THRESHOLD | Part 6 "Unscuffed Gems"
A new voice, a famed guest, a keen mind...
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RSS Feed THRESHOLD is a direct continuation of Malevolent, the Audio Drama. This Series 2 sees John and Arthur having returned to Arkham after their time seeking the BLACKSTONE and facing the new and terrible truth this world has revealed to them. Faced with the new challenges before them and old foes perhaps still a threat, the duo must carve a new path in this strange world.
Featuring Jo Guthrie as "Faroe"
Support Malevolent and be a part of the story now at: https://www.patreon.com/TheINVICTUSStream
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PART SIX: UNSCUFFED GEMS
Transcripts made and edited by keyraven, Snake, jack
CWs: firearms (mentioned), ear ringing, sounds of fighting
(BEGIN Part 6.)
(Over the radio, staticky and tinny.)
RADIO ANNOUNCER: For the next 24 hours, not much change in temperature. A slight atmospheric disturbance of undetermined origin is reported over Nova Scotia, causing a low pressure area to move down rather rapidly over the northeastern states, bringing a forecast of rain accompanied by wind of light gale force. Maximum temperature 66, minimum 48. This weather report comes to you from the Government Weather Bureau. We now take you back to entertainment reporter Dave Abbott as he speaks live with renowned actor, star of the silver screen, and lead in the upcoming motion picture Over the Barrel, Roscoe Harris.
(A bell rings; in the background.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Dave Abbott speaking to you from— Heh. Well, I suppose… Do you mind terribly if I—
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, no, that's all right.
DAVE ABBOTT: Thank you. I'm speaking to you from Marco's Gym here in downtown Arkham. I'm standing in the large ring area, or just outside it, speaking with none other than the infamous Roscoe Harris. How are you doing this afternoon, Roscoe?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, I'm all right. I'm just fine, thank you.
DAVE ABBOTT: Yes. We've been invited to join you in one of your many recent expeditions into the real world of what you actors, uh, do to uncover a role. Is that fair to say, Mr. Harris?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, I wouldn't call it expedition necessarily, but…
DAVE ABBOTT: Why, yes, that's… that's fair.
ROSCOE HARRIS: But no, no, not all actors are the prim and proper unscuffed gems the papers make us out to be. I wanted to invite you down here to see for yourself what some actors do to get into a role.
DAVE ABBOTT: No, no. I'd say you're quite the scuffed gem, if you'll forgive the comparison.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Please.
DAVE ABBOTT: Mr. Roscoe Harris, who of course we know from his many pictures, including Sweetie on the Bounty and last year's well-received picture, Honey, I Do, is standing before me, well, in what I can only describe is a uniform fit for a boxing ring.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes, these trunks are mine.
DAVE ABBOTT: Ah, yes. And, well, tell us, Mr. Harris, what does it take to get into the role?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, for the past six months, I've been training here at Marco's Gym with Mr. Brown himself to get into the fighting mindset. I don't just want those watching the picture to see an actor, I want them to see a fighter. After all, this isn't just my story.
DAVE ABBOTT: No, I'd say it isn't.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Why, just this morning before you came, I was ten rounds with Alex over there.
DAVE ABBOTT: Ten rounds? That's quite the feat.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, yes, as you can see, I'm… I'm quite the mess.
DAVE ABBOTT: Sweating bullets, I'd say. Mr. Harris, what do you say to the newspapers who have claimed this role is too tough for you, too brutish for your historically romantic film past?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, to them I say nuts! If you doubt my commitment, well, then you know where to find me.
DAVE ABBOTT: Ha! I say they do. Marco's Gym.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Though I won't be here the rest of the week.
DAVE ABBOTT: No, I should say you won't, given we've revealed your previously unnamed boxing gym, well, I'd say you're liable to get swarmed by adoring fans any moment now.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes. And with that, I suppose I should go and freshen up.
DAVE ABBOTT: Yes, hit the showers, as they say. Well, thank you, Mr. Harris, it's been a pleasure.
ROSCOE HARRIS: The pleasure has been all mine.
DAVE ABBOTT: And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the one and only star of the silver screen, Mr. Roscoe Harris, a real man's man. Back to you in the studio, Neil.
(A soft whoosh. Radio static and tinny quality vanish. Indistinct background clatter of a gym.)
DAVE ABBOTT: And we're off. Thank you, Mr. Harris, that was a real treat.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes, well, you all take care of yourselves. Thank you for coming down here.
DAVE ABBOTT: Our pleasure.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I am afraid I was being earnest about the shower, though.
DAVE ABBOTT: Yes, yes. You enjoy the rest of your day.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You, too. (A pause.) (Muttering.) Ten rounds, ten rounds, idiot. No one is going to believe you went ten rounds. (A door opens, closes. Background clatter quiets.) Should have done the fucking road picture with Debbie. (Harris sighs.) It's your own damn ego, Harris. (A tap is turned, water flowing.)
(Arthur clears his throat. A pause. Arthur clears his throat, louder.)
ARTHUR: Sorry, sorry. (The tap is turned off, water stops flowing.) Are you, um…?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes, Roscoe.
(A soft whoosh.)
JOHN (excited): I knew it, Arthur! (A silly tune starts to play.) Roscoe Harris, the movie star. I've seen him in pictures. He… he goes to the gym here!
ROSCOE HARRIS: I'm sorry, I don't have a pen.
ARTHUR: No, it's okay. (John grumbles.) My, uh, friend is a fan.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh.
ARTHUR: N-N-No offense.
ROSCOE HARRIS: None taken.
(Sounds of shaving.)
JOHN (frustrated): Arthur, you idiot. Finish shaving and talk to him.
ARTHUR (under his breath): About what?
JOHN: Do you not recall what we've learned since coming here? The owner is away, gone for who knows how long. Seemingly unrelated to Johnny, but that means our best shot at finding anything about Mr. Fleming is to ask around. It's just you and him in the bathroom right now. Become a friend. Then we can try to get some information.
ARTHUR (awkward): Uh, so you, um… gonna take a shower?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I had planned on it.
JOHN: Less awkward.
ARTHUR: Good, good. I just… just took one myself. Very, ah… hot.
JOHN: Jesus Christ.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes…
ARTHUR: So you're here just to train, I guess, to stay in shape? Or-or…
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, actually, I'm working on a picture. Over the Barrel.
ARTHUR: Ah.
ROSCOE HARRIS: It's the Case Harlow story. The boxer.
ARTHUR: Ah, I haven't heard of it.
ROSCOE HARRIS (surprised): No? It was everywhere last year.
ARTHUR: Sorry. I'll have to see it.
JOHN: He was muttering to himself when he first came in about having doubts or something. Try connecting with him.
ARTHUR: Are you, um… (Arthur clears his throat.) Feeling strong about it?
