Fal-net > Tips / Teaser

an exciting action-comedy screenplay
by Michael A. Weintraub and Glen Eric Reed (preview)

TITLE CARD: "Somewhere in Miami – Sometime in the 1980s"

EXT. MORTON'S – DAY

Miami, summer, glaringly sunny weekday afternoon. We are outside of Morton's, a greasy spoon diner. We follow a man as he pushes open the door and walks inside.

INT. MORTON'S - DAY

Almost immediately after entering, the man nearly collides with a waitress, Caroline Callahan. Caroline is on her way back to the diner's counter, behind which she fills two cups of coffee.

Returning to the dining area, carrying the two cups of coffee, Caroline passes a clock that reads 3:25. Sitting alone at a booth beneath the clock is a well-dressed corpulent businessman, reading a newspaper. He lifts his head and looks around the room. After a moment, Caroline, now holding just one cup of coffee, stops at the table.

BUSINESSMAN

It's about damn time.

CAROLINE

I'm sorry. What did you want again?

The businessman rolls his eyes and points at the cup of coffee in Caroline's hand.

CAROLINE (Cont.)

Oh. Right.

Caroline puts the cup down on the table too quickly. Coffee splashes everywhere, soaking the newspaper and sending a few drops onto the businessman's impeccably white sleeve.

CAROLINE (Cont.)

Oh my God, I'm so sorry!

She tries to clean up the mess, but only ends up pushing the spilled coffee around on the table and further staining the businessman's shirt.

BUSINESSMAN

Christ! Just forget it, girl. Just gimme the damn check before you drown me.

Caroline pulls a check out of her apron, looks at it, and hands it to him.

CAROLINE

That'll be ... four ninety-eight, sir. Sorry about the spill. And have a nice day.

BUSINESSMAN

Yeah, right.

The businessman stands, pulls a $5 bill from his wallet, stuffs that and the check into Caroline's apron pocket, and walks to the door.

BUSINESSMAN (Cont.)

You be sure and have a nice day too.

CAROLINE

Hey, thanks a lot for the tip.

The businessman pauses at the door, turns, and faces Caroline.

BUSINESSMAN

Oh, you want a tip? Go to Gulfstream. Bet the number six in the fifth. Mother's Biscuits. There's your tip.

The businessman exits.

INT. FRANCO'S BAR – DAY

Franco's is a strip bar with a heart of gold that sits on the Intracoastal Waterway. Though it is happy hour, the bar is generally deserted. There are two or three half-asleep patrons. A dancer picks her clothes up from the stage and walks back to the dressing room.

Juan enters, letting daylight into the dimly-lit club. We follow as he weaves through the various tables and finds his way outside to the patio.

EXT. FRANCO'S (PATIO) – DAY

Outside, the bright sun and difference in decor make Franco's look almost classy. Sitting at his favorite table, with a beer in one hand and the other one dangling over the rail, is Harvey Johnson, a muscular, rapidly aging man covered in tattoos and filled with stories to match them. He is wearing white pants and a teal blue tank top, and a white blazer is on the back of his chair. When he speaks, it's in a rhythmic manner, but when he gets excited or is telling a story, he launches into a mile-a-minute breakneck speed. Harvey doesn't acknowledge Juan's arrival; he just continues to stare out at the boats on the water.

JUAN

You Harvey?

Harvey nods and points to a chair opposite his own. Juan sits down as Harvey continues staring out at the ocean. Franco, the owner of the club, a jovial-looking bearded man, comes outside. He starts to fill an empty tray with glasses and bottles from the tables. As he clears Juan and Harvey's table, he nods at Harvey. Harvey nods back and holds his hand up to Juan.

HARVEY

Hold on a sec. What'cha drinking?

JUAN

Coors.

HARVEY

Hey Franco, two Coors here for me and my nephew.

Franco leaves.

HARVEY

He knows I'm lying. Anyway kid, live transports is a dangerous fucking business. If you'd told me it was fish, I would've told you to fuck off and find yourself another boat.

JUAN

Fish, eh? What's so dangerous about them? It's not like they try to get away or anything.

HARVEY

True, but the fish people generally only like one type of fish: piranhas. Well, some like barracudas, but that's the same fucking fish to me. Anyway, let's just say they all like the carnivore fish.

JUAN

Why the fuck would someone want them?

HARVEY

I have no fucking clue, but they do. I got out of the fish business oh, about fifteen years ago, and there's a hell of a story behind that.

INT. JUAN'S CAR – DAY

Juan is driving, Harvey is in the passenger seat.

JUAN

So where're we goin'?

HARVEY

An art dealer down on Collins.

JUAN

Okay. (a beat) What kind of art? Modern shit?

HARVEY

Yeah, modern shit. Sculptures, abstracts, crap like that.

JUAN

Man, I hate that stuff. Goes way the fuck over my head.

