Original subtitles

She was wearing nothing underneath.

She was wearing nothing underneath. Stop.

I moved my eyes slowly, deliberately 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 into his face as hard as I could. Stop.

There was the sound of crunching bones. Stop.

Blood spattered everywhere like a burst water main. Stop.

I smashed my knee into his.

I took the whip from the wall and cracked it across his back. Stop.

To my amazement, comma, he squealed with delight.

Everyone walking this Earth has a secret closet he'd rather left closed. Stop.

His face was like a crushed red pepper. Stop.

No wonder my fist throbbed. Stop.

And that wasn't all that throbbed.

I had just opened one of those little closets without knocking

and stood staring in. Stop.

I cracked the whip again. Stop.

This time across his arm.

I kissed her lightly on the cheek, then slipped quietly from the room.

Stop.

End of paragraph.

Chapter 13.

Outside I hailed a cab. Stop.

Its tires screeched on the hot tarmac as it drew up. Stop.

"Take me to the asylum,"I said.

The driver laughed.

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 people in the cemetery,

and ruled me out as a customer for laxatives.

At the time, I was living abroad.

I was already a writer, having three years before left London

and a lucrative job as a funeral director.

It was the family business of my wife,

whom I deserted together with my three children.

Handling stiffs was hardly 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 Erle Stanley Gardner, the world's fastest novelist,

who can dictate up to the rate of 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,

not that you'd know them.

My publisher didn't see Chester Thomas King

as the name of a bestselling 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, Dr. O. R. Gann,

spelled with two "N"s,

and the struggling Nigerian author, S. Odomi,

with the emphasis on the "O. "

None of them exactly made Book of the Month Club.

- Mr. King? - Yes?

Could I get 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 now?

- Of course. - Of course.

May I ask who normally types your work?

- My mother. - Your mother?

Yes, she prefers it to knitting.

Listen, if you don't want my custom, you just have to 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 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.

Yes, I remember that day, all right.

Around noon, I collected the manuscript of my latest novel.

The Organ-Grinder.

Looking back, I should have realized something was up.

A man had been tailing me for over two weeks and I knew it.

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 me everywhere.

I rode a cab round to my publisher.

Milos Marcovic,

a Greco-Albanian born in Budapest

whose talent for writing book covers is such

that even the author doesn't recognize his own work.

Silvana. 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 tensions 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 desire. 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 very much.

His life was dominated by one driving force,

a weak bladder.

Signor Marcovic,

- I didn't get all the quotes down. - Later. Later.

Open, you son of a bitch, open!

Why is this door always sticking?

Oh, Jesus, I'm bursting.

Oh, God.

I beseech you.

One last favor.

Open this door, hmm?

Thank you.

Why? Why? Why have you deserted me?

Do you want to hear my confession, honey?

What have I done wrong, hmm?

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 was it Saint Matthew?

How old is this man?

He says he is 62.

He'll really be 65 next autumn.

- And 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 handled public relations for an important man

who wanted me to write his life story.

Trouble was, he couldn't tell us who.

Although he stated categorically that it wasn't Howard Hughes.

Why me?

He likes your style, fellow. Read all your books.

Kill Me Gently. My Gun is Long.

The Knee Trembler.

All of them.

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 inside leg measurement.

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 toilettes.

Brown.

He's headed for the last round up, and he wants something to be remembered by.

A death rattle in paperback, eh?

He's got more stories than the Bible. Crazy stuff.

All you got to do, write it down.

Black.

Oh, I think that's absolutely marvelous.

Great. Stay out of it.

Okay.

Okay, take it.

Hold it, that's great.

Thank you, ladies. Thanks a lot. I appreciate your kindness.

Just win, dago.

Come on, you beautiful thing.

How are things down there at the office...

- Pinko. - He is American?

Indelibly.

He is famous?

Also white.

I'd sink.

What are you two guys worrying about? 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. "

Want to play, Mickey?

Two days later, I was traveling south. Destination unknown.

Dinuccio was so full of the James Bond crap

it had to be a private jet bound for 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 personalized mystery trip.

That freak Dinuccio had come up with a new idea of hell.

My instructions had said that someone would contact me along the way.

I looked the passengers over for a possible contact man.

Hello, little fellow, hello.

A bunch of 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. "

"Ungawa. " . "Don't spend another night alone. "

"Ungawa. "

. "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 meet me.

Dinuccio had a lousy sense of humor.

