The Usual Suspects

1 -BLACK

The lonely sound of a buoy bell in the distance. Water

slapping against a smooth, flat surface in rhythm. The

creaking of wood.

Off in the very far distance, one can make out the sound of

sirens.

SUDDENLY, a single match ignites and invades the darkness. It

quivers for a moment. A dimly lit hand brings the rest of the

pack to the match. A plume of yellow-white flame flares and

illuminates the battered face of DEAN KEATON, age forty. His

salty-gray hair is wet and matted. His face drips with water

or sweat. A large cut runs the length of his face from the

corner of his eye to his chin. It bleeds freely. An un-lit

cigarette hangs in the corner of his mouth.

In the half-light we can make out that he is on the deck of a

large boat. A yacht, perhaps, or a small freighter. He sits

with his back against the front bulkhead of the wheel house.

His legs are twisted at odd, almost impossible angles. He

looks down.

A thin trail of liquid runs past his feet and off into the

darkness. Keaton lights the cigarette on the burning pack of

matches before throwing them into the liquid.

The liquid IGNITES with a poof.

The flame runs up the stream, gaining in speed and intensity.

It begins to ripple and rumble as it runs down the deck

towards the stern.

2 EXT. BOAT - NIGHT - STERN 2'

A stack of oil drums rests on the stern. They are stacked on

a palette with ropes at each corner that attach it to a huge

crane on the dock. One of the barrels has been punctured at

it's base. Gasoline trickles freely from the hole.

The flame is racing now towards the barrels. Keaton smiles

weakly to himself.

The flame is within a few yards of the barrels when another

stream of liquid splashes onto the gas. The flame fizzles out

pitifully with a hiss.

Two feet straddle the flame. A stream of urine flows onto the

deck from between them.

BLUE 06/01/94

2.

The sound of a fly zipping. Follow the feet as they move over

to where Keaton rests at the wheel house.

CRANE UP to the waist of the unknown man. He pulls a pack of

cigarettes out of one pocket and a strange antique lighter

from the other. It is gold, with a clasp that folds down over

the flint. The man flicks up the clasp with his thumb and

strikes it with his index finger. It is a fluid motion,

somewhat showy.

Keaton looks up at the man. A look of realization crosses his

face. It is followed by frustration, anger, and finally

resignation.

VOICE (O.S.)

How are you, Keaton?

KEATON:

I'd have to say my spine was broken,

Keyser.

He spits the name out like it was poison.

The man puts the lighter back in his pocket and reaches under

his jacket. He produces a stainless .38 revolver.

VOICE (O.S.)

Ready?

KEATON:

What time is it?

The hand with the gun turns over, turning the gold watch on

its wrist upward.

The sound of sirens is closer now. Headed this way.

VOICE (O.S.)

Twelve thirty.

Keaton grimaces bitterly and nods. He turns his head away and

takes another drag.

The hand with the gun waits long enough for Keaton to enjoy

his last drag before pulling the trigger.

GUNSHOT:

The sound of Keaton's body slumping onto the deck.

YELLOW 06/11/94

3.

MOVE OUT ACROSS THE DECK. Below is the stream of gasoline

still flowing freely.

The sound of the gasoline igniting. The flame runs in front

of us towards the barrels, finally leaping up in a circle

around the drums, burning the wood of the pallet and licking

the spouting stream as it pours from the hole.

MOVE OUT ACROSS THE DOCK, away from the boat.

The pier to which the boat is moored is littered with DEAD

BODIES. Twenty or more men have been shot to pieces and lie

scattered everywhere in what can only be the aftermath of a

fierce fire-fight.

A BARGE COMES INTO VIEW.

On the deck of the barge is a tangle of cables and girders.

The mesh of steel and rubber leaves a dark and open cocoon

beneath its base.

MOVE INTO THE DARKNESS.

Sirens are close now. Almost here. The sound of fire raging

out of control.

SIRENS BLARING. TIRES SQUEALING. CAR DOORS OPENING. FEET

POUNDING THE PAVEMENT.

MOVE FURTHER, SLOWER, INTO THE DARKNESS

Voices yelling. New light flickering in the surrounding

darkness.

SUDDENLY, AN EXPLOSION.

Then silence. TOTAL BLACKNESS.

We hear the voice of ROGER "VERBAL" KINT, whom we will soon

meet.

VERBAL (V.O.)

New York. - six weeks ago. A truck loaded

with stripped gun parts got jacked

outside of Queens. The driver didn't see

anybody, but somebody f***ed up. He heard

a voice. Sometimes, that's all you need.

YELLOW 06/11/94

4.

BOOM:

3 INT. DARK APARTMENT - DAY - NEW YORK - SIX WEEKS PRIOR TO

PRESENT DAY:

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