Fletch Page #4

37 STANWYK

STANWYK:

Will you kill me?

38 FLETCH

FLETCH:

Sure.

39 INT. NEWSPAPER BUILDING - DAY

Fletch pushes through the double glass doors, still dresses in a beach mufti -- the jeans and Magic Johnson shirt, Puma sneakers.

40 INT. L.A. NEWS OFFICE - DAY

Fletch is greeted ad-lib by several people as he walks through the cavernous newspaper City Room.

REPORTER:

Whoa, check out the beach boy!

SECOND REPORTER:

Looking very good, Fletch.

FLETCH:

Thank you so much

(to someone else)

Hey, Larry!

Larry, the young "morgue" researcher, hurries over and walks with Fletch. She is fun and flirty, and her feelings for Fletch fall just short of idolatry.

LARRY:

Yo!

FLETCH:

Can I steal you for a minute?

LARRY:

Only if you promise not to return me.

FLETCH:

Deal.

LARRY:

(pointing to Fletch's T-shirt)

'Magic' today, huh?

FLETCH:

Kareem's in the wash. I need a favor.

LARRY:

Shoot.

FLETCH:

Don't say shoot, okay.

They pass the office of the city editor Frank Walker, fiftyish. Hold on Walker's office. Upon noticing Fletch, he jumps from his seat, edges his way past the two reporters in his office and runs outside.

WALKER:

Fletch. Fletch!

40-A FLETCH AND LARRY

They continue their walk.

FLETCH:

Did you hear something?

LARRY:

Not me.

FLETCH:

Me neither. See what we've got on a guy

named Alan Stanwyk, okay? I need it right away.

WALKER:

(running up to them)

Fletch, I take it by your presence here that

the story is done. Tell me I'm right.

Fletch hold up a hand.

FLETCH:

W-Y-K no 'c.' I'll be down in a minute.

LARRY:

No problem, boss.

Larry peels off and Fletch now talks to Walker without breaking stride for his office.

WALKER:

Fletch.

FLETCH:

Frank, you look a little peaked. Wanna vomit?

WALKER:

No, I want an answer, Is the story done?

FLETCH:

Uh, almost.

WALKER:

'Uh, almost' is not an answer. 'Yes Frank, it's all

done':
that's an answer.

FLETCH:

(as he enters his cubicle)

And a damn fine one, I might add.

41 INT. FLETCH'S CUBICLE - DAY

A pile of mail is on his desk. On the walls are a team portrait of the Lakers, plus a couple of blow-ups of his column. Fletch writes under the name of Jane Doe. An unused word processor is on his desk, but the keyboard has been moved aside to make room for an old, much-used Royal typewriter.

He bounces some waste paper off the monitor into a strategically placed waste can. (A lot of crumpled papers lie on the floor all around the can.)

FLETCH:

Two....

WALKER:

Irwin....

FLETCH:

Oh, I hate it when he calls me that.

WALKER:

Irwin, professional journalism time, now. Go back to the

goddamn beach and finish the goddamn story!

FLETCH:

I will, Frank, I will. Something came up, okay?

WALKER:

No it's not okay. You have to have this in by tomorrow.

Did you see the ad we ran Sunday?

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