I tipped my seat back and waited for the tap on the shoulder.

Ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving at our hotel in about five minutes.

As we climb this 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 problem.

Fantastic.

Contact was made as we neared our first stopover.

He identified himself with one of my books.

A nice touch, that. And good for my royalties.

You're English.

Right through, yes.

On vacation?

Sort of a working holiday.

Ah.

What do you do?

I write.

Oh.

What do you write?

Mister...

- King. - King.

Jack Miller.

What?

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. All that reading had gone to his stomach.

He was constipated with pulp

and now it was coming out. All over me.

Ross Macdonald.

- You've read Ross 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.

I mean, 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 plotline is thin. - Oh, it is, is it?

- Relies too much on coincidence. - Oh, it does, huh?

It 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.

Okay, so I jumped the gun and spoiled his game.

That was no reason for acting like a big girl.

I made up my mind that 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.

While the armchair adventurers were packed away in their rooms,

I sat in the bar thinking.

What kind of nut was it that 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.

Oh, 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.

Ah.

You are supposed to be in 213.

They brought me in here.

That's okay. I'll take your room.

I have to watch my image.

But just a minute, this shouldn't have happened at all.

I bet you say that to all the boys.

Would you like a drink?

I took dinner early. It was part of the package and free.

I was wearing my royal blue three-piece suit with light blue shirt,

tie and matching handkerchief,

black moccasins, mauve nylon socks

and a fresh pair of Jockey pants in case of assassination.

Thank you.

I'd bathed and 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.

Get me a bottle of mineral water.

You are vegetarian?

Yes.

Why is that?

I don't like the killing of animals.

We're from Texas.

What about fish?

Occasionally.

See, I told you they're all alike.

We're from Texas.

Well, of course you are, dear boy.

Of course you are.

Eggs?

Yes.

Cheese?

They're all organic matter.

"'Contrariwise,' continued Tweedledee.

"'Lf it was so, it might be.

"'Lf 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 pageboy was right on cue.

Thank you.

Miller wanted to see me in Room 313.

It was the long arm of coincidence.

Miller?

Miller?

What's the matter with you, waterlogged?

Hey.

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 on the bus 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 having a bath.

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 canceled 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?

One hundred and seventeen times, starting again tomorrow.

Yes, well, you've picked the right turf 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. Okay? Grazie.

Yes, Mr. King?

Mr. Miller, Room 313.

I'm afraid he left early this morning.

You sure?

He had to go back to America suddenly.

Did you actually see him leave yourself?

Yes.

Thank you.

"Curiouser and curiouser. "

One thousand three hundred and seventy three, 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 photograph.

Difficult to work out who was doing what and to whom.

I was still trying when we reached the Temples of Zonk.

And the gods was angry.

Anyways, and beside

they send 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 it 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.

And many still drunk with

sexual potion.

They do not know what hit them.

In the museum, you will see a plaster cast of people

in very interesting death position.

As the poet, Memphis, described as,

"The greatest coming

"since Zeus fell upon his wife. "

And then the city sink 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 anymore.

- Very. - A ghost city for a ghostwriter.

Oh, you're so kind.

- Are people... . 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 very 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 warm, scalding warm, and wanting to be fanned.

Her tongue went deep.

It was alive and wet and very shocking.

I had visions of refueling in space.

Come on, come in here. I've got more things to show you here.

There are many important things.

Come, follow me.

Follow me.

Behind this doors, there is many things

that they are not to the eye of ladies or children.

The people of Zonk have made rude things of these walls.

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

Which brings us back to sugar daddy.

Who is he?

Preston Gilbert.

Preston Gilbert?

Is he still alive?

Mario!

Mario!

I'm done!

Mario you gone to sleep again, you bastard!

I'm getting barbequed in here!

So you're his third cousin, removed.

I was hitchhiking 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 that 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 me, I'm burned.

When I holler, "Mario, Mario," that is your name.

You understand that? And remember that's your name.

And keep that thing on

so that you can hear me in that thing stuck in your ear.

- I'm not paying you good money... - I'm sorry, boss.

Now you don't go talk, "Sorry, boss," till I finish.

I'm not paying you good money for you to sit on your big fat ass

and go to sleep.

And don't stand so close to me.

I told you never to stand close to me.

Now go on, get in here.

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

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

And stay in there.

You'll 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, signor.

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

Don't lose your cool, ghostwriter.

Just think of all the bread you're making.

