Pulp (1972) - full transcript

She was wearing nothing underneath.

She was wearing

nothing underneath, stop.

I moved my eyes slowly,

up her long, black legs,

across her flat, glistening torso,

over her rounded breasts

to her face, stop.

It wasn't beautiful

but it was lived in, stop.

I chewed her ear

and whispered 'kitten', stop.

Black thoughts

were transmitted, stop.

I put my hand on her...

I slammed my fist in his face. There

was the sound of crunching bone.

Blood spattered

like a burst water mains, stop.

I smashed my knee into his...

I took the whip

and cracked it across his back, stop.

To my amazement, comma,

he squealed with delight.

Everyone on earth has a secret closet

he'd rather left closed, stop.

His face was like a crushed red pepper.

No wonder my fist throbbed, stop.

And that wasn't all that throbbed.

I had just opened one of those closets

without knocking, and stood staring in.

I cracked the whip again, stop.

This time across his...

I kissed her lightly on the cheek

and slipped quietly from the room, stop.

End of paragraph.

Chapter 13.

Outside I hailed a cab, stop.

Its tyres screeched on the tarmac

as it drew up and stopped.

'Take me to the asylum', I said.

The driver laughed. That was all he said.

Have you got a light?

The day started quietly enough.

Then I got out of bed.

That was my first mistake.

My second was

to try and get from here... to here.

That's how it all began.

That bizarre adventure

which put five in the cemetery,

and ruled me out

as a customer for laxatives.

At the time, I was living abroad.

I was a writer,

having three years before left London

and a lucrative job as a funeral director.

It was my wife's family business,

whom I'd deserted

with my three children.

Handling stiffs

wasn't the life for someone

with a burning creative urge.

So, I elbowed the loved ones.

I left some tapes here for transcription.

The name is King.

- In English?

- Preferably.

Please, you wait.

The writer's life

would be ideal but for the writing.

That was a problem I had to overcome.

Then, I read in the Guinness Book of Records

about Earl Stanley Gardner,

the world's fastest novelist,

who dictates up to 10,000 words a day.

That was for me. None of that

romantic stuff with a typewriter.

I had better uses for those two particular fingers.

My full name is Chester Thomas King.

Although most people call me Mickey

for reasons I won't go into.

You may have read some of my early works.

But my publisher didn't see Chester Thomas

King as the name of a best-selling author.

He preferred such authors as

Guy Strange, Gary Rough,

Dan Wild and Les Behan.

I was all those and others. I was

co-authors Susan Eager and Paul S. Cumming.

The newly discovered Indian writer,

Doctor O.R. Gann, spelt with two N's,

and the struggling Nigerian author,

S. Odomy, with the emphasis on the "O".

None of them exactly made

Book of the Month Club.

- Mr King?

- Yes.

Could I have a word with you?

Yes.

Please, take a seat.

- Cigarette?

- No, thank you.

Our work here is mainly technical specifications,

insurance and shipping documents,

company records and legal contracts.

Your manuscript took my staff rather by surprise.

- They finished it, though?

- Of course.

Of course.

May I ask who normally types your work?

My mother.

- Your mother?

- Yes, she prefers it to knitting.

If you don 't want my custom,

just say so.

What I read I personally found very stimulating.

And your staff?

Too stimulating.

But they have no taste for such things.

My private address,

if I can ever be of assistance.

Thank you.

Are your books in any way autobiographical?

Totally.

What an exciting life you must have had,

even better than Frank Harris.

Oh, Frank was a novice.

You have my card.

Don 't hesitate to touch me.

(voice-over)

Yes, I remember that day all right.

Around noon I'd collected the manuscript

of my latest novel, The Organ Grinder.

I should have realised something was up.

A man had been tailing me for over two weeks.

I thought my wife must have employed

a private dick.

I did ask him, but he got upset.

He was too big to upset twice,

so I tried to ignore him,

which in this case was difficult.

Later I was to find

out who he was, that tame gorilla

who followed my everywhere.

I rode a cab round to my publisher,

Milos Marcovic,

the Greco-Albanian born in Budapest,

whose talent for writing book covers is such

even the author doesn't recognise his own work.

Sylvana... get this down.

Marcovic was responsible for all the

aggravation that was about to hit me.

Hollywood, an empire in decay, comma.

Ruled by a twisted emperor, comma.

And the desires and tantrums...

...of a strange girl whose secret

became a big screen Technicolor...

...nightmare. New paragraph.

Sam Nectar was his name.

An unknown oriental girl was his obsession.

Sam cast her as a Negro slave,

only to find himself cast as a slave

to her desires. New paragraph.

What the critics said:

"Tense...

exciting, enjoyable. "

Times Literary Supplement.

The office attracted

leading writers from all over Europe.

Marcovic never quite understood why.

Nor did he care much.

His life was dominated by one driving force.

A weak bladder.

Signor Marcovic.

- I didn't get all the quotes down.

- Later.

Open, you son of a bitch!

Why is this door always sticking?

Oh Jesus, I'm bursting.

Oh God, I beseech You.

One last favour.

Open this door.

Thank you.

Why?

Why have you deserted me?

Do you want to hear my confession, honey?

What have I done wrong?

My name is Dinuccio, I got an appointment.

- Take a seat, please.

- I'll kneel.

Show me a sign, Lord!

Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.

King of kings.

