THE LIMEY

THE LIMEY    
                                   by

                               LEM DOBBS

                                                     draft 08/03/98

     NOTE:  THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS.
     THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FROM THIS SOFT COPY.

     Wilson's first impression of Los Angeles was blue.  He was in
     the sky at the time, so it was a curious reversal, looking
     down rather than up at the color he had always felt was
     nature's finest.

     Swimming pools.  Hundreds of them.  Pockmarking the landscape
     like miniature lakes.  A flat landscape of straight streets
     and square blocks and sparse grass that didn't look quite
     green enough.

     As far as Wilson could remember, he had only ever seen seven
     or eight swimming pools in his entire life and they had been
     public ones.  Here everyone had their own.  Marvellous.

     There was the one at the Butlin's holiday camp where he had
     enjoyed his last legitimate employment -- as driver of a tour
     bus.  And there was the one at Crystal Palace he had gone to
     once or twice when he was younger.  He was most familiar,
     though, with the Chelsea Baths as he had lived for some time
     in a flat nearby in what he now thought of as his good years
     -- before he'd gone grey, went to prison, and found himself in
     a plane over a foreign town arriving to avenge the death of
     his daughter.

     WHOOSH!  The sound of automatic doors opening and --

     EXT. ARRIVALS TERMINAL.  L.A. AIRPORT.  AFTERNOON.

     WILSON steps out into the late sunlight and the heat of the
     day.  A slow-motion moment while he gets acclimatized.  He
     wouldn't have ever felt quite this kind of heat before.
     After such a rigorously air-conditioned interior.  Or seen
     cops wearing guns on their belts.  Or black cops, for that
     matter, with guns on their belts.  Or seen people as fat as
     Americans on their home turf.  Things someone from England
     notices immediately, whether consciously at first or not.

                                                               CUT.

     EXT. MOTEL.  EVENING.

     Wilson's not here for comfort.  Shown to a shitty room, round
     the corner of a typical 2nd-level outside walkway.  Airport
     close by.

     INT. MOTEL ROOM.  EVENING.

     He draws a curtain open across a window in one strong easy
     glide.  His moves are neat.  His expressions just as
     economical, not giving much away.  Outside the planes are
     practically on top of us. The sunset colors strange and
     chemical.

     He's only got one light bag.  Unzips, unpacks a few things.
     Change of clothes, a travel kit, and some familiar items
     (shaving foam/toothpaste/deodorant} bearing unfamiliar
     British brand names.

     Goes into the bathroom.  Turns on the shower in there.

     Comes back to sit on the bed.  Takes an envelope out of his
     jacket.

     ENVELOPE

     Turns it over to see the return address on the back.

                                                               CUT.

     INT. TAXI.  NIGHT.

     Wilson in the back.  Stares at the impenetrable name on the
     driver's posted ID. Glances at the driver.

     DRIVER glances back at his quiet passenger in the rearview
     mirror.

                                                               CUT.

     EXT. SMALL HOUSE.  NIGHT.

     Wilson walks up a cracked little path to the front door.
     Lower middle-class street.  Two cars in the driveway, one
     behind the other.  Lights on inside the house -- as he rings
     the bell.

     ED RAMA

     Answers it.  Hispanic.  Late 30's.  Chairman Mao on his T-
     shirt notwithstanding, an easygoing sort of fellow.  Not
     looking for any trouble -- anymore.  But once did, and able
     to handle himself if any shows up.  Which it has.

                         WILSON
               Edward Rama?

                         ED
               Eduardo.
                   (rolling the R)
               Rama.

                         WILSON
               You're home, then.

     He turns, waves away the taxi he's kept waiting.  While
     Eduardo Rama waits for an introduction.

                         WILSON
               My name's Wilson.

     Accent speaks for itself.  Hard, working-class.

                         ED
               Wilson?

     Knows the name.  But just now it's unexpected.  He's holding
     a hot TV dinner, hand protected by a dish towel.

                         WILSON
               You wrote to me about my daughter.

                                                               CUT.

     INT. ED'S HOUSE.  NIGHT.

     Ed takes Wilson inside.

                         ED
               I didn't expect anyone.

                         WILSON
               No reason.

                         ED
               I mean, what has it been -- six months?

                         WILSON
               Round about, yeah.

     They've entered a cauldron of family life.  TV blaring
     (SHOWBIZ TONIGHT!).  A couple of younger KIDS yelling "Mama".
     Their MOTHER shouting back at them from the kitchen (in
     Spanish) that she only has two hands.  A sullen TEENAGER
     walking by.

                         ED
               I didn't even know who I was writing to --
               just someone with the same last name.
               She never talked about any family.

                         WILSON
               It was better than a telegram.

     Ed opens a screen door to the backyard.

     EXT. ED'S BACKYARD.  NIGHT.

     They sit at an outdoor table.  Wilson with a TV dinner in
     front of him now too.  Sounds from inside MUTED.  Even this
     little house has a little pool.

                         WILSON
               Who done it, then?

                         ED
               Huh?

                         WILSON
               Snuffed her.

     Ed surprised at Wilson's directness.  Ed stands nervously.

                         ED
               Now, wait up a second, man.

     And paces back and forth.

                         ED
               I never said nothin' about nothin' like
               that.  No, no, no.  That's not what I
               wrote to you.

                         WILSON
               No, but between the lines, eh?
               Mysterious circumstances, and that.

     Ed stops pacing.

