regarding the matter.

He returns the cylinder to his pocket.

SUSIE
I don’t even remember saying I was interested.

ROMAN
Of course, you’re interested. Even if it all turns out to be a load of hooey, this is exactly the kind of adventure you want to be apart of. I know you that well.

Susie ruminates on this as Roman smirks.

Suddenly, one of the other guests seated by the windows notices something outside, illuminated by a distant flash of lightening.

FRIGHTENED GUEST
OH-MY-GOD!!!

The crowd starts gathering at the windows. Someone tries to question the frightened man but he is too stunned to answer.

CONCERNED GUEST
What did you see?

No one is sure what they are gawking at until the lightening flashes once more, and then it is pure bedlam.

Way out on the water, shrouded in fog, is the shadowy form of a GREAT TENTACLED MONSTER. A deep, guttural but strangely vocal sound rolls inland like thunder.

The windows explode inward, raining mayhem onto the shrieking guests. A roaring wind blasts through the club upsetting the tables and potted palm trees.

Roman and Susie remain relatively out of harm’s way, however, their candle does go out. From their seats, they both witness the giant menace, now glowing ghastly green, apparently headed straight in their direction.

SUSIE
(yelling)
What in the hell is that?!

ROMAN
(also yelling)
Would you like to continue this discussion someplace more quiet?

SUSIE
Roman, do you have something to do with that?!

ROMAN
I’m pretty sure that I do!

Susie remains obstinate with the wind whipping her hair around. She eventually demures and offers Roman a gloved hand.

Roman takes it. Suavely, he stands, steps around the table and guides Susie to her feet. She leans into him, her injured leg too weak to hold her. He slips his arm behind her back and looks deeply into her eyes and smiles.

Susie grabs his head in her hands and crushes her lips to his. They share a long, deep, passionate smooch.

With his free hand, Roman gathers the champagne and the two glasses, miraculously unharmed by the tempest.

ROMAN (CONT’D)
Let’s blow this gin joint.