Or St Matthew?

How old is this man?

He says he's 62.

He'll really be 65 next autumn.

- You want to publish on his birthday?

- Correct. Blue.

Went in like it had eyes.

His name was Ben Dinuccio.

It was the nicest thing about him.

He said he did the PR for an important man

who wanted me to write his life story.

Trouble was, he couldn't tell us who,

though he stated categorically

that it wasn't Howard Hughes.

Why me?

He likes your style, feller.

Read all your books.

Kill Me Gently. My Gun Is Long.

The Knee Trembler. All of 'em.

He knows I've never ghosted anyone's life story.

So start now. Besides,

you're Sagittarius, which is just great.

- How do you know that?

- I know everything about you.

From your wife's maiden name

to your measurements.

We don 't take no risks.

Encouraging.

Be flattered!

Green.

What a shot! I'm a pistol, ain't I?

What's going on out there?

What are those signs saying?

"For law and order vote

Prince Cippola and the New Front Party. "

- Are those characters for real?

- Yes.

Jesus wept!

They don 't look so new to me. Yellow.

I'm all for law and order.

You for law and order, Mickey?

Theirs or mine?

I still don 't see why you want me.

It's simple. You're elected.

The old man 's getting ready for the big sleep.

Excuse me?

Certainly. It's the first door to the right,

it's marked "toilette". Brown.

He's headed for the last round-up

and wants something to be remembered by.

A death rattle... in paperback, eh?

He's got more stories than the Bible.

Crazy stuff. All you gotta do is write it down.

Black.

That's absolutely marvelous!

Great! Stay out of it. OK?

OK, take it.

Hold it! That's great.

Thank you, ladies. I appreciate your kindness.

Just win, dago.

Come on, you beautiful thing.

How are things down there at the offices?

Nuts!

- Pinko.

- He's American?

Indelibly.

He's famous?

A household word.

Like "sink".

What's worrying you two?

You got nothing to lose.

You get a month's vacation at his villa,

a cash advance and a fat fee.

You get the publishing costs

plus a slice of the profits.

Black.

What's my fat fee?

Correction.

For fat fee, read blood money.

Wanna play, Mickey?

Two days later,

I was traveling south, destination unknown.

Dinuccio was so full of the Bond crap,

it had to be a private jet to Miami

and a mysterious hostess

to loosen my safety belt.

Did I have a wrong number?

A five-day package tour,

and for me a personalised mystery trip.

That freak Dinuccio had come up with

a new idea of hell.

My instructions said that someone

would contact me along the way.

I looked the passengers over

for a possible contact man.

Balloons!

Not a dirty thought between them.

That would have been too much.

"The immovably chaste girl said,

'Over my dead body'. He took her at her word. "

"Don 't spend another night alone.

Send for the fantastic date-maker.

It's the greatest device for getting intimate

with girls you have long admired. "

Come on... look at me.

You are beautiful.

I want you alone on a slow coach to China.

My God, she's trying to make me.

Dinuccio had a lousy sense of humour.

I tipped my seat back

and waited for the tap on the shoulder.

Ladies and gentlemen,

you'll be arriving at our hotel

in about five minutes.

As we climb the steep road,

you will have a magnificent view of the city

on your right hand side of the coach.

Mind if I use that?

No, fine.

Fantastic.

Contact was made

as we neared our first stopover.

He identified himself with one of my books.

Anice touch that, and good for my royalties.

You're English.

Right through, yes.

On vacation?

Sort of a... working holiday.

What do you do?

I write.

What do you write?

Mister?

King.

Jack Miller.

What?

What do you write?

Gangster fiction.

Pulp would be less pompous

and more accurate.

You're talking to an addict!

I practically eat them.

They'd given the job to a screwball.

The reading had gone to his stomach.

He was constipated with pulp,

and now it was coming out, all over me.

Rose MacDonald...

- You've read Rose MacDonald?

- No, not since Mother died.

The best, I think.

What books have you written?

How about... My Gun is Long?

You're kidding! You wrote that?

Yes, I am the real Guy Strange.

That's very good.

Oh, you have great taste, Mr Miller.

"Sensual... brutal...

Mr Strange provides us with a devil's dictionary

of our secret visions and desires. "

It's dedicated to my wife.

You put yourself down. Shouldn't do that.

You've got a good hero here

in Brad Mason.

Here's a man who clearly sees the animal

in himself and he's not ashamed...

Why don 't we cut the crap and talk straight?

- Your plot line is thin.

- It is, is it?

- Relies too much on coincidence.

- It does?

Puts your story

beyond the bounds of believability.

Well... how about this for believability?

I know all about you, Mr Miller.

- Excuse me.

- Surely.

It was like I had halitosis,

and that made me mad.

OK, so I'd jumped the gun and spoilt his game.

That was no reason for acting like a big girl.

If Miller didn't get over his menopause

by morning, I'd quit the job.

Things started happening sooner than that.

Vodka and tonic, please.

Thank you.

The armchair adventurers

were packed away in their rooms.

I sat in the bar thinking.

What nut wanted me to write his life story?

A Mafia boss on the run?

A defrocked priest? Adolf Hitler?

I still didn't understand all the secrecy.

As fiction, it was a guaranteed rejection slip.

King.

Room 313.

- Have you got the key, sir?

- No.

It's probably in the lock.

The boy will show you up.

