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EXT. PHOENIX, ARIZONA - (DAY) - HELICOPTER SHOT
Above Midtown section of the city. It is early afternoon, a
hot mid-summer day. The city is sun-sunblanched white and
its drifted-up noises are muted in blanched their own echoes.
We fly low, heading in a downtown direction, passing over
traffic-clogged streets, parking lots, white business
buildings, neatly patterned residential districts. As we
approach downtown section, the character of the city begins
to change. It is darker and shabby with age and industry. We
see railroad tracks, smokestacks, wholesale fruit-and-
vegetable markets, old municipal buildings, empty lots.
vegetable The very geography seems to give us a climate of
nefariousness, of back-doorness, dark and shadowy. And secret.
We fly lower and faster now, as if seeking out a specific
location. A skinny, high old hotel comes into view. On its
exposed brick side great painted letters advertise "Transients-
Low Weekly Rates-Radio in Every Room." We pause long enough
to establish the shoddy character of this hotel. Its open,
curtainless windows, its silent resigned look so
characteristic of such hole-and-corner hotels. We move forward
with purposefulness and-toward a certain window. The sash is
raised as high as it can go, but the shade is pulled down to
three or four inches of the inside sill, as if the occupants
of the room within wanted privacy but needed air. We are
close now, so that only the lower half of the window frame
is in shot. No sounds come from within the room.
Suddenly, we tip downward, go to the narrow space between
shade and sill, peep into the room.
A young woman is stretched out on the mussed bed. She wears
a full slip, stockings, no shoes. She lies in and attitude
of physical relaxation, but her face, seen in the dimness of
the room, betrays a certain inner-tension, worrisome
conflicts. She is MARY CRANE, an tension, attractive girl
nearing the end of her twenties and her rope.
A man stands beside the bed, only the lower half of his figure
visible. We hold on this tableau for a long moment, then
start forward. As we pass under the window shade,
INT. THE HOTEL ROOM - (DAY)
A small room, a slow fan buzzing on a shelf above the narrow
bed. A card of hotel rules is pasted on the mirror above the
bureau. An unopened suitcase and a woman's large, straw open-
top handbag are on the bureau.
On the table beside the bed there are a container of Coco-
Cola and an unwrapped, untouched egg-salad sandwich. There
is no radio.
The man standing by the bed, wearing only trousers, T-shirt
and sox, is SAM LOOMIS, a good-looking, sensual shirt man
with warm humorous eyes and a compelling smile. He is blotting
his neck and face with a thin towel, and is staring down at
Mary, a small sweet smile playing about his mouth. Mary keeps
her face turned away from him.
After a moment, Sam drops the towel, sits on the bed, leans
over and takes Mary into his arms, kisses her long and warmly,
holds her with a firm possessiveness. The kiss is disturbed
and finally interrupted by the buzzing closeness of an
inconsiderate fly. Sam smiles, pulls away enough to allow
Mary to relax again against the pillow. He studies her, frowns
at her unresponsiveness, then speaks in a low, intimate,
Never did eat your lunch, did you.
Mary looks at his smile, has to respond, pulls him to her,
kisses him. Then, and without breaking the kiss, she swings
her legs over the side of the bed, toe-searches around, finds
her shoes, slips her feet into searches them. And finally
pulls away and sits up.
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