ROSCOE HARRIS: What does that mean?
ARTHUR: Oh, I don't know. I guess, uh—
ROSCOE HARRIS: You're more used to seeing me in the romantic pictures as well?
ARTHUR: Oh, no. Actually, I'm mostly into westerns. I don't think I've seen one of your pictures, sorry.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You haven't? Honey, Do I? Sweetie on the Bounty? The Charming Mr. Redgrave. A Week in November. One Ticket to New York. None of those?
ARTHUR: Sorry.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, you must have seen Stateside Dream. Everyone saw Stateside Dream.
ARTHUR: I'm sorry, I really haven't.
JOHN (sulky): I want to.
ROSCOE HARRIS: So you really haven't seen any of my pictures, huh?
ARTHUR: No.
JOHN: Okay, he looks intrigued.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Alright, well. Then let me ask you a question.
ARTHUR: Sure. (Footsteps.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: Do I look like a boxer?
JOHN: Roscoe Harris is a short, lean man. He's wearing silk shorts, and his hair is parted very cleanly to one side. He has a handsome face, though slightly plump. But his eyes are dark, intelligent, cutting. Eyes that seem to have a great deal of thought, or perhaps malice behind them.
ARTHUR: Not really, no.
JOHN (exasperated): Arthur!
ROSCOE HARRIS (taken aback): No?
JOHN: You idiot!
ARTHUR: I-I I mean… (A tap is turned, water starts flowing.)
JOHN: He's looking for reassurance.
ARTHUR: I mean, look, I've known a fair number of boxers in my life, you know, and I think you have the look down, sure.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, what else is there?
ARTHUR: What else? I mean… everything. (The tap is turned off, water stops flowing.)
JOHN: Okay, okay, you've hooked him. He's turned off the tap and he's turned to us.
ARTHUR: Look, to enter the ring, you know, to become a boxer, it's-it's not just about strength or skill or desire or reward.
ROSCOE HARRIS: It's about a killing instinct.
JOHN: He looks at himself in the mirror.
ARTHUR: Um, no, no. It's about… confronting a part of yourself, recognizing it. A part of yourself that… that you kind of hate.
JOHN: His head snaps back to us.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Hate?
ARTHUR: Look, no one enters the ring willingly knowing that they're gonna get their bell rung. But when they do get hit, real fighters, the ones that stay focused, ones that win, a part of them knows that they deserved it.
ROSCOE HARRIS: What do you mean?
JOHN (confused): What do you mean?
ARTHUR: Look, when you get hit… There are two people in this world, Harris. Those who say, “Why did this happen to me?” And those who say, “Hell, it's about time.” Which are you?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Why would anyone say, “It's about time?”
ARTHUR: We all have ghosts in our past, Harris. Things we run from. Shadows we try to avoid. Some we can never escape. When a fighter gets hit, he stays up because he knows in some way that… that that hit was due. That each hit, every hit, is coming from a place that's deserved. It isn't just the drive or the power or the will. It's what's owed. That's what makes them get back into the ring every time.
That's what makes them too stubborn to give in. It's the reason they don't fall to pieces the first time they're hit. Because it wasn't about, why did this happen to me? It was about, yeah, I suppose I just got my comeuppance.
JOHN: He looks down, thoughtfully.
ARTHUR: You may look the part and your body may be able to take a hit. But when you do get hit, does it feel unfair or does it feel like it's due?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I… uh… well, I wouldn't know.
JOHN: Hm.
ARTHUR: You-you've never been hit?
ROSCOE HARRIS (defensive): No. Is that a bad thing?
ARTHUR: It is if you want to be taken seriously as a boxer.
JOHN: His eyes tighten.
ROSCOE HARRIS (genuine): I do. I really do.
JOHN: He turns his whole body to face us.
ROSCOE HARRIS: All my life in the pictures, I've been the pretty boy, the charming lead, the handsome Jack who either wins the girl or steals the girl or betrays the girl for another prettier girl. It's all hogwash, I tell you. I want to make pictures that matter. That tell real stories about real human triumph. This is my chance. I want to change the way people look at me.
JOHN: He almost looks… envious at us.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I look at you, I see the scar on your neck, the pain in your eyes. I can see what I'm trying to capture.
ARTHUR: How long have you been at this gym, working out here?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Six months or so.
ARTHUR: I suppose you know your way around here pretty well then. Do you know the owner well?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well enough that I have a spare key for the place when he's out of town. (Keys jingle.) Though the others lock up.
JOHN: Bingo.
ARTHUR: Alright. I'll make you a deal, Roscoe. You help me find information about someone, someone who presumably comes here often, and I'll help you change the way people think of you. A-at least for this film. Deal?
JOHN: He eyes us up and down.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You have yourself a deal, Mister, uh… I didn't catch your name.
ARTHUR: Look— Just call me… Holder.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Holder?
JOHN: I— Hm…
ARTHUR: Yes, my name doesn't matter, to a degree. It's safer for you not to know.
JOHN: He raises an eyebrow in suspicion. He holds it for a moment… and then a smile cracks in the corner of his mouth. I don't think he— (A door creaks open.) The door to the bathroom opens and another man walks in. He's a large, angry-looking man with tightly-cut blond hair. He seems to be averting his gaze almost purposefully. Roscoe looks to him and back to you, studying your face. His eyes fixate on your scar for a moment, and as if convinced, he nods.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Alright then. Give me a moment here and then… meet me in the hallway by the back door.
ARTHUR: Sure.
JOHN: He gives a curt nod, gesturing to the man who just entered.
ARTHUR: Thanks, Harris.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Please, call me Roscoe.
JOHN: He smiles, a twinkle in his eye as he heads toward the showers. (Footsteps.) Let's get dressed. The lockers are to the right of the sink.
ARTHUR (mildly annoyed): Yeah, I recall.
JOHN: Here, here. Here. Locker 18. (Arthur opens the locker, cloth rustles.) So. Holder?
ARTHUR: It was mine first.
JOHN (sighing): I suppose I'm more asking… Why, if you're gonna use a fake name, tell him that it's fake?
ARTHUR: Look, we don't know how deep this goes.
JOHN: Meaning?
ARTHUR: Are we alone?
JOHN: Yeah, the showers are around the corner.
ARTHUR: Let's assume for a moment that Johnny is the culprit behind Puckett's murder. He— let's say hired, summoned, forced the creature to murder Puckett, then slipped back in to snag the key.
JOHN: Yes.
ARTHUR: How much of that could he really do alone?
JOHN: Potentially all of it.
ARTHUR: Sure, but we've dealt with cults before. Devotees to the kinds of things you saw in that vision.
JOHN: True.
ARTHUR: How many of those were entirely alone in their pursuits?