Boy!

Room 313.

- What are you doing here?

- I hope you don 't snore, Miller.

You're supposed to be in room 213.

- They brought me in here.

- That's OK. I'll take your room.

- I have to watch my image.

- Just a minute. This shouldn't have happened.

I bet you say that to all the boys.

I took dinner early,

it was part of the package and free.

I wore my royal blue suit

with shirt, tie and matching handkerchief,

black moccasins, mauve socks

and a fresh pair of jockey pants

in case of assassination.

I'd bathed, shaved and taken a dry martini

in the bar. I was to need it.

A tomato salad,

spaghetti with butter...

No sauce, you understand?

Spinach with two eggs.

You a vegetarian?

I'll have a plate of courgettes. Again, just butter.

And get me a bottle of mineral water.

- Are you a vegetarian?

- Yes.

Why is that?

I don 't like the killing of animals.

We are from Texas.

What about fish?

Occasionally.

See, I told you, they're all alike.

We are from Texas.

Of course you are, dear boy.

Of course you are.

- Eggs?

- Yes.

Cheese?

They're all organic matter.

"'Contrariwise', continued Tweedledee.

If it was so, it might be;

if it were so, it would be;

but as it isn't, it ain 't. That's logic'."

The words of Lewis Carroll, my dear lady.

But I'll put it more succinctly...

Piss off!

Paging Mr King.

Miller didn't show at feeding time.

I wanted to see him again.

We were due for another talk.

The page boy was right on cue.

Thank you.

Miller wanted to see me in room 313.

It was the long arm of coincidence.

Miller?

What's the matter with you?

Waterlogged?

I thought it was red bath

salts at first.

Then I knew he'd get his picture in the paper.

He'd been knifed.

Jack Francis Miller,

senior lecturer in English, Berkeley University.

I was dumb enough to wonder what

he was doing as my contact man.

The answer was, he wasn't.

I wondered who he was,

the poor dead bastard.

Why had he panicked

when I put the finger on him?

I was in for a surprise.

The guy was a fag, a transvestite.

That explained his panic, but not his death.

An ugly thought made my waters curdle.

That should have been me in there.

Miller was my stand-in with death.

Morning! It was election day,

so the Muzak at breakfast was a little unusual.

I ordered tomato juice,

then cancelled out of respect for the dead.

I didn't fancy a bath, either.

I expected the place to be moving with police

like maggots in a ripe Camembert.

Not one! Not a cop, tracker dog

or bandage mechanic.

Not a reporter, photographer

or clairvoyant in sight.

That didn't figure.

"The further off from England,

the nearer it is to France.

And turn not pale beloved snail;

But come and join the dance. "

"Can you walk a little faster,

said the whiting to the snail.

There's a porpoise close behind me

And he's treading on my tail. "

I've read it 117 times.

Alice in Wonderland.

117 times.

Starting again tomorrow.

Yes, well, you've picked the right tour for it.

"'Begin at the beginning', the King said gravely,

'go on to the end and stop'."

They should have found him by now.

Of course, Miller may have asked for a late call.

Very late. Judgment Day.

I left the Mad Hatter and decided to take

a trip down memory lane past room 313.

My mouth went dry.

The door was open and the room cleaned out.

Hello?

The corpse had checked out!

Hello!

Inspector Clouseau in drag.

The man who was here...

Where is he?

Yes, that's what I thought.

OK... Grazie.

- Yes, Mr King?

- Mr Miller, room 313.

I'm afraid he left early this morning.

- Are you sure?

- He had to go back to America suddenly.

- Did you actually see him leave yourself?

- Yes.

Thank you.

"Curiouser...

...and curiouser. "

1,373, Mr Balmoral.

Miller was dead and now gone,

checked into the Hotel Paradiso.

But we weren't, the killer and I.

We were still earth travelers,

probably sharing the same lousy bus.

The guy was no dum-dum.

It wouldn't be long before he knew

he'd got the wrong man.

This story was like some pornographic photo.

Difficult to work out who's doing what to whom.

I was still trying

when we reached the Temples of Zonk.

And the gods were angry,

anyways, and they sent

a thunderbolt to the city of sin.

Now some personages nowadays

would call that punishment

or smelly revenge, depending on your

point of view or state of mind,

but this was a warning

to such personages

to stop bad ways of having fun

and to clean themselves up.

It was a very big warning.

All peoples still in bed

when the thunderbolt blow out of the sky,

with many still drunk with, er, sexual potion.

They do not know what hit them.

In the museum you will see plaster casts

of people in very interesting death positions.

The poet, Memphis, describe it as

"The greatest coming

since Zeus fell upon his wife. "

And then the city sank into the sea...

Follow me please, out this way and over there.

What do you think of Zonk's temple, Mr King?

- How do you know my name?

- Dinuccio's waiting.

- My bags are in the coach.

- Not any more.

- A ghost city for a ghost writer.

- You're so kind.

So, the contact man was a girl.

It was the first time I'd fancied Robin Hood.

which wasn't healthy.

That made me think of Miller again.

- I'm so glad we bought you.

- We?

You haven 't met Preston yet.

- Preston?

- He's my sugar daddy.

And you have a sweet tooth, eh?

The sweetest.

Her mouth was wet and warm.

She moved against me, a perfect fit.

I could feel the fire in her loins.