                         ED
               Look, I sent you that newspaper clipping,
               all right?  I told you what I know.  It
               was an accident.  I didn't say anything
               about anybody being "snuffed."

     Beat.

                         WILSON
               This bloke she was bunked up with.  This
               Terry what'sit.

                         ED
               Terry Valentine.

                         WILSON
               Valentine.  What's he got to say for
               himself?

                         ED
               I dunno.  What's he gonna say?  They had
               a fight that night, she drove away, she
               was upset?  I don't even know the guy.
               Don't get me wrong, Jenny and me were
               friends, but we didn't travel in the same
               social circles.  She had her life, I had
               mine.

     Makes a kind of scoffing gesture:  and you can see what my
     life is.

                         ED
               Valentine came into the restaurant where
               I work with Jenny a couple times.  He's a
               money guy.  Jenny would say, hey, here's
               my friend Eddie and he would shake my
               hand and everything, but he wouldn't even
               see me, you know what I mean.

     Wilson gazes up at the sky.  Clear night.  Stars.

                         WILSON
               How long had she been in the States?
                   (as if to himself, somewhat
                    wistful)
               Near on ten years, wasn't it?  Long
               enough to know her way about, I reckon.

     Ed leans down, palms on the tabletop, facing Wilson.

                         ED
               There was an investigation, okay?  The
               car was totalled.  Jennifer was ... Her
               neck was broken.  On impact, they said.
               So she wouldn't have ... felt the effects
               of the fire.
                   (helpless shrug)
               It happens up there.  Happens a lot.
               What more can I tell you.

     Wilson taps out a cigarette from a pack of "Silk Cut" he's
     produced from his pocket.

                         WILSON
               What more is there.

                         ED
               I'm just sayin' -- it was a steep
               hillside.  There was no moon that
               night ...

     Wilson's quiet stillness is getting to him.

                         ED
               Coulda happened to anyone, man.  I never
               knew her to be reckless.  I mean, sure,
               she would smoke a little grass, or
               something, have a few drinks.  But that's
               it, nothing more than that.

                         WILSON
               No, not my girl.  Self-control, she had.
               Point of pride.
                   (smokes)
               And people don't change, do they.

                         ED
               I dunno ... Maybe they do.

     Wilson notes the tattoos on Ed's forearms.

                         WILSON
               Going straight, are ya.

     Ed looks at him.  Sits down again.  Keeping his forearms under
     the table.

                         ED
                   (looks away)
               Boomerang.

                         WILSON
               Y'what?

                         ED
               I knew when I was droppin' that letter
               into the mail slot it was gonna come back
               and smack me in the face.
                   (looks at Wilson again)
               I did my time, okay?  My sister, her ol'
               man's up in Chino right now doin' eight
               years.

                         WILSON
                   (re the family inside)
               This ain't your lot?

                         ED
               You kiddin', man?  I don't need a wife
               and screamin' kids.  I still got my
               youth.

     And yet -- he lives here.  Wilson declines to pursue the
     matter.

                         ED
               I go to work, try to keep my life
               together, put all that shit behind me,
               man.  What d'you want from me.

                         WILSON
                   (calmly smoking)
               I only asked.

     Ed sighs.  Reaches for one of Wilson's cigarettes.

                         ED
               Couple weeks before she died, Jennifer
               asked me to drive her downtown.  Said she
               was meeting -- her boyfriend --
               Valentine.  But I think she was looking
               for him.

     FLASH CUTS:

     ED AND JENNIFER. In a car, downtown. She has the same steely
     intensity as her father. Ed looks a little worried.

                         WILSON
                   (lighting Ed's cigarette)
               What, tryin' to catch him with another
               bird?

                         ED
               That's what I thought, man.  But it was
               not a hotel or nothin' that we went to.
               It was someplace else.

                         WILSON
               Where abouts?

     FLASH CUTS:

     JENNIFER. Talking to a beefy SUPERVISOR. Or talking at him.
     Either way, he isn't happy.

     MEAT PUPPETS. Watch instead of working.

     ED. Taking all this in.

                         ED
               Bad place, man.  Bad people.  Some guys
               loading some trucks.  Some kinda deal
               goin' down.
                   (anticipating Wilson's next
                    question)
               I don't know and I don't care.  Maybe
               they're shipping fava beans to Eskimos.

                         WILSON
               Did Jenny know?

                         ED
                   (shrugs)
               Valentine wasn't even there.  If he was
               into something, if she was involved --
               who can say.
                   (stands up again)
               But I'll tell you something.  She stood
               in front of these dudes, man.  Eyeballing
               them.  Checking them out.
                   (beat)
               I felt like she was covering my ass that
               day.

     Unconsciously rubbing his arms where his tattoos are.

                         ED
               I drove her back to Valentine's house.

     FLASH CUT:

     VALENTINE. Standing in front of his house. His expression
     says: We have something to discuss.

                         ED
               He was standing outside waiting for her.
               That's the only other time I ever saw
               him.
                   (a short sad note)
               Last time I saw her.

     He meets Wilson's gaze.  As hard and pointed as a drill
     through his skull.

                                                               CUT.

     INT. ED'S CAR.  NIGHT.

     Ed drives Wilson back to his motel.  Wilson silent.  Ed still
     not quite sure who he's dealing with.  Is this really or
     merely a grieving dad?

                         ED
               What you gonna do, man?  You gonna go to
               the cops?