Are these really on the walls in there?

The League of Decency would have loved this place.

Sex wasn't dirty then.

You want? You want, signor?

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

Besides, these fellows give me an inferiority complex.

- But, signor. . . - I meant what I said about Gilbert.

Miller was too dead to agree with me, but I'm sure he would have done.

Who's Miller?

Oh, just a man who was knifed in my room last night.

But what's that got to do with Preston?

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

Bodies belong in a mortuary, not in my bath.

But you shouldn't be surprised, darling.

After all, you are the ghostwriter.

What's this then? The family roundabout?

Never use that word, Mickey.

What word?

"Family. " Nice to see you, hop aboard.

Okay, Tony, take us for a ride.

So it's Preston Gilbert?

Big mouth. I was supposed to tell him.

I was getting in deep, very deep.

Things were moving too fast to bail out.

I've been with Preston for 32 years.

I started with him as a gopher.

I used to 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 nothing, a real nothing.

A small-time gun who had botched his first contract

and disappeared when Preston was three.

Personally, I think he wound up as an automobile fender.

That made me feel nervous.

Inside most men, there's 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,

eleven yellow tea roses with a card which said, "The twelfth is you. "

He didn't get that from no screen script, he thought of that himself.

He had class.

Boffed every leading lady he ever 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 again.

Preston?

Mr. Gilbert was born here.

Went to the States with his uncle when he was 12.

There's his mother.

Brought her here with him when he came back.

Hey, Mrs. Stompanato, where's Preston?

She loves it.

Hasn't known herself since she's come back.

Really brought herself out after all those years in the bread line.

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 all loved me.

They all loved me. Why shouldn't they?

What the hell.

On the screen, I gave them class, didn't I?

So how come I didn't win an Oscar?

Hey, do me a favor, 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, any gangsters I ever worked for.

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

So they waited until I was

a little on in years, you know, I had a little mileage on me.

Then they went after me.

Holy Jesus.

When I was asked to leave the country,

you think the fans gave a damn?

Like hell they did. That's what hurt.

I couldn't even go to a club throughout the United States.

All over. Chicago, Cleveland. You name it.

I'm not some idiot, taking a swipe.

Then they hit me in the jaw or something.

Well, that's the fans for you.

You do them a favor by living out their fantasies for them, and then they...

They get jealous.

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

Jack Kennedy, I knew him.

He wasn't no gangster.

He's a pal of mine. Good buddy.

And look what happened to him.

Sure, I got to admit it, Mickey.

I worked for a lot of the big boys, before I went out to Hollywood.

What the hell.

I figured I have already paid my debt to society.

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

Now, Mickey, glad you could come over.

Sit down, son.

That's going to be a great book.

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

You hungry?

Come on. Come on with me, I'll feed you.

No, really, I mean, they're nice people.

They're all simple, but they understand, after a while.

You know, somebody wonders why you live around here.

I was actually born here.

I went to the States with my uncle when I was four.

Oh, there's my old mother over here, Mickey.

Hello, Mama. Hello, sweetheart.

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

Hello, hello, hello. You big, long-legged whore, you.

All right. Hey, Benny.

Has Mama eaten this week?

Yeah.

All right. Come on, come on down.

Come on down, hurry up. Let's eat.

You know, you got a great appetite with this weather here and everything.

We even serve good grub, too.

Wait till you see what we lay out. Eat anything you want.

Don't make any difference. You'll be surprised.

Yeah, we got corned beef. We got everything.

Pastrami. I had some flown in last week.

But come on, Benny, let's go. Move it, move it, move it. I'm hungry.

Come on, move your ass, before I am too old to enjoy this meal.

I'm kind of hungry.

You hungry, bitch?

She's a beauty. A little sensitive. She's beautiful.

All right, everybody.

Dear Lord, bless this meal we are about to receive... In Christ's name.

Amen.

Surprise you?

I'm a good Catholic.

Liz, like to hop in the sack with him?

Oh, Preston.

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

I've 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. Come on, sit down, Mama.

Mick,

you know 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 anymore. I don't have to say my prayers anymore.

- What? - No, no. I'll explain it to you later.

Lookit, I want you to write that mother book, it's better.

No, forget about her. She doesn't speak English anyway.

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

Everything else. And look...

Hey, you know how every book starts with a quotation.

Well, my book should start with a quotation, too.

Let's see. How's this, "We've all... "

Yeah. Yeah, this is it. "We've all passed a lot of water since then.