It was scalding warm and wanting to be fanned.

Her tongue went deep.

It was alive, wet and very shocking.

I had visions of refueling in space.

Come on! I've got more things to

show you. There are many important things.

Come! Follow me. Follow me.

Behind these doors are things that

are not to the eye of ladies or children.

The people of Zonk

made rude things on these walls.

Things haven 't changed much in 2,000 years.

Which brings us back to sugar daddy.

Who is he?

Preston Gilbert?

Is he still alive?

Mario!

Mario! I'm done!

Mario! You gone to sleep again, you bastard!

I'm getting barbecued in here!

So, you're his third cousin removed?

I was hitch-hiking around Europe

and he gave me a lift.

I'm sure he did.

It's not like that. I feel sorry for him.

He's an old man.

With an old bank account.

He was on top a long time.

Now, he misses the excitement.

The parties and the bright lights,

all that bullshit.

He keeps me like his court jester.

So you tickle his funny bone.

Tell me, how long ago was it he left Hollywood?

About 15 years ago.

Just a minute...

I'm getting some very bad vibrations.

Wasn't there talk of Mafia connections?

Talk.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't his roles

on and off screen get slightly confused?

But that happens to all actors.

But with one big difference.

He always played the same role.

Don 't you see I'm burnt?

When I holler Mario...

Mario, that is your name!

Remember your name!

Keep that thing on so you can hear me

and the other thing in your ear.

- I'm not paying good money...

- Sorry, boss.

Don 't talk "sorry boss" till I finish.

I'm not paying for you

to sit on your arse and sleep.

Don 't stand so close to me!

Don 't ever stand close to me!

Now, get in here!

I'm gonna sweat you down to size, buster.

Go on, get in there! That's right.

Get in there and stay in there!

You see this. When you come out of there,

you'll be this tall.

Why didn't Gilbert get me on the phone

instead of all this mystery tour crap?

He enjoys playing life-size chess.

Filthy pictures from temple of Zonk, signore.

He's a two-bit blown -out film star, not God.

Don 't lose your cool, ghost writer.

Think of the bread you're making.

- Are these on the walls in there?

- S?, signore.

- The League of Decency would love this.

- Sex wasn't dirty then.

You want, you want, signore?

No, no, I'm too young. Besides,

these fellows give me an inferiority complex.

- But, signore...

- Remember what I said about Gilbert?

Miller was too dead to agree,

but he would have done.

- Who is Miller?

- Just a man who was knifed in my room.

- What's that got to do with Preston?

- I'll tell you when I've found out.

Bodies belong in the mortuary, not in my bath.

You shouldn't be surprised, darling.

After all, you are the ghost writer.

What's this, then? The family runabout?

- Never use that word, Mickey.

- What word?

Family! Nice to see you, hop aboard.

OK, Tony, take us for a ride.

So it's Preston Gilbert.

Big mouth! I was supposed to tell him.

I was getting in very deep.

Things were moving too fast to bail out.

I've been with Preston for 32 years.

I started as a gofer.

Let's go for coffee, go for this, go for that.

After nine years, he made me a partner.

Gilbert was one

of the screen 's immortal mobsters,

hero-worshipped and imitated around the world.

The way he talked and acted,

beating up the big boys,

manhandling the women,

appealed to audiences everywhere.

His father was a nothin', a real nothin',

a small time gonzo

that disappeared when Preston was three.

Personally, I think he wound up

as an automobile fender.

That made me feel nervous.

Inside most men is a tough guy trying to get out.

The book on Gilbert was certain

to make money, a lot of money.

That made me feel good.

I remember...

He used to send a broad, after his first date,

11 yellow tea roses with a card which said,

"The 12th is you. "

He didn't get that from no screen script.

He had class.

Buffed every leading lady he worked with.

Don 't worry,

Tony knows every bump in the road.

Gilbert's place was on a small,

exclusive island, a kind of rich man 's Alcatraz.

Home sweet home, Mickey.

Home sweet home.

I didn't feel so good.

Preston!

Mr Gilbert was born here, went to the States

with his uncle when he was 12.

Oh, there's his mother.

Brought her here when he came back.

Hi, Mrs Stompanato. Where's Preston?

She loves it. Hasn't known herself

since she's come back.

Brought her out after years on the breadline.

Preston still must be changing. I'll take you up.

A tip. As soon as you get in, sit down.

He's here, Preston.

Hiya, Mick.

Good luck, kid. Chin up.

Stiff upper lip.

Sit down!

Make yourself at home.

Sure, Mick, I knew all the boys in the old days.

Al Capone, Bugsy Siegel,

yeah, Bugs Moran.

You bet I did.

Yeah, Mick, they...

...they all loved me.

They all loved me. Why shouldn't they?

What the hell. On the screen

I gave 'em class, didn't I?

So, how come I

didn't win an Oscar?

Hey, do me a favour, will you?

Change the record, please.

Put on one of the old ones.

I like the old ones...

That immigration department. They're tougher

than any hoods or gangsters I ever worked for.

Mick, they're nothing but a bunch of hypocrites.

They waited until I was a little on in years,

had a little mileage, then they went after me.

When I was asked to leave the

country, do you think the fans gave a damn?

Like hell they did. That's what hurt.

I couldn't go to a club

throughout the US, all over,

Chicago, Cleveland, you name it,

without some idiot taking a swipe at me,

trying to hit me in the jaw.

