Some Like It Hot

FADE IN:

CITY AT NIGHT:

A hearse of Late Twenties vintage is proceeding at a dignified

pace along a half-deserted wintry street.

Inside the hearse, there are four somber men in black -- and

a coffin, of course, with a wreath of chrysanthemums on top.

One of the men is driving, another is in the seat beside

him. The other two are sitting in the rear of the hearse,

flanking the coffin. All four seem fully aware of the

solemnity of the occasion.

Now they hear a SIREN, faint at first, but rapidly growing

louder. The driver and the man next to him exchange a nervous

glance. The other two men move tensely toward the rear door

of the hearse, raise the black curtain over the glass panel,

and peek out cautiously.

Through the glass panel, they see a police car bearing down

on them, the red light blinking, the SIREN screaming.

The two men at the rear window gesture to the driver to step

on it. He does.

The hearse, obviously a souped-up job, instantly picks up

speed, weaves crazily through traffic, the police car in hot

pursuit. The hearse careens around a corner at eighty miles

an hour, the police car right on its tail.

By this time the policemen are leaning out of their car with

drawn guns, firing at the hearse.

The two men in the rear of the hearse, flattened against the

sides, pull a couple of sawed-off shotguns out of a hidden

overhead rack. Police bullets smash the glass panel and

whistle through the hearse. The driver and the man next to

him duck, but the hearse continues at the same breakneck

speed. The two men in back shove their guns through the

shattered glass, fire at the police car.

Despite the hail of lead, the police car -- its windshield

cobwebbed with bullet holes -- gains on the hearse.

Suddenly the car skids out of control, jumps the curb, comes

to a screeching stop. Policemen leap out, fire after the

hearse.

In the speeding hearse, the last of the police bullets thud

into the coffin. Instantly three geysers of liquid spurt

through the bullet holes. As the firing recedes, the two men

in the back put away their guns, remove the wreath from the

coffin, take the lid off. The inside is jam-packed with

bottles of booze, some of them shattered by the bullets. As

the men start to lift out the broken bottles --

SUPERIMPOSE:
CHICAGO, 1929

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. INTERSECTION OF STREETS - NIGHT

Traffic is light. All the shops are dark except one -- a

dimly lit establishment, from which drift the mournful strains

of an organ. A circumspect sign reads:

MOZARELLA'S FUNERAL PARLOR

24 Hour Service

In the window, a sample coffin is on display.

There seem to be some rites going on inside, because a number

of mourners, singly and in couples, are hurrying from the

cold, windy street into Mozarella's parlor.

Meanwhile, the hearse with the damp coffin draws up to the

delivery entrance at the side of the building. The driver

honks the horn -- one long and two short -- as the other men

step down and start to slide the coffin out. The side door

opens, and a dapper gent emerges. He wears a tight-fitting

black suit, a black fedora, and gray spats. The spats are

very important. He always wears spats. His name is SPATS

COLOMBO. He cases the street, motions the men inside. As

they carry the coffin past him, he removes his fedora, holds

it reverently over his heart. Then he follows the men in,

his head bowed.

Across the street and around the corner, three police cars

draw up silently, and about fifteen uniformed policemen and

plain-clothes men spill out. A Captain gives whispered orders,

and the men scatter and discreetly take up positions around

the funeral parlor.

Out of one of the cars steps MULLIGAN, a tough Federal Agent --

in plain clothes, of course. With him is a little weasel of

a man, shivering with cold and fear. They call him TOOTHPICK

CHARLIE for two reasons -- because his name is Charlie, and

because he has never been seen without a toothpick in his

mouth.

MULLIGAN:

(indicating funeral

parlor)

All right, Charlie -- this the joint?

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