The Lost Weekend

WICK:

What for?

DON:

(Indignantly)

To write. To write there. I'm going

to get started on my novel.

WICK:

You really feel up to writing?

DON:

Why not?

WICK:

I mean, after what you've been

through.

DON:

I haven't touched the stuff for ten

days now.

WICK:

I know you haven't. Where's the

portable?

DON:

In the living room closet, kind of

towards the back.

Bent forward tensely, he watches Wick go into the living

room. Left alone, he acts with lightning rapidity. He takes

the sweater, goes over to the window, pulls up the whiskey

bottle, wraps the sweater around it so that only the top

with the string around it shows. He tries to loosen the noose

but he's nervous and loses a precious second.

From the living room has been coming the sound of Wick opening

the closet door and ransacking. Now comes:

WICK'S VOICE

You sure it's in the closet? I can't

find it.

DON:

(Working desperately)

Look by the big chair.

WICK'S VOICE

(Approaching fast)

Isn't it under your bed?

Don sees he can't loosen the string in time. In the last

fraction of a second before Wick enters, he manages to lower

the bottle back down the wall. With what nonchalance he can

muster he bends down and looks under the bed just as Wick

enters, a sheaf of white paper in his hand.

DON:

Of course. Here it is.

He pulls out a Remington portable, 1930 model.

WICK:

Here's some paper.

He puts it in Don's suitcase.

WICK:

We'll fix a table on the south porch.

Nobody to disturb you -- I'll see to

it. Except maybe Saturday night we'll

go over to the Country Club.

DON:

I'm not going near that Country Club.

WICK:

Why not?

DON:

Because they're a bunch of hypocrites

and I don't like to be whispered

about:
Look who's here from New York.

The Birnam brothers -- or rather the

nurse and the invalid.

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