Well, that's the fans for you.

You do them a favour living out

their fantasies, and they get jealous.

Gangsters weren't the only guys I knew, Mick.

Jack Kennedy, I knew him.

He wasn't no gangster. He was a pal of mine.

Look what happened to him.

Sure, I've gotta admit it, Mickey.

I worked for a lot of the big boys

before I went to Hollywood.

What the hell?

I figured, I'd paid my debt to society.

I was killed in over 80 movies, wasn't I?

Ah! Hello, Mickey! Glad you could come over.

Sit down, son.

It's gonna be a great book.

It's gonna be a real great book, I'll tell you that.

You hungry? Come on with me, I'll feed you.

No, they're nice people.

Simple, but they understand after a while.

Somebody wonders why you live with 'em.

I was actually born here.

I went to the States when I was four.

There's my old mother.

Hello, Mama. Hello, sweetheart.

Can 't hear a thing. Deaf as a doornail.

Hello, hello, you big long-legged whore, you!

All right. Hey, Benny!

Has Mama eaten this week?

Come on, come on down!

Hurry up! Let's eat.

You get a great appetite with this weather.

We serve good grub, too.

Wait till you see what we have.

Anything you want. You'd be surprised.

We got coffee, pastrami.

I had some flown in last week.

Come on, Benny, move it! I'm hungry.

Move your ass, before I'm too old

to enjoy this meal. I'm kinda hungry.

You hungry, bitch?

She's a beauty.

Dear Lord, bless this meal we're about

to receive in Christ's name. Amen.

Surprise you, Mickey?

I'm a good Catholic.

- Liz, like to hop in the sack with him?

- Oh, Preston.

"Oh, Preston". Don 't give me that shit!

Been trying to make her for over a year.

But I ain 't been able to score.

Mama must have heard me say grace, at least.

Look at her go. Sit down, Mama.

Mick...

Some idiot's been trying to rub me.

Really... Who?

Who? Obviously a professional contract.

Guy goes under the name of Miller.

And I suppose he teaches English

at Berkeley University.

- Why would you say that?

- I write crap like this every day, it's my job.

- He was murdered last night.

- Mama, you can...

He was murdered last night?

- Are you kidding me?

- Liz?

Damn right, he isn't.

Murdered last night!

- Benny, did you hear that?

- I heard.

They finally squashed that bastard.

I don 't have to worry

or say my prayers any more.

- What?

- I'll explain later.

I want you to write that book.

Forget her. She doesn't speak English.

I'll give you all that shit about the old days.

And look!

Every book starts with a quotation.

My book should, too. Let's see... How's this?

"We've all... " Yeah, this is it.

"We've all passed a lot of water since then. "

Samuel Goldwyn.

Gilbert certainly wasn't tight

with the dialogue.

He talked non -stop for a week.

Enough for a fat book.

But he never mentioned Miller again.

The mainland trip was to be

an end-of-book party. Some party!

Dinuccio had a premonition the ferry

would sink and refused to come,

Mama had a visitation from the Virgin

and wouldn't get out of bed,

and the scar on my leg

screamed at me not to go.

Jesus, I feel marvelous.

I hope it lasts.

- You don 't have to worry about me.

- I'm not worried about you.

Nothing.

- What's the matter?

- It's a wound in my leg.

The war?

No. A coffin fell on me.

- Was it empty?

- No, it was full.

There was

another thing about that day.

It was the anniversary of his father's death.

A date they now share.

Somaro. Come back, somaro. Better.

Keep it, keep it!

I meant together!

Bravo!

So, you're Mickey King?

Superstar's Boswell. Did he tell you about me?

If you're Lon Chaney, yes.

I've been married five times.

All hard bitches. She was my third.

You should meet the other four.

Betty's my name.

- You're the one that's married to Prince...

... Cippola.

You know,

you're my very first princess.

Am I?

- I bet that was a fairy tale romance.

- On the contrary.

The prince is very hetero.

Isn't that right, superstar?

- Isn't he big in the New Front?

- Of course.

But he was a Christian Democrat

when I married him.

Yeah. That does make a difference.

Do you like being a politician 's wife?

- Kissing babies and all that.

- I don 't stop at babies.

- Are you canvassing me, princess?

- I can always use a floating voter.

- But I don 't have a title.

- King's good enough.

Come up to my castle some time.

This weekend's fine for me.

Betty!

What qualities did you need to be a princess?

Only one.

I'm very good in bed.

So I've been told.

Hey, you guys!

Money, money, money.

Hit the bottom for that.

You know how I used to make my living?

- As a pimp.

- After that.

This will kill you. Watch.

Oh God, not again!

Not that same boring routine.

- He does it every year.

- What?

His party bit. It's embarrassing.

- Why do you come if it's that bad?

- I never miss his father's anniversary.

Never.

Watch it!

We didn't order spaghetti, did we?

We didn't order spaghetti.

- You didn't order spaghetti?

- No!

Madame, I'm so sorry.

You didn't order spaghetti.

I'm so sorry. You don 't like my spaghetti?

You don 't like my father?

- I have nothing to do with him.

- But with my spaghetti.

- Oh, I'm so sorry, madame. Excuse me.

- We've had enough!

Everybody's had enough. The boss

is gonna take me to the cleaners.

What you think he's gonna do?