JOHN: Well, Antoine spent many years alone on that island—
ARTHUR: You're telling me a long standing underboss of Puckett, an Arkham native who lives above a gym, learned how to control a god-like being in order to murder his boss?
JOHN: Fair… Though looks can be deceiving. If Lennie the Great is any indication.
ARTHUR: Yeah, well, whatever power Lennie unknowingly holds aside, I think it's fair to assume that Johnny had at least some help. Right?
JOHN: Yeah, I suppose so. Although he could have just been a legman, the one to grab the key and run.
ARTHUR: Except he didn't. Or rather, we snagged the key off him.
JOHN: Right, so he would have returned home empty handed, having failed the mission.
ARTHUR: Exactly. To the chagrin of his co-conspirators. So what is the first question that they would ask, and the first details that he would share?
JOHN: Who took the key.
ARTHUR: Exactly. So, if he's working with others, it's highly likely that he shared our description, and they're probably out there right now… looking for us. Perhaps even tailing us.
JOHN: You don't think that—
ARTHUR: I don't know. It would have been awfully quick if the person tailing us were one of Johnny's friends.
JOHN: I mean, we've already ruffled a fair amount of feathers in such a short time.
ARTHUR: I'm not going to speculate just yet. But all of this means—
JOHN: It means using a fake name and keeping a tight lip will protect others from knowing too much.
ARTHUR: Exactly. They may be able to ID us, but so long as our face doesn't connect with our name, then we can keep the people we care about safe.
JOHN (sighing): Alright. (Arthur closes the locker, sighs.) We're dressed. Let's head to the stairwell to wait for Roscoe.
ARTHUR: Yeah.
(Footsteps. A door squeaks open, closed. Background clatter intensifies.)
JOHN: Huh. It's busier out front. To the right, here. Straight ahead. The stairwell is through a wooden door… (A door opens.) Here, here. (A door closes. Background clatter quiets.)
ARTHUR: If Roscoe is a regular, as he says, he'll know the comings and goings of Johnny and potentially anyone Johnny was with.
JOHN: Okay, but there's an angle here you haven't considered.
ARTHUR: Which is?
JOHN: What if Johnny wasn't a co-conspirator but rather… forced into stealing the key from Puckett?
ARTHUR: Go on.
JOHN: Well, let's say this group, this collective that controls the entity that killed Puckett. Let's say they wanted the key and forced Johnny to get it for them.
ARTHUR: Alright, so Johnny's a little lamb and his feet were over the fire, doesn't change much.
JOHN: Except for when he comes back empty handed. No longer are the co-conspirators sympathetic to a failed job. The collective that forced Johnny to steal the key is vengeful and angry at his failure.
ARTHUR: Still, same difference. He tells them who we are and they find us. Only change is Johnny probably gets tied up as a loose end.
JOHN: Unless he's smart.
ARTHUR: Say he is?
JOHN: They can't kill him if he's the only one that can ID us.
ARTHUR: Interesting. Alright, I can buy this as a possibility, that he was being coerced into this. But then the minute he realized he lost the key, he wouldn't come home. He'd know more than likely that he'd be a dead man. Eventually.
JOHN: True.
ARTHUR: Good work.
JOHN: You too. Holder.
ARTHUR (good-natured): You love it. (John chuckles. A door opens, closes.)
JOHN: Roscoe enters the stairwell freshly showered and his hair combed. (Footsteps.) He's wearing white slacks and a pink collared shirt underneath a double breasted houndstooth jacket. He looks like a different man. One who clearly cares about his appearance.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You saw him too?
ARTHUR: Who, the guy who entered the showers? He's probably just a fan.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Maybe if you starred in pictures. He barely looked at me.
JOHN: He's right.
ARTHUR: No one should know why I'm here.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Is that safer for me as well, Holder?
ARTHUR: Safer for everyone.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Your words don't come across as rough and tumble as your face, Holder. What are you, a spy?
ARTHUR: No, nothing like that.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Then what? A cop? No, a dick. A private eye.
ARTHUR: Eh…
ROSCOE HARRIS: Alright, just tell me. If we're helping each other, then I'm helping the right side.
ARTHUR: Now that I can guarantee.
ROSCOE HARRIS: So who is this someone I'm helping you find information on?
ARTHUR: A man by the name of Johnny Fleming. He lives upstairs. Uh, from the street outside, it looks like the only way up is through. I didn't see an outside entrance.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You're right. One way in and one way out: this stairwell.
ARTHUR: Have you seen him? Do you know of him?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I've done you one better. I've been to his apartment a few times.
JOHN: Careful…
ARTHUR: Why?
ROSCOE HARRIS: To play cards. A few friendly games. One or two not so friendly.
JOHN: His eyes tightened, sizing us up.
ARTHUR: So would you say you're a… a friend?
JOHN: He looks uncertain. If the two of them were close, this may have been a bad idea.
ARTHUR: Look, maybe you know, maybe you don't. Maybe you're thinking it's wiser to keep a tight lip, but I'm here looking for Johnny or where he might be. If he's up there, or you got nothing to say, then our deal is done. I can't help you out—
ROSCOE HARRIS: Now hold your horses. I said the games were friendly, not that we were. I had been coming here a while, and it was clear that Marco Brown and Mr. Fleming were close friends. Marco is a right guy, so I carried the weight onto Fleming, but it didn't stick.
JOHN: He looks around, up the stairwell to ensure we're alone.
ARTHUR: Go on.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Fleming is part of the East End Wind. The Wind that often gets financing for pictures. The kind of financing that comes in on a dirty boat and leaves clean. The kind I stay far away from.
ARTHUR: Doesn't sound like you're far away.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I'm no fool. I may have had to push to get Over the Barrel made. The studio only wants me for romantic pictures, this was a passion project. And so I agreed to help secure some financiers.
ARTHUR: So you went to Johnny.
ROSCOE HARRIS: No! The farthest thing from it. It was happenstance and the games got sour when he tried to push it on me a little too hard.
ARTHUR: Do you normally sit down with mobsters?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Now you listen here. I have no problem standing by my convictions, but I'm no dip. I'll tell you what I think of him 'cause he already knows. And I'll say who he's working for 'cause it's no secret 'round here, but I'm not going to stand in the man's hallway and put the knock on him. That's just bad business.
ARTHUR: If you're saying what I think you're saying, then we're coming at this from the same side, Roscoe. (Sigh.) I need to learn about Johnny Fleming. Or, ideally, find him.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Why?
ARTHUR: Did you read the papers today?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Every day.
ARTHUR: Well, it's plastered all over page one.
ROSCOE HARRIS: The murder. What's that got to do with the East Wind?
ARTHUR: The main gust.
ROSCOE HARRIS: And Fleming?