"Samuel Goldwyn. "

Gilbert certainly wasn't tight with the dialog.

He talked non-stop for a week, enough for a good fat book.

But he never mentioned Miller again.

The trip to the mainland was to be an end-of-book party.

Some party.

The night before Dinuccio had a premonition

the ferry would sink and refused to come.

Mama received a visitation from the Virgin Mary, 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.

Hmm?

Nothing.

- What's the matter? What's the matter? - It's a wound in my leg.

Oh. 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.

Sorrento. Come Back to Sorrento. Sorrento.

That's better.

Keep it, keep it...

I meant together.

All right.

So, you're Mickey King.

Superstar's Boswell.

Did he tell you about me?

If you're Lon Chaney, yes.

I married five times. All of them hard bitches, Mick.

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.

You like being the wife of a politician?

Kissing babies, and all that bit?

I don't stop at babies.

Are you trying to canvass 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 sometime.

This weekend's fine for me.

Betty.

What special qualities did you need to be a princess?

Only one.

I'm very good in bed.

So I've been told.

Money. Money, throw money.

Hey. Hey, you guys.

- Money. Money. - Money. Money.

Hey, hit the bottom for that.

Hey, you know, Mick, how I used to make my living in the old days?

As a pimp.

After that.

This'll kill you. Watch.

Oh, God, not again. Not that same boring routine.

He does it every year.

- What? - His party bit. It's embarrassing.

So why do you come if it's that bad?

I never miss his father's anniversary. Never.

Oh, no!

Watch this, now. Watch it.

We didn't order spaghetti, did we?

We didn't order spaghetti.

- You didn't order spaghetti? - No!

Oh, madam. I am so sorry. You didn't order spaghetti.

Oh, sir. Excuse me. I'm so sorry. You don't like my spaghetti, sir?

You don't like my father?

I have nothing to do with your father.

But you have something to do with my spaghetti.

Oh, excuse me. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry, madame.

- Excuse me. I... - We've had enough of this.

What? Everybody's had enough of this.

The boss, he's going to take me to the cleaners.

What do you think he's going to do to me?

I'm in plenty big trouble. I'm in trouble up to here.

Would you like a banana split with brandy?

Brandy banana split, don't worry about it.

You ain't going to get nothing if you order it.

Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of the check.

It's nothing, honey. It's all in fun, it's all in fun, lady.

It's all in fun.

Gilbert was proud of being the great 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.

Signor, signora, I am the manager. Champagne on the house.

The waiter, he's weak in the bladder. Runs in the family.

- I fired him. - Oh, please don't do that.

Oh, that's quite all right. He has a wife and 13 children.

He may starve, but he'll never be lonely. You all right, signor?

- Fine. - Fine, fine.

Everything all right, signor?

The humor is a little rough.

Don't give me that. Back in Hollywood I used to put all those slobs on.

They used to pay me good money to put those people down at parties.

Rib them a little bit.

Some nights I'd make as much as 50 bucks a night.

Those were the days, huh?

You know, Mickey, there's a lot you don't know about me.

Oh, I believe you.

Now, don't get smart with me, son.

You're full of crap, Gilbert.

No. No. Cancer.

Of the soul. Oh, yet another funny.

No, it's true.

It's the truth. The doctors gave me the good news about a week ago.

That's why I wanted you to finish the book as quickly as possible.

You're taking me for an idiot.

Just like those two poor bastards over there.

Miller.

The coach trip, everything was rigged.

Well, you can stuff your book up your ass.

- I'm quitting. - Oh, you are?

Mr. Gilbert.

Yes, Father.

Not again.

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 as well. It wasn't a joke anymore.

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 FBl.

Things were serious if the big guns had been called in.

The one on the right.

No. Not acca.

- G. - G.

You sure?

I think so.

He says he's chaplain to the nuns at St. Lorenzo Maggiore.

Mean anything to you?

Is it a discotheque?

It's not my scene then.

They all look the same to me.

Where did you pick him up?

A brothel in Via Alfonso.

Somebody died, huh?

- Excuse me. - Pardon me.

- I'd like to have a word with you. - All right.

Next day, Liz and I returned to Gilbert's villa.

I had some questions for Dinuccio.

I found him in deep 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 Two spring from?

Mama took off as soon as she heard the news.

Back to the cave.

Don't change the subject, Ben. Who's after me?

A priest, Mickey boy.