I'm in trouble up to here.

Would you like a banana split? Brandy?

Don 't worry.

You ain 't gonna get nothing if you order it.

I'll take care of the check.

Look, honey, it's all fun.

It's all fun, lady. It's all fun.

Gilbert was proud of being

the practical joker. He could afford to be.

Suddenly, it hit me like a bad tomato.

I was top billing in his latest production.

Only it wasn't a comedy. That made me angry.

Sorry, sir.

Signore. signora, I am the manager.

Champagne on the house.

- The waiter - weak in the bladder. I've fired him.

- Please don 't do that.

He has 30 children. He'll never be lonely.

- You all right, signore?

- Fine.

Excuse me.

- Everything all right, signore?

- The humour is a little rough.

In Hollywood, I put all those slobs on.

They paid me to put people down.

Rib 'em a bit. Some nights I'd make 50 bucks!

Those were the days, huh?

Mickey, there's a lot

you don 't know about me.

- Oh, I believe you.

- Don 't get smart with me, son.

- You're full of crap, Gilbert.

- No.

- No, cancer.

- Of the soul.

- Yet another funny.

- Oh, it's ture. It's the truth.

The doctors gave me

the good news a week ago.

That's why I wanted you

to finish the book quickly.

You're taking me for an idiot,

like those two poor bastards over there.

Miller, the coach trip, everything was rigged.

Well, stuff your book up your arse. I'm quitting.

You are, eh?

- Mr Gilbert.

- Yes, what?

Not again.

For he's a jolly good fellow

For he's a jolly good fellow

And so say all of us

And so say all of us

Hey, Preston!

Stop kidding. The joke's over.

Suddenly, I was a cop lover.

They couldn't keep me

at that station long enough.

I needed time to think

and a safe place to do it.

The killer had tried to get me.

It wasn't a joke.

Gilbert didn't laugh once,

all the way to the mortuary.

It was like a casting session

for Boys Town.

Any ring a bell, Mr King?

The American made me nervous.

He'd arrived late in the afternoon.

I assumed he was FBI. Things were serious

if the big guns had been called in.

The one on the right.

Acca.

- No, not acca. "G".

- "G".

Are you sure?

I think so.

Says he's chaplain to the nuns

at St Lorenzo Maggiore.

Mean anything to you?

Is it a discotheque?

Not my scene then.

They all look the same to me.

Where did you pick him up?

A brothel in Via Alphonso.

Somebody died, huh?

- Excuse me.

- Pardon me.

- I'd like a word.

- All right.

Next day, Liz and I

returned to Gilbert's villa.

I had some questions for Dinuccio.

I found him in mourning, drinking Black Velvet.

I told the boss not to go.

- He wouldn't listen, would he?

- I'm listening, Ben.

Where did Killer Mark II spring from?

Mama took off as soon as she heard.

Back to the cave.

Don 't change the subject.

- Who's after me?

- A priest, Mickey boy.

He wants to read you the last sacrament.

He's putting you on, ghost writer.

- He doesn't know.

- Did sugar daddy?

- We're so upset, aren't we?

- Don 't call him that.

Try saccharine.

It should help the withdrawal symptoms.

You're still trying to fit the pieces together.

Some writer.

Maybe Agatha Christie's free.

- Preston never told you about the scandal?

- What scandal?

- You owe me ten bucks, Liz.

- The bastard copped out.

They'll kill him anyway.

Now just a minute, you two.

- Are you talking about me?

- Relax. We'll protect you.

Thanks. You come highly recommended by

Preston Gilbert, who's dead in the mortuary.

Not to mention his two companions,

a Neopolitan singer and an accordion player.

Now, you tell me exactly

what you were talking about.

Preston and some guy got involved

in a scandal a long time ago.

It was hushed up.

When Preston announced he was going to write

his life story, the guy got nervous.

- Who did?

- Preston would never tell us.

We thought he'd told you.

The priest still does.

Any more questions, Mickey boy?

Jesus! The priest.

He shoots very well

for a public relations man.

What's going wrong, boss?

- Did I get him?

- Yes.

How do I join the other side?

Do you have to run it this way?

Don 't blame me.

You shot the projectionist.

- Who the hell's that?

- It's a flying nun.

- That couldn't be him?

- If it is, I'm the Pope.

I was marked "poison".

I was the fall guy, the sitting duck.

I was trapped.

There was nothing I could do

but co-operate with these schmucks.

We had to find the priest

before he gave me the big absolution.

We ran Liz's film, Batman Visits Zonk.

There was a chance

I might recognise the killer.

Who's that nut?

- That is an eccentric Englishman.

- Like Jack the Ripper?

My confidence

took another beating.

They shot film worse than they shot guns.

That only left craps.

Should do great in Australia.

I'll rewind it.

- You wanna see it right side up?

- No, it'll only confuse me.

Are you sure you used

the foolproof automatic camera?

Sure, I'm sure.

Takes a special kind of genius

to screw that up.

That's probably Gilbert

to tell you he's arrived safely.

Don 't fool around.

- I believe in the hereafter.

- You need to, the way you shoot.

Pronto. Si. sono Dinuccio.

Benissimo.

Aspetta. un momento.

He wants to talk to you.

- Who wants to speak to me?

- Il mago di Ferrugia. The wizard of Ferrugia.

- Are you putting me on?