ARTHUR: His number two.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Hm…
ARTHUR: And right now he's top on the list of suspects. It's possible that I won't even be the last one here today. Though I'm hoping to be the first.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Tell me, is this… personal?
ARTHUR: As business as it gets.
ROSCOE HARRIS: So who are you working for?
ARTHUR: No one reasonable, I can assure you. But it's work for work's sake. I'm not being paid to lay a finger on anyone. Or to care about anything else, frankly. I'm here to do a job and get out.
JOHN: He grimaces slightly.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Alright then. Well, I know he's not home.
ARTHUR: How?
ROSCOE HARRIS: His car wasn't here.
ARTHUR: His car?
ROSCOE HARRIS: He always parks in the same spot. He's got a very obvious Packard V12, Roosevelt. He's never here without it.
ARTHUR: Nice car.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Which makes all the more sense now. I assumed his dirty dealings in the pictures paid for it. But it sounds like he was his boss's ride. Alright. So what do you need me to do?
ARTHUR: Well, if he's not home… Well, then I need to go poke around upstairs and see if he came back here last night.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, let me come with you.
ARTHUR (emphatic): Come with me? No. No, this isn't the kind of thing for—
ROSCOE HARRIS: For what? An actor?
ARTHUR: No. No, not really.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, perfect. You're meant to help me break from that shell, anyway. I can tell you more about him. His personality and the like.
ARTHUR: Look, if you really want to help, poke around out there. Find out if Johnny came back last night. That'll be more useful to me right now. What time he left, the comings and goings, all that.
JOHN: Or keep an eye out.
ARTHUR: Or keep an eye out for us, yeah.
ROSCOE HARRIS: But I've been to his apartment. I know my way around it. You are missing an opportunity to have another set of practiced eyes.
ARTHUR (sighing): Alright, yeah.
JOHN: Are you sure?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Good. Glad to see you're on the right track.
ARTHUR: Yeah.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Though it would have been a gas knowing you'd be stuck picking Johnny's lock, and I have a key right here. (Keys jingle.)
JOHN: He holds up the keys.
ARTHUR: You wouldn't have given them to me?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, and watch you twist when you get pinched carrying my keys? No thank you, sir. If I'm going to be involved, I want to be involved, do you hear me?
ARTHUR: As crystal. Now, if you're coming, we ought to move.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Fire by fire.
ARTHUR: Alright. (Footsteps.)
JOHN: The brickwork seems slightly different. Interlaced with the main gym, but an off color. As if the floor above was added as an extension to the original building. In fact, the door we passed to enter the stairwell looks as though it used to lead to an alley.
ARTHUR: This… floor above the gym. Do you know if it's new?
ROSCOE HARRIS: By the look of it, I'd say so.
JOHN: Here on the top floor, the corridor turns from a brick to a slatted wood wall panel. There's a door to the left down the hall and one to the right further back.
ARTHUR: Eh, there's two doors?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Johnny is the door on the left, built atop the gym. Marco's office is to the right, near the back.
ARTHUR: Right, let's go. (Footsteps.) So, just the one apartment? And giving it to Fleming of all people. Isn't that strange?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I'm not aware of the deal exactly, but from what I've seen in the way Marco speaks to Johnny, I bet Marco's expansion came as a loan from Johnny, who came to collect in the form of an apartment.
ARTHUR: Why bother taking the loan if you know it has strings?
JOHN: Roscoe gives us a surprised look. We're here at the door.
ROSCOE HARRIS: This your first time dancing in the wind? (Keys jingle.)
ARTHUR: No. I mean, I've had my fair share of waltzes but—
ROSCOE HARRIS: A loan from these men is never a choice. They give you the money and then collect. Sometimes it's the money they lent you, sometimes it's a favor. In this case, I think it was an apartment. Fleming wanted one and he had Marco build it for him. It was never a debate.
ARTHUR: Yet somehow you said no to him financing your picture. (A lock is turned.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: I guess I'm just persuasive. (A door is opened.)
ARTHUR: Hm.
JOHN: Johnny's apartment.
ROSCOE HARRIS: After you.
JOHN: The lights. (The door is closed.)
ARTHUR: Uh, lights?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes. (A pull-cord switch is pulled. John grunts.) There. That better?
JOHN: Johnny's apartment is a rather large, comfortable looking bachelor pad. The wall to our immediate right runs the width of the room but is interrupted by an opening towards what looks like a bedroom. The main footprint lay to our left. A large bar sits against the back wall, outfitted with an expansive bottle-covered counter. There's a couch in the far left corner with some clothes hastily strewn upon it.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You want a drink?
ARTHUR: Ah, no, no, no. No. Don't touch anything. We don't want anyone to know we were here.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Right, of course. I'll check the bedroom.
ARTHUR: You do that.
JOHN: In the main space of the room is a large card table with six chairs around it. Two windows lay along the back wall with their shades drawn. Lamps dot the corners of this room and a comfortable looking brown leather lounge chair sits opposite the door. His bedroom is to our right behind a set of open pocket doors. And it looks like the bathroom is to the right of that room.
ROSCOE HARRIS (from a distance): Looks like he packed a suitcase and split.
ARTHUR (pondering): Really…?
JOHN: Here. His bed is to the— yes.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Look. (A drawer is pulled open.) And the drawers are empty. Nothing left.
JOHN: It's true. (A drawer is pushed closed.) And there's a large imprint of a suitcase on the bed, which doesn't look slept in either.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Though he must have left in a hurry.
ARTHUR: Why's that?
ROSCOE HARRIS: He left his pomade. (A jar is opened, then placed down.)
ARTHUR: Why don't you have a look around out there? See if there's anything you notice that's… different. Missing, or still there.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes, yes, alright. Use my keen senses.
ARTHUR: Yes, your actor senses.
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, no. My detective senses. You know, I was offered a role in a detective picture. Passed on it, but I was a perfect fit. (A whimsical tune starts playing.)
ARTHUR: Sure. You apply that logic and see what you can find out there.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Right-o. Sleuth.
JOHN (deadpan): Oof. Tell me I wasn't like that.
ARTHUR: Oh, he's helping, give him a break. He's the only one who's been in here. If Johnny packed up and left in a hurry, maybe your theory isn't so wild.
ROSCOE HARRIS (from a distance): What's that now?
ARTHUR: Oh, ignore me. I speak to myself sometimes. You look around out there. Just ignore me.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Sure, sure.
JOHN: You think he split because he failed the job?
ARTHUR: I don't know. (Arthur inhales.) What's out of place? Help me create a story, will you?
JOHN: Sure.
ARTHUR: Okay, I'm heading back to the front door.
JOHN: Yeah.
ARTHUR: Let's start with the possibility that you put forth. That Johnny was coerced, or at the very least didn't trust whoever helped kill Puckett.