He wants to read you the last sacrament.

He's putting you on, ghostwriter. He doesn't know.

Did sugar daddy?

Oh, 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, huh, Mickey boy?

Some writer.

Maybe Agatha Christie's free.

Preston never told you about the scandal?

- What scandal? - That's ten bucks you owe me, Liz.

The old bastard copped out.

They'll kill him anyway.

Now just a minute you two. Are you talking about me?

Relax. We'll protect you.

Oh, thanks very much. You come very highly recommended

by Preston Gilbert, who is lying dead in the local mortuary.

Not to mention his two companions,

a fat Neapolitan singer and an old accordion player.

Now, you. You tell me exactly what you were talking about?

Preston and some guy got involved in a scandal a long time ago.

It was all 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.

Jesus. They're getting everywhere.

That couldn't be him, could it?

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 cooperate 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 an outside chance I might recognize 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 want to see it again, right side up?

No, thanks. 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.

He wants to talk to you.

Who wants to speak to me?

The wizard of Farrugia.

Are you putting me on?

No. He's a big-time fortuneteller. 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. Something big.

I know. A fat lady is gonna cross my path, keel over and crush me to death.

Just the same, I think he might have a hotline up there.

I'm gonna make an appointment for you.

I didn't sleep that night.

The wizard ringing in gave me terrible indigestion.

It was just as well.

My door knob 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.

What?

A night shirt.

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 barber shop.

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. - Morning.

- Yes? - Shave.

He was wearing a dirty mackintosh.

Clairvoyants usually do.

They make up for it with wretched titles like wizard, oracle, magician.

They do okay, living off people's fears and superstitions.

- Signor King? - Yeah.

Dr. Duce.

I felt uneasy. He had eyes like bloodshot oysters.

I feel hostility. You don't trust me.

I make predictions. You 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 things?

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 10 years before.

Gilbert, I recognized, the others were just faces. Anybodies.

The address of a man in Mondragone, a village near the coast,

and the faded newspaper photograph of a young girl, with the name torn away.

What messages the fortuneteller

was meant to 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?

One of these men try to kill him. He wants to know which.

- And the girl? - I know nothing.

- I say goodbye. - And I say hello.

- And the girl, wizard? - The girl...

- And the girl? - The girl is dead.

She looked like a distant relative of Rocky Marciano.

It seemed Her Honor was on the missing list. So was her cash.

I got the feeling it was too late to retrieve either.

For me, things were beginning to look up.

I now had some leads to follow,

an address and the photograph 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 had seen it staring at me from 1,000 posters all over town.

But I had 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 photograph.

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 too much. 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 friend with the oyster eyes.

The cock crowing made me uneasy.

It was too near Easter for comfort.

A beer.

Mr. Lepri.

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 dialed each others numbers and got straight 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 had stayed with the funeral.

I looked at the stranger and knew that nobody would 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 10 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 mayor of town?

Oh, really?

- Where are we going? - I will show you.

I'm a Communist.

- You Communist? - No.

What are you?

I am an imperialist lackey.

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

The artist got 5,300 bucks for this.

He used the still 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 bikinis,

the smell of sun oil and frying flesh.

It was a long way from my own backyard and the 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.

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. "

That newspaper headline hit me right between the legs.

I remembered it from years ago.

The girl had been found dead in mysterious circumstances.

There were rumors 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.

Come on.

Come on!

Come on!

Get in.

I'll show you.

Thank God, you're mechanically minded.

- Can you drive? No.

Sod off, nanny. Sod off.

Ah!

Miller.

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.

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

I remember it clearly. 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?

Fatso's already shaking hands with his maker.

- You like it? - And it ain't General Motors.

I knew you'd like it, Mama.

You need six cents.

I'll always have them for you in a sack on the coffin.

I'm sweating, kid.

- I thought you'd appreciate it. - Cold Sweat.

Hello, ladies. Are you enjoying yourselves?

- Yes. Thank you very much. - I'm so glad you could come.

What kind of a bird is that?

It's a Maltese Falcon.

Thank you.

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 did 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 going 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 fink. 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?

Yeah.

"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 dog.

"Black thoughts were transmitted. I put my hand on her... "

- Excuse me. - What?

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. Stop.

"I lashed out. . . "

"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. Stop.

"I felt better. Stop. That's all I remember.

"Chapter 13.

"Outside, I hailed a cab.

"Its tires 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.

Oh, I wish my own leg didn't itch.