- No, he's a fortune teller.

Preston told me about him.

So, what am I supposed to do?

Raise myself to the ceiling unaided?

He says he's talked to the boss.

Wants to tell you something big.

I know.

A fat lady is gonna cross my path,

keel over and crush me to death.

I think he may have a hotline up there.

I'm gonna make an appointment for you.

Bene. domani mattina.

I didn't sleep that night.

The Wizard ringing in gave me indigestion.

It was just as well.

My doorknob was being turned.

Very slowly.

One more move and I shoot.

- Hello, I'm the Lone Star Ranger.

- And I'm Buck Jones.

When 's your birthday, Buck?

Don 't give me all that astrology crap.

I only wanted to buy you a birthday present.

A nightshirt.

I flipped off the light

and showed her the door. I had my pride.

Move over.

Next morning, I went to meet the clairvoyant

outside Dante's barbershop.

Dinuccio promised his friends

would be there to protect me.

He seemed to have a lot of friends.

It's difficult to tell these days.

I got there early, took a shave

and waited for the clairvoyant.

- Good morning. Yes?

- Shave.

He was wearing a dirty mackintosh.

Clairvoyants usually do.

They make up for it with ritzy titles

like wizard, oracle, magician.

They do OK,

living off people's fears and superstitions.

Signor King? Doctor Duce.

I felt uneasy.

He had eyes like bloodshot oysters.

I feel hostility. You don 't trust me.

I make predictions.

You'll see they come true.

December, Queen of England catch cold.

January, riots in Japan.

Many people go to Australia.

February, the Pope gets cold.

Preston Gilbert, when did he catch cold?

Someone tried to kill him.

He wants to know when.

- You told him?

- Sure. Yesterday.

He kept the date.

- What else?

- He give me something to get feelings from.

- What thing?

- Signor Gilbert didn't pay his last money.

- Oh, really? How much?

- 50,000.

- Five.

- Five.

- Money.

- You mean you want the money now?

I give you good value.

May, trouble in Africa.

June, plenty people leave Australia.

July, pilgrims see vision

of General de Gaulle at Lourdes.

Hold it... Hold it.

The Preston Gilbert

do-it-yourself-thriller-kit.

Inside were the things Gilbert had given

the clairvoyant to get psychic feelings from.

A photograph of a hunting party

taken about ten years before.

Gilbert I recognised.

The others were just faces. Anybody's.

The address of a man in Mondragone,

a village near the coast.

And the faded newspaper photo of a girl,

with the name torn away.

What the fortune teller could get

from that pile of junk, God only knew.

- Who was in the hunting squad?

- Signor Gilbert not tell me nothing.

- What did Gilbert want with you?

- He wants to know who killed him.

- And the girl?

- I know nothing.

- I say goodbye.

- And I say hello.

- And the girl, Wizard?

- The girl is dead!

She looked like a distant relative

of Rocky Marciano.

Her honour was on the missing list.

So was her cash.

It was too late to retrieve either.

Things were beginning to look up.

I had some leads to follow.

An address and the photo of a dead girl.

That brought me back to the late Preston Gilbert.

- The wake's at our place.

- Preston will be pleased.

His face rang a bell, a warning bell.

I'd seen it staring at me

from a thousand posters all over town.

But I'd also seen it somewhere else.

- Is that Cippola?

- Yes.

That's when it hit me.

Cippola was one of the men with

Preston Gilbert in the hunting photo.

That was only the start.

There was more to come.

Banker, tailor, soldier, sailor.

They were all in the photograph.

- Who are all these others?

- They used to shoot together.

With him or at him?

Now I knew how the princess had

met her prince - on a boar hunt with Gilbert.

Cippola and the film star had been friends

until Betty switched beds.

Preston couldn't have liked that.

Three wives down and two to go.

At last the jigsaw was fitting together.

See you later.

But there was still

one important piece missing.

The one that explained why these pillars of the

establishment were so nervous of Gilbert talking.

What was the scandal

that worried the law and order brigade?

I decided to cut out of the funeral and follow up

the address given me by my oyster-eyed friend.

The cock crowing made me uneasy.

It was too near Easter for comfort.

A beer.

Mr Lepri?

The whole town seemed to be

in the grip of a fatal disease - lockjaw.

I took my beer outside and wondered

what it was like here on Sundays.

The air in that place

had the musty smell of dried-up dreams.

It was a ghost town, second class.

Two crossed coffins in the Michelin guide.

The old man fixed me with his eyes. We

dialled each other's numbers and got through.

He looked like a retired gunman

who drew too late... twice.

He knew that I knew he'd never

play the fruit machines again.

I began to wish I'd stayed with the funeral.

I looked at the stranger

and knew that nobody'd believe me.

Mr Lepri?

- Do you speak English?

- A little.

- Would you like a drink?

- No.

Who told you that Signor Lepri lived here?

Someone in the city.

And what do you want from Signor Lepri?

Business.

He don 't live here for ten years.

- Are you American?

- English.

I fought with partisans during war.

Where did Lepri go?

- You know why he go?

- No.

Come with me.

As a driver, the stranger left much

to be desired. Another arm, for a start.

Every time he changed gear,

my suntan vanished.

- You know, I'm a mayor of town.

- Oh, really?

- Where are we going?

- I will show you. I'm a communist.

- Are you a communist?

- No.