JOHN: Sure.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Still looking.
ARTHUR: G-good. (A door is opened.) Okay. I've just come back.
JOHN: Having failed. Or maybe he just realized what he's missing.
ARTHUR: Sure. I check my pockets…
JOHN: No key.
ARTHUR: I stand here a moment, frozen in… fear? Frustration, anger.
JOHN: They're going to kill you.
ARTHUR: I need to run. I need to get away.
JOHN: Leave everything behind.
ARTHUR: But I need to calm down.
JOHN: I'm rattled, balled up.
ARTHUR: But I don't have time for a drink.
JOHN: Bar’s across the room, miles away.
ARTHUR: I need a cigarette.
JOHN: My pack… it's gone. Soaked through!
ARTHUR: Soaked through?
JOHN: Yeah, it was raining, remember?
ARTHUR: Right, soaked through.
JOHN: There were more on my dresser.
ARTHUR: Were there?
JOHN: I saw a pack— a fresh pack.
ARTHUR: Perfect. So I head to my bed.
JOHN: But I stop.
ARTHUR: Why?
JOHN: I don't know.
ARTHUR: No, I mean, why are we stopping?
JOHN: The carpet here. It's still wet.
ARTHUR (realizing): Okay.
JOHN: By the front door, and then here, just outside the bedroom.
ARTHUR: There's no door to the bedroom?
JOHN: It has two pocket doors that are large, but they were open when we came in. They're basically making this one massive room.
ARTHUR: So why stop here?
JOHN: Well, we're about ten feet from the foot of the bed. Maybe the doors were shut.
ARTHUR: Opening a door, even a sliding door, takes seconds. Not long enough to soak the carpet through. Huh… Okay, we keep moving toward the bed.
JOHN: I grab my suitcase.
ARTHUR: From…
JOHN: Under the bed.
ARTHUR: Sure, sure. (Arthur crouches down.)
JOHN: Yeah, there's enough space for it under here.
ARTHUR: Okay. So I pull it out and I put it on the bed. (Arthur stands up.)
JOHN: I'm still panicking.
ARTHUR: I go for the cigarette I wanted.
JOHN: Right. On the dresser.
ARTHUR: Where?
JOHN: Behind you.
ARTHUR: Oh, perfect. Okay. I pull out a cigarette.
JOHN: No. Two.
ARTHUR: Two?
JOHN: A freshly opened pack of Brandyjacks are laying on top of his dresser with only two cigarettes missing.
ARTHUR: So he smoked two before leaving.
JOHN: No. One is laying next to the pack. The other's missing. Why take out two?
ARTHUR: Because… Because he wasn't alone.
JOHN: He wasn't? (A pause.) He wasn't, Arthur?
ARTHUR: What if… What if he came back and there was someone waiting for him?
JOHN: Oh. Okay. Go back to the door.
ARTHUR: Okay. I come in, panic—
JOHN: And I see someone. They're sitting in the brown leather lounge chair opposite the door. Let me take a look, see if there's anything there.
ARTHUR: Well?
JOHN: Nothing I can see. No bullet casings.
ARTHUR (thinking): Hm…
JOHN: What's to say he didn't enter with a friend, a lover, or a partner? Maybe they both packed and left.
ARTHUR: And she doesn't smoke?
JOHN: Maybe. But nothing here indicates that someone was waiting for him, necessarily. For all we know, the second cigarette just fell out when he grabbed it.
ARTHUR: Did you find anything, Roscoe? (Bottles clink, distant.)
ROSCOE HARRIS (from a distance): Formulating a few theories. Nothing concrete. Seems odd his liquor cabinet is mostly empty.
ARTHUR: Okay, you keep looking.
JOHN: Why would the chair be moved?
ARTHUR: Hm?
JOHN: The imprint of the leather chair. It's pretty clear in the carpet, indented from sitting in this place for a long time.
ARTHUR: Right.
JOHN: Except the chair is just next to the imprint, as if it were moved, but only slightly.
ARTHUR: Only slightly?
JOHN: Why move the chair half an inch?
ARTHUR: Because they didn't move it half an inch.
JOHN: No?
ARTHUR: No. They moved it entirely. And then moved it back.
JOHN (realizing): Oh.
ARTHUR: Whoever was waiting for Johnny wouldn't be sitting here in clear eye shot of the door.
JOHN: No?
ARTHUR: No, no, no. It runs the risk of Johnny seeing them upon entry and then bolting.
JOHN: Right, right! Well, this room is largely open; you can see everything from the doorway.
ARTHUR: But not in the bedroom.
JOHN: No.
ARTHUR: Okay, I walk in. I panic. I walk toward the bed and—
JOHN: Stop, as I see another man.
ARTHUR: With a gun on me.
JOHN: Sitting in this chair. They're faint, but the same four indents the leather recliner made over time on the carpet in the main room — they're here as well, at the foot of the bed. The chair was there for at least a short time.
ARTHUR: Thus explaining why I'd stand ten feet from the bed dripping water onto the carpet. And… confirming your theory about Johnny's relationship with whomever summoned that being.
JOHN: You think?
ARTHUR: The only reason someone would move that chair here would be so they were out of sight long enough for Johnny to enter the apartment? That's not a cohort or a partner. That's someone you would be afraid of.
JOHN: Alright. We talk.
ARTHUR: He… forces us— at gunpoint— to pack a bag.
JOHN: Make it look like we're leaving town.
ARTHUR: I ask for a cigarette.
JOHN: I pull out two. Why?
ARTHUR: Because… Because I want whoever came next to know…
JOHN: That I wasn't alone.
ARTHUR: Which means… he may have left other clues, too.
JOHN (sighing): We could spend all day pouring over this apartment. Let's not forget what you said about being the first here. There may be others.
ARTHUR: Okay, we know that Johnny left, possibly through force. But we don't know where to or who with.
JOHN: I understand, but if we want to stay out of the mix, we should talk to Roscoe and then make tracks.
ARTHUR: This is the place, John. This is the first major piece of the puzzle. We're literally following the bread crumbs. It— (Arthur sighs.) Look, if we cut and run, if we miss a key piece of—
JOHN: I know. But if we're caught… If those who know our face put it to our name…
ARTHUR: Then we've got another mess of trouble to sort through. (Arthur and John sigh.) Look, what happens will happen. That's the way this goes. That's the job. It's messy. It's why few do it, and even fewer do it well. (John huffs.) You can't let your fear or doubt run the show. That's not going to help anyone. We've been hired to investigate the murder of Puckett, and this apartment is paramount to that investigation. You know that. Holder would know that. He would understand the risk and know… to take it.
JOHN (begrudging): I suppose so.
ARTHUR: And if he wouldn't… Well, you should do a rewrite.
JOHN: Hey. (A whimsical tune starts playing.)
