Lethal Weapon Page #5

(beat)

Jesus, Dick Lloyd. What's he want?

TRISH:

The office called. He's been

trying to reach you for three days

now.

MURTAUGH:

I haven't talked to him in... sh*t,

twelve years? No, wait a minute,

that would make me fifty years old,

that can't be right.

TRISH:

(smiles)

You're not getting older, you're

getting better.

MURTAUGH:

Inform the children of this.

(kisses her; heads

for the door)

Forget the eggs, I'll eat later.

TRISH:

Whatever.

(beat)

Honey?

(as he stops)

How come I never heard of Dick

Lloyd?

MURTAUGH:

I never talked about him.

TRISH:

Oh.

(beat)

Vietnam buddy?

MURTAUGH:

Yeah. Vietnam buddy.

He exits the kitchen, crosses the entrance hall. Stops,

noticing Rickles the cat, who is happily munching on the

remains of Roger's birthday cake.

MURTAUGH:

Hey.

He swats it aside. Pauses, his gaze lingering on the

silent message which gnaws at his guts.

THE BIG 50 ...

He comes out the front door. Flicks off the Christmas

lights, crosses to the car. Looks up, and sees --his

oldest daughter Rianne. Jogging past. She wears an

adorable pair of dolphin shorts. Walkman headphones.

She waves.

RIANNE:

'Bye, Daddy.

He waves.

MURTAUGH:

(shakes his head)

Goddamn heartbreaker. She's a

heartbreaker.

CUT TO:

13 SERIES OF SHOTS - RIGGS GETTING DRESSED 13

Riggs enters the living room, naked. Scars on his back,

the kind you get from knives. Runs a hand through limp

hair. Turns on the lamp. As he does --the TELEVISION

also springs to life; hooked to the same circuit. Pops

three aspirin from a bottle. Chews thein.

Opens a bag of peanuts, throws it to the big Lab, who

gobbles them down.

Eats a sandwich, standing in the middle of his apartment.

'Looking at the floor. What a lonely f***ing guy ...

Straps on his gun. .9 millimeter Beretta, if it matters.

Throws on a jacket. Downs a shot of whiskey. Pauses,

looking at a photograph on the wall. Riggs, much younger,

along with a pretty and vivacious woman in a wedding gown:

his wife. Stares at the photograph. His fingers twirl

the whiskey glass with completely unconscious skill.

Tense. Tense ... twirling the glass ... RICHARD DAWSON

DRONES from the TV (our survey says -- !). Riggs slings

the shotglass. Dead center, SHATTERING the TV SCREEN.

CUT TO:

14 INT. POLICE FIRING PANGE - MORNING 14

Targets:
Human silhouettes with kill zones numbered.

Murtaugh enters. Sheds his coat, unholsters the .38.

Steps to the red line. Shifts. Stretches. Cracks his

neck. This is a ritual for him. He stops to examine his

right hand, holding it steady before his eyes. Except

there is a slight tremble. Tiny, but it's there. He

frowns. Braces himself: Cross-draws with lightning

swiftness. -- BAM! -- The sound is DEAFENING in the

closed room. A neat round hole appears in the target.

Perfect shot:
a neat third eye. Murtaugh smiles.

Holsters his gun. Puts on his coat -- and sings softly

to himself:

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