- What are you?

- I am an imperialist lackey.

You see, Mama, right on top til the end.

The artist got 5,300 bucks for this. Used

the stills from Angels Never Die as the model.

You like it, Mama?

Hell of a work of art, ain 't it, Mama?

The beach was too remote for tourists.

The sand was golden and the sea blue,

but I missed the smell of sun oil and frying flesh.

It was a long way from my own backyard,

and a deck chair marked "King".

- That's why Signor Lepri left.

- That?

His daughter Silvana

found here dead, all naked.

Is this her?

- You know her?

- No, not who she was.

Buried in the sand here.

A shepherd find her, early in the morning.

It's windy. He sees her hand waving.

- How did she die?

- Heart.

- A heart attack?

- Yes.

"Hunting party in gang-bang".

The headline hit me right between the legs.

I remembered it from years ago. The girl had

been found dead in mysterious circumstances.

There were rumours of orgies in a nearby

hunting lodge, but the stories had fizzled out.

- Not murdered?

- No.

It all fitted. The girl's heart

had given way under the strain.

Cippola, Gilbert and the others

must have panicked and buried her here.

The picture was almost complete,

only one face was missing.

The one who ordered the priest.

Did the police find out who buried her here?

Never.

- Do you know?

- Yes.

- Who?

- Capitalisti.

And Lepri left soon afterwards?

Him very ashamed of his daughter.

He get much money from someone

and left village to go to north.

Where did the money come from?

He never tell. He paid to keep quiet.

He was such a good communist.

Now he's a fascista.

I got shot.

- That's tomato ketchup.

- I got shot.

- Who?

- I'll tell you later. Come on.

Come on!

Make for the truck.

Let me show you.

Thank God you're mechanically minded.

- Can you drive?

- No.

Sod off, nanny. Sod off!

That costume might just get you

through those pearly gates, but I doubt it.

Remember that thou art pulp,

and unto pulp thou shalt return.

A fitting epitaph for Jack Francis Miller,

priest, lecturer and drag queen.

I looked across the beach for help. No one.

A sudden pain bit deep into my leg: I'd been hit.

Blood was pouring out like a burst water main.

Isank to the sand, ripping my shirt off as I went.

It was a present from my wife. That shirt

saved my life, which wouldn't have pleased her.

I used it as a tourniquet,

it was like turning off a tap.

I dragged myself across to Miller's body.

A present for you, Mama. From me.

Scream in the Dark. On the Run.

Cold Sweat - that's the one.

One more move, Fatso,

and I'll pump you full of lead.

Beautiful, ain 't it, Mama?

You like it? I knew you'd like it, Mama.

You need six cents. I'll always have 'em

for you in a sack on the coffin.

- I thought you'd appreciate it.

- Cold sweat!

Hello, ladies. Are you enjoying yourselves?

I'm so glad you could come.

- What kind of a bird is that?

- The Maltese falcon.

I'll get you, you bastards.

Look, everyone.

He's killed a priest.

- And how are we today?

- Mind your own business.

What's the matter with him?

You're sick.

They were caught literally with their pants down.

The girl died on them.

- How do you know?

- I know.

They thought

that Gilbert had talked to me.

- That's why they tried to murder both of us.

- You're heading for an asylum, buddy.

You really think they'd kill just because

they made a girl? That's no crime.

For some people it is.

Why would a creepy, old politician like Cippola

jump on the law and order bandwagon?

He'd really be sick

if this scandal ever broke cover.

Mr King, I'd forget that if I were you.

- What?

- Just forget it.

You go around talking that kind of crap,

and you'll really rock the boat.

A lot of important people are involved. Drop it.

Piss off.

If you don 't, I'm gonna get them

to put you on a murder rap.

- Yeah? Whose murder?

- Miller.

How? Reckless driving?

You know I never murdered Miller.

- So?

- You bastard.

That's the way it is, bright eyes.

Just like a house of cards.

Pull one away, the lot falls.

I've been told to make sure you just

don 't do that. So shut up and enjoy yourself.

Come back here, you little bitch.

I wanna kick your teeth in.

Come on back, you coward!

Mr King, you should learn to control yourself.

The doctor says you'll have to stay here a bit,

till you're completely recovered.

Take his advice, will you?

They're nice people. Respectable. Get me?

Nurse! Quickly please, nurse!

Nurse!

- What do you call them again?

- Proofs.

Read them to us, darling.

He reads his own work so beautifully.

Don 't you agree?

"I slammed my fist into his face

as hard as I could.

There was the sound of crunching bone.

Blood splattered everywhere

like a burst water main, stop.

I swung round

and found myself looking at prince Cippola,

and the bottomless black eyes of a hunting...

Black thoughts were transmitted.

I put my hand on her... "

Excuse me.

I'm going to the cave to see how Mama is.

"I rolled over,

gripping the aristocrat's boot as I went, stop.

He toppled like a stone statue.

I lashed out at him.

When the prince bounced on the ground

he was dead, stop.

And his blood wasn't blue, stop.

It was the same as yours and mine.

I felt better, stop.

That's all I remember.

Chapter 13.

Outside I hailed a cab. Its tyres screeched

on the hot tarmac as it drew up.

'Follow that car', I said, leaping in. "

Where do you get your ideas from, Mickey?

I'll get the bastards yet.

I wish my leg didn't itch.