ARTHUR: Hay is for horses.
JOHN: I know how to write my detectives.
ARTHUR: I'm just pulling my leg.
JOHN: Alright. Well, that doesn't mean we need to dawdle.
ARTHUR: Of course not. And you're not wrong to check in with Roscoe.
JOHN: He's in the main room.
ARTHUR (murmuring): Right.
(Footsteps. Roscoe makes a noise of acknowledgement.)
ARTHUR: Alright, what do you have?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I'm a bit surprised with how few bottles he has here.
ARTHUR: Yeah, you mentioned. I-I'm not seeing a bite worth pulling though…
ROSCOE HARRIS: It's just odd for him.
ARTHUR: Right, but… y'know, bottles run out, cabinets get emptied.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You're thinking he pulled a twenty-three skidoo, right?
ARTHUR: Yeah, it's looking that way. But I don't think he'd bring the bar.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I think you may need to replace that bulb there, Holder. It's dim.
ARTHUR (mildly offended): Alright.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I'm telling you, Johnny never had a thin bar. It was always stacked to high heavens. The latest, greatest, best, and cleanest. Especially around this time. It was a point of pride for him.
ARTHUR: And?
ROSCOE HARRIS: And this bar speaks to a man who wasn't planning on staying in town much longer.
JOHN: Oh.
ARTHUR: Oh. You're saying—
ROSCOE HARRIS: I'm saying, why keep a stocked bar if you're on your way out?
ARTHUR: You think he'd been planning on leaving town for a while in advance?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Glad you're finally on the beam.
ARTHUR (sighing): Yeah, well, yeah, that certainly lines up with my thinking. Okay, yeah. Good job, Harris.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Roscoe.
ARTHUR: Roscoe. A-Anything else jump out to you? Anything of note?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Hm…
JOHN: He scans the room again with a raised eyebrow, almost performative.
ARTHUR: Anything you notice?
JOHN: He takes a long look. He can tell we're waiting on him, and he's relishing the moment.
ARTHUR (pointed): Anything you notice there?
JOHN: Oh, you meant me!
ARTHUR: Yeah.
JOHN: Right.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Give me a moment.
JOHN: Well! Besides the bar, which, as Roscoe aptly pointed out, is a bit thin on bottles, the couch in the back seems… rarely used. There's a large radio in the corner. (Roscoe hums, thinking.) But, I mean, the card table is the main attraction here.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, I'm not sure if there's anything to this, but… (Roscoe sighs.)
ARTHUR: Lay it out.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I've been here a handful of times. Most to play cards with some of Johnny's boys—
ARTHUR (sighing): Know any of them by name?
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, not really.
ARTHUR: W-who sat at the table? Who was in the last game you played? When was it?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Only last week. And the table was, well. Alex, my sparring partner downstairs. He's a good one. He's not mixed up in this.
ARTHUR: No?
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, I'm sure of it. You can discount him entirely.
JOHN: He makes an odd expression. I'm not sure what it means, really.
ARTHUR: Alright.
ROSCOE HARRIS: There was a big fellow. Johnny called him Bull, though I doubt it was his real name. He sat in a few games over the months. Not very bright, and certainly not a good card player. I almost got the suspicion he was there in case things went wrong.
ARTHUR: Wrong? How so?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, Johnny was a cool head, but you couldn't say that about everyone who sat down at the table.
ARTHUR: Such as?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, I don't know. There was a… a David, or Dave, who looked to be the sort to cheat at cards. And a, um… an-an Eddie, I think.
JOHN: Eddie? (Chilling musical sting.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, and a man called the Colonel, though I don't—
ARTHUR (shaken): H-hold, hold on, you played with an Eddie?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Um, no. No, I— No, I didn't. They spoke of an Eddie. Eh, in one of their previous games. A real hothead.
JOHN: Eddie who worked for Edwin. Who we killed.
ARTHUR: Did they say anything about Eddie? Anything you can remember that—
JOHN: He raises a confused eyebrow.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Not that I can recall. Why?
JOHN: Best to drop it, Arthur. I-I don't think Eddie has anything to do with this.
ARTHUR: Oh, uh, no reason. You said the Colonel?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes. Definitely didn't fit in with the others. He was a tall, stuffy-looking man with a long, gray moustache. And he walked with a cane. I remember him distinctly 'cause the handle of the cane was a raven, carved out of black wood.
ARTHUR: Well, what was his relation to Johnny? Why was he here?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I couldn't tell you. But it was clear Johnny respected him. Treated him with an air unlike I'd ever seen. He was a fantastic card player, too. (Roscoe chuckles.) Up until, well…
ARTHUR: Up until what?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, even the best card players have a tell. It took until I lost all my money before I found it though. But in those last few rounds I caught on.
ARTHUR: His tell? It—
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes. Whenever he was bluffing, he'd stroke his moustache with his right hand. It was very subtle. But the minute I caught on, I told him. In private, of course. Made him quite embarrassed.
ARTHUR: You told him you saw the tell?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I play a gentleman's game. Though had I caught it earlier, I doubt I would have been so forthcoming. (He chuckles.)
ARTHUR: Huh.
JOHN: None of these names seem familiar.
ARTHUR: Sorry, I interrupted you. You said there may have been something.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes. I'd only been here three times when not playing cards. Each very brief visits. One when Johnny wasn't even here, and each time—
JOHN: He gestures to one of the spots on the table.
ROSCOE HARRIS: —here on this card table, in this spot, a game of Solitaire was laid out.
ARTHUR: Okay.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Always. Even the few times we had drinks before playing cards, he'd first have to clean up the game of Solitaire. I remember I even asked Marco about it, and he, too, said Johnny was never without a game of Solitaire on the go. Right here.
ARTHUR: But there's no game on the go.
ROSCOE HARRIS: No. Which is why I figured it may not be worth noting.
ARTHUR: Hmm…
JOHN: The spot Johnny sits at seems… unremarkable. Its back is to the only corner, without windows, and in view of the door. A position of safety. There's a deck of cards here that's open.
ARTHUR: An open pack of cards?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes.
ARTHUR: One would assume that…
ROSCOE HARRIS: Well, he would bring them.
JOHN (realizing): Unless he counted on someone knowing he'd never leave them behind. Pick them up!
ARTHUR: And why still open? So hastily put away?
JOHN: There's a piece of paper sticking out of the deck. A folded piece of paper. (With growing excitement.) Like the one you felt in Johnny's pocket, at Puckett's. Like the one Puckett wrote on, moments before his death! (Arthurs sighs.) Do we read it now? O-or, should we wait, and just take it? Read it away from Roscoe? I mean… who knows what it'll say?
ARTHUR: Alright, well, might as well take these with me.
JOHN: Yeah, good call.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I thought you said we shouldn't touch anything.
