The Public Eye Page #4

BERNZY:

Didn't even make it to Bellvue, poor

bastard. Thank God I was able to

administer his last rites.

CUT TO:

INT. ALL-NIGHT DRUGSTORE - NIGHT

In black and white, overcranked, we watch a Sailor and his

Girl necking in the rear-booth of a drugstore.

WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S.)

That's not very polite.

At normal speed, in color, we see Bernzy, sitting at a booth

near the counter of the drugstore, staring at the young

couple. He has a cup of coffee, a plate of eggs and his camera

on the table.

Bernzy, caught staring, looks up at the WOMAN.

WOMAN:

I know what it's like. I work nights

myself.

She takes a seat across from Bernzy.

She has plain, well-scrubbed features, and wears a raincoat.

A Nurse and a Doctor are at the next booth.

BERNZY:

Professional interest...

(he puts the camera

to his eye)

See?

WOMAN:

(ignoring this)

Break-time comes, there's nobody to

talk to, you feel lonely, right?

(a beat)

How much you got on you?

Bernzy looks at her a beat before picking up the camera again.

He shoots the Girl and the Sailor, rather than answer her.

BERNZY:

'Tomorrow He Sails' -- That's the

caption.

WOMAN:

C'mon, how much? There's no harm in

it.

BERNZY:

My wife wouldn't like it.

Bernzy throws a dollar on the table, collects his camera:

he's in a hurry to get away. Meantime:

WOMAN:

Honey, you're not married and you

don't have a girl: I saw how you

were looking at those two.

Bernzy gets up to go.

WOMAN:

Your socks don't even match.

He pretends not to hear her, as he heads for the door. She

Calls after him, with a plaintive sweetness.

WOMAN:

Oh, c'mon -- come back!... It's lonely

out there!

CUT TO:

INT./EXT. BERNZY'S SEDAN/STREET - NIGHT

Bernzy drives, his gaze unflagging. The Dispatcher

monotonously intones a series of drab numbers on the hissing

radio.

CUT TO:

INT. BERNZY'S APARTMENT - DAY

The police radio continues to hiss, O.S., without

interruption, as we pan Bernzy, asleep on top of his bed.

He's curled up in his clothes.

Still panning, we see the apartment. It's exceedingly

cluttered -- as unkempt and eccentric as its occupant. The

shades are drawn against daylight.

On the crowded table Bernzy uses for a desk, there is a

payroll check from Time, Inc.:

TWO MURDERS. . . . . .$35.00

Pinned to the bulletin board over the desk, there are covers

from the New York Daily News, Mirror, World-Telegram, Post,

Sun and Journal-American, all featuring Bernzy's photos of

classic tabloid subjects: fires, corpses, handcuffed hoods.

Piled against a wall are two four-foot-tall stacks of cigar

boxes with masking tape labels across their front flaps.

These are marked with laundry pencil: "Vagrants," "Drunks,"

"Strippers," "Rich & Poor," "Coney Island," "Gangsters -

Dead," "Miscellaneous Crowds," "Bowery - Night," "Gangsters -

Live."

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