HARVEY

Yeah. (a beat) You know, I used to work with an artist.

JUAN

You used to be an artist?

HARVEY

No, back when I was with a team, one of the guys was an artist. Larry Molta was his real name, but everyone just called him The Saint. He was, without a doubt, the holiest guy I ever met. Before Franco's, I just worked out of a warehouse like every other smuggler in Miami. The Saint had this little side room, where he'd sit and paint for hours at a time. Never let us see what he painted, though.

Harvey gestures for Juan to turn the car.

HARVEY

Turn left there. Anyway, you hear me refer to The Saint in the past tense, as if he ain't with us no more. And that's true, he ain't.

JUAN

He's dead?

HARVEY

Yes, of course he's dead. You ever hear of a living saint?

JUAN

Mother Teresa.

INT. FRANCO'S OFFICE – DAY

Franco and Caroline enter, and Franco walks behind an oversized metal desk. A filing cabinet is against one wall, overflowing with paper, but there are only two sheets on the desk. Franco sits, pulls a pad and pen out of a drawer, and motions to a seat across from the desk.

FRANCO

Have a seat, Miss...?

Caroline sits.

CAROLINE

Oh, Callahan. Caroline Callahan.

Franco writes something on the pad. He continues to write – practically non-stop – for the remainder of the interview, though he rarely looks at what he's writing.

FRANCO

So tell me, Caroline. How long have you been working at ... Marty's, was it?

CAROLINE

Morton's. About two years.

FRANCO

And how big are your tips?

CAROLINE

Excuse me?

FRANCO

Tips, honey. What's your salary and tips like at Martin's?

CAROLINE

Oh. Morton's. They're fine, I guess.

FRANCO

So what makes you want to leave Horton's? Are you ... interested in my type of establishment?

Caroline blushes.

CAROLINE

Oh, I'm ... I was just ... I mean, I just left, quit there. I didn't really get along with my boss.

FRANCO

Well, I don't want you getting the wrong idea or anything, Caroline. You understand what I'm running here, right? All our waitresses work topless at least part of their shift.

CAROLINE

I, umm. Yeah, I understand.

FRANCO

And do you understand about our clientele?

CAROLINE

How do you mean?

FRANCO

Well, we don't always exactly get the most desirable type of guy coming in here, if you know what I mean.

INSERT (INT. FRANCO'S – DAY): Harvey and Juan walk in, talking, and head toward the patio.

Franco looks at his watch.

CAROLINE

Yeah, I understand.

FRANCO

Well, look. I've got an appointment in a few minutes. Just got one more thing to ask you, really.

CAROLINE

What's that?

FRANCO

You know any jokes?

CAROLINE

What?

FRANCO

Jokes. You know any jokes? Tell me a joke, or a funny story or something.

CAROLINE

What? I, uhh ... I can't think of any right now!

FRANCO

Come on, honey. The customers are gonna want to interact with you, and if you can't think on your feet, you can't wait tables for me.

CAROLINE

A priest, a rabbi, and a duck walk into a bar....

INT. FRANCO'S – NIGHT

Harvey and Juan enter. Harvey heads for the patio, but Juan drags him to a table in the center of the club, with a good view of the stage. Eliza, wearing a powdered wig and eighteenth century garb, comes from behind a curtain on stage and dances to Falco's Rock Me Amadeus. Caroline, topless, appears occasionally in the background, waiting tables.

As the dance goes on, and Eliza's clothes (and wig) come off, a bald black man wearing a too-cool mustard-yellow shirt, a thin purple tie, and black pants and coat, enters. Juan gestures to him and addresses Harvey.

JUAN

See that? That looks so good. But I could never look good in that. Only black guys can wear that sort of fancy, colorful shit and not look like an ass.

Harvey looks, but he doesn't seem to care.

HARVEY

Yeah, I suppose so.

JUAN

No man, I'm serious. Black men wear shit that's so cool, but would make a white guy – or a spic like me – look like a freakin' idiot or some kind of reject from the seventies.

A bald, mustard yellow leisure suit-clad white guy enters. Seeing him, Juan gestures.

JUAN

See, case-in-fucking-point! Perfect example. Tell me that guy there doesn't look like an idiot.

Harvey looks and laughs.

HARVEY

Yeah. I see your point, kid. He does look like a complete idiot. I don't think the baldness is helping his case any either. If anyone ever was fucking born for this place, man, he was.

As Juan and Harvey continue talking, Eliza finishes her dance, collects stray dollar bills and clothes, and exits backstage.

JUAN

Not only can black men look cool as shit in anything, they also make baldness a fucking work of art. Look how the lights shine off that guy's head majestically but make the white guy look like a middle aged corpse.

HARVEY

Man, with all the shit blacks have been through over the years, it's nice to see something that white guys can't live up to with them. They just look cool as hell in anything.