JOHN: Roscoe steps forward. Put the deck in our pocket.
ARTHUR: True. But in this case, taking the cards works in our favor.
ROSCOE HARRIS: How so?
ARTHUR: Look, if your assessment is correct, and Johnny wouldn't go anywhere without the cards, then they shouldn't be here. Right? The fact that he left them is information that I want to make sure only we know.
JOHN: His eyes tense for a moment, a brief flicker.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Clever. You know, seeing you in action, seeing the way your mind works… Well, it gives me pause for thought.
ARTHUR: Oh yeah? How so?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Maybe I was too quick to pass on that detective role. I assumed it was a bit… two-dimensional. A simple role, keen senses and insight, both of which I had in spades. Heh.
ARTHUR: No longer the case?
ROSCOE HARRIS: There is a… wickedness behind your eyes that I did not anticipate.
JOHN: Wickedness?
ARTHUR: Is that so?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yes. A calculated coldness. Not there for cruelty or deception but protection. One held for safety rather than malice.
ARTHUR (flippant): You get all that from a deck of cards?
ROSCOE HARRIS: My job is reading people, Holder. I'm a student of man. And you… you are quite the intense read.
ARTHUR: Well, you'll have to put me down for now. I think we've overstayed our welcome.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Is that so?
ARTHUR: So say my keen detective senses.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Right-o.
JOHN: Let's head to the door. (Arthur grunts. Footsteps.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: You know, Marco is sure to be back in a few days. I'd be happy to find out what he knows about Johnny Fleming's comings and goings.
ARTHUR: You're really taking this role to heart.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You've piqued my interest. And perhaps I look forward to a little excitement in my comfortable life.
ARTHUR: Sure. You wanna ask Marco about Johnny when he comes back, go for it.
JOHN: It can't hurt.
ROSCOE HARRIS: If Johnny flew the coop for good, and the East Wind is dying down, Marco may be keen to tell me all the ins and outs.
ARTHUR: I won't hold my breath, but you're welcome to it.
JOHN: The door. (The door opens.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: Of course… it means you'll have to tell me your real name…
JOHN: Arthur.
ROSCOE HARRIS: …Holder.
ARTHUR: Well, look, if that's the deal—
JOHN: Arthur!
ARTHUR: Eh?
JOHN: There's a large man in the hallway, staring at us. (The door is closed and locked.)
(Arthur sighs.)
LARGE MAN: Mr. Harris?
ARTHUR: I didn't see anything, Mr. Harris. I-I'm not sure where the leak above the gym is coming from. I appreciate you calling me in with Mr. Brown out of town, but I-I—
ROSCOE HARRIS (quietly): I've got this, Holder.
JOHN: What?
ARTHUR: What?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I've got this. (To the large man, with bravado.) I thought I smelled something I'd stepped in.
LARGE MAN: Huh?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Figured it was shit, but didn't realize it was Bull.
LARGE MAN (offended): Hey!
ARTHUR: Harris!
JOHN: What is he doing?!
ROSCOE HARRIS: So where'd he go, Bull? Where is old Johnny?
BULL: I don't know what you're talking about.
ROSCOE HARRIS: I assumed it would take a lot to get through all that meat to your brain.
BULL: What?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh come now, Bull. I can't speak any slower. Johnny split. And I'm betting you know where.
(Arthur splutters.)
BULL: I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Harris, but you're being awfully rude. I have no idea where Johnny is.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, is that so? So not only are you completely useless to us, you're completely useless to Johnny, too.
JOHN: Arthur, you need to get in there and stop this.
ARTHUR: Now l-listen here! I-I don't know what Harris here is on about, we were just leaving. Eh—
BULL: Who are you?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Detective Holder, but I'm the one talking to you, you big palooka, so why are you looking at him?
JOHN: Grab him! (Arthur grabs Roscoe, pulling him aside.)
ARTHUR (hissing): What the hell are you doing?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Bad cop. You play good cop. (Thudding footsteps)
ARTHUR: We're not cops.
ROSCOE HARRIS: So?
(Bull punches Roscoe. A thud, like a body hitting the ground or wall.)
ARTHUR (unsurprised): Yep.
JOHN: Bull socked Roscoe right in the jaw!
ARTHUR: Yeah—
JOHN: He's reeling back for another.
ARTHUR: L-look-look, look, this is all just a misunder—
JOHN: Arthur!
(Bull punches Arthur. Arthur cries out in pain.)
JOHN: He hit us!
ARTHUR: Goddammit!
ROSCOE HARRIS (flabbergasted): He hit me! He hit me.
ARTHUR (annoyed): No shit, Harris!
ROSCOE HARRIS: But good cop, bad cop is—
ARTHUR: Only works when we're actually cops!
JOHN: He's coming in for another hit, Arthur. Duck!
(Arthur ducks. Bull punches Roscoe again. Roscoe falls on the ground.)
JOHN: He hit Harris square in the face. Harris is down.
BULL: You standing here in my boss's hallway talking to me like I'm some kind of idiot?
ARTHUR: Look, we are really sorry about that.
JOHN: Duck! (Bull grunts.)
ARTHUR: Any chance we can talk this out? (Wooden splintering.)
JOHN (urgent): Arthur, he's grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall.
ARTHUR: I suppose not.
JOHN: Get down!
(Bull grunts, wood smashes, and Arthur breathes hard.)
ARTHUR: Roscoe?
JOHN: Down. There's no blood, but he's nursing his nose.
ARTHUR: Listen here, Bull! Whatever you think you're doing, whoever you think you're protecting, there's no value in it right now.
BULL: You think I'm stupid? (With effort.) My loyalty can't be bought!
(A crash. Wood splintering.)
JOHN: To the right!
ARTHUR: No, I'm not doubting your loyalty, I'm saying Johnny's gone. And he's in a whole heap of trouble. Haven't you read the paper?
JOHN: He stops.
BULL: Reading is for pantywaists and squares.
ARTHUR: Alright, asshole. You wanna fight, let's fight.
JOHN: Lay this prick out.
BULL: You wanna box me, pushover?
ARTHUR: No. I want to teach you how to read. But I'll settle for teaching you a lesson.
BULL: Well, you can try. (He laughs.)
JOHN: Dukes up, Arthur. Listen to me closely and quickly.
(Thudding footsteps. Bull grunts, throwing a punch.)
JOHN: Left. Right. Left. (Arthur dodges punches.)
BULL (laughing): You call that boxing?
JOHN: Hit him, Arthur! From the left. (John grunts.) Ah, miss.
BULL: You're sending telegraphs from overseas.
JOHN: Arthur, he's got a mean left hook. Listen to me, y—
BULL: You're no boxer.
JOHN: Right! (Arthur dodges a punch.)
ARTHUR (out of breath): You know, the East Winds are drying up, Bull. What's the plan when all this comes crumbling down?
JOHN: Left! (Arthur dodges a punch.)
BULL: Johnny'll take me wherever the work is.
ARTHUR: Johnny's gone, Bull! What aren't you getting?
JOHN: Right again! (Arthur dodges a punch.) Arthur, a jab to the right, now! (Arthur throws a punch, misses.)
BULL (laughing): You're telegraphing still.
JOHN: He means you're broadcasting your next move. Don't look like you're going to throw a punch. You have to—uh— Right! (Arthur dodges.) Right—no, no, left!
(Bull's hit lands. A ringing sound. Voices become muffled and echoey.)
BULL: Like that.
JOHN (muffled): Arthur! You've been knocked flat. He's standing over us, and-and… (Distant, muffled sound of voices.) Arthur, down the hall. Friends of Roscoe, of the gym. Arthur!
BULL (clear): Saved by the bell.
JOHN (hardly intelligible): Arthur!
BULL: See you later.
(A pause. A desolate, haunting melody plays.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: Holder…
JOHN: Arthur.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Holder? …Holder? (John sighs in relief. The noise of a crowd filters in. Roscoe chuckles.) Yeah, he's alright. Thanks—
JOHN: Arthur, you're back.
ROSCOE HARRIS (to the crowd): We'll be down shortly.
JOHN: Roscoe. Some men from downstairs, friends of Roscoe's—
ROSCOE: He's okay.
JOHN: —and clearly not fans of Bull, came to our aid. They chased Bull away. He laid you out something fierce.
ARTHUR: Eugh. I feel like my head is full of cotton.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yeah, well, you took quite the slug.
JOHN: Roscoe is kneeling before us. We're still in the upstairs hallway.
(Arthur shakes himself.)
ARTHUR: What the hell were you thinking, going on like that to Bull? What did you think would happen?
ROSCOE HARRIS: W-well, I thought we could… (Arthur hisses in pain.) Pressure him. Corner him, you know, I-I… Oh, I don't know. (Roscoe sits.) I suppose I really balled it up, didn't I?
ARTHUR (sighing): Well, you got your boxing experience.
JOHN: And the bruises to prove it.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yeah. I suppose.
ARTHUR: What, getting hit in the face wasn't all it's cracked up to be?
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, it's not that, it's… This boxing picture. This Over the Barrel. It's… It's all wrong, Holder, I tell you.
ARTHUR: What? You were so excited about it. You said it was your life's work.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Poppycock, It's malarkey! I… It's an ego-driven piece of dirt that exists purely 'cause I was tired of being seen in only the one light. It's hollow, Holder. It's vanity. Plain and simple.
ARTHUR: Well, so what are you gonna do?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I tell you, Holder, you really gave my head a shake.
ARTHUR: You're sure Bull wasn't the one doing that?
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, I mean it. Seeing you work, seeing what you do, for a living, I mean… Maybe I got this thing all wrong.
ARTHUR: How so?
ROSCOE HARRIS: I don't want to be seen as the tough guy, the lughead. I want to be smart, whip-smart. Keen. But with a darkness behind the eyes. Like you.
ARTHUR: You make it sound so… glamorous.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Phooey to glamor. I want to make a picture that really shines. One that showcases not my muscles but my mind.
ARTHUR: Well, then… do it.
ROSCOE HARRIS: Yeah?
ARTHUR: Yeah, what the hell. Make the picture you want.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You think I could do it? Do I look the part?
ARTHUR: More than you did a boxer, I can tell you that.
ROSCOE HARRIS (chuckling): Well, thanks. (Arthur exhales.)
JOHN: We should, uh…
ARTHUR: Yeah, look, I… I need to skedaddle.
ROSCOE HARRIS: No, no, of course. Don't lay down for a while, yeah?
ARTHUR: No. No, I won't. (Arthur and Roscoe both stand, with effort.)
JOHN: The stairs down are just ahead. (Footsteps.)
ROSCOE HARRIS: And I meant what I said. About talking to Marco.
ARTHUR: You're gonna stick around here? After all that with Bull?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Oh, he won't be coming back. He knows he went too far. He's not the brightest bulb.
ARTHUR: No. He wasn't.
ROSCOE HARRIS: But I will. I'll… I'll find out what I can about Johnny from Marco, and, well, I'll let you know.
ARTHUR: Sure. Sure.
JOHN: We're on the bottom step. The door to the main part of the gym is just to our right.
ROSCOE HARRIS: You know, if I do find anything out, you probably should tell me your real name.
ARTHUR: You want to be a detective? For real?
ROSCOE HARRIS: Of course.
ARTHUR: Figure it out.
(Arthur opens a door. Roscoe chuckles. The roar of a crowd pours in.)
ARTHUR: So long, Roscoe.
ROSCOE HARRIS: So long… Holder. (To the crowd. Arthur exhales.) Yes, yes, one at a time, one at a time. Yes.
JOHN: The gym is filled with adoring fans of Roscoe's. I'm sure we've already become lost in the crowd. Keep moving this way, toward the front of the gym. (Crowd fades. Arthur makes a tired noise.) You okay?
ARTHUR: Yeah, I'll live.
JOHN: You don't think we should've given Roscoe our name? He could turn up something useful.
ARTHUR: Eh, I doubt it. He'll wake up tomorrow and lose interest in this whole detective thing.
JOHN: You think?
ARTHUR: It's a wager.
JOHN: Ugh, don't say that. Doors, here. (A door opens. Arthur grunts, exhales noisily.) It's afternoon already. (Pawsteps approaching. A dog barks.) Oh, for fuck's sake! The dog followed us here!
(Arthur laughs in delight.)
ARTHUR: He's a real fan. (John huffs. Soft jangles as Arthur pets the dog.) Hey, pooch. You're not the headline though, pup.
JOHN: Why…? What are you…?
ARTHUR: The cards. The paper.
JOHN: Right, right! Here, to the right. An alley.
ARTHUR: Yeah. Okay.
JOHN: Pull them out.
ARTHUR: Here.
JOHN: C-careful. Careful. It looks like the paper was wet. I-it's dry now, but fragile.
ARTHUR: Right. Puckett's last words.
JOHN: I know.
ARTHUR: In his final moments, John, this was the message he wanted to share with us. This could be everything. The piece that unravels this whole mystery.
JOHN: I know.
ARTHUR: Alright. (Paper unfolds.) Well, tell me it isn't blank.
JOHN: I-it isn't. It isn't.
ARTHUR: What does it say?
JOHN: It says… "Please forgive me… Katherine."
(A pause.)
ARTHUR (bewildered): Who the fuck is Katherine?
(A final click, followed by static.)
(END Part 6.)