Some Like It Hot Page #7

Jerry, slapping the bass, is no longer listening. His eyes

have strayed to --

Mulligan, sitting at his table, puffing on the cigar. It

isn't drawing too well. Mulligan reaches under his coat,

unpins his Department of Justice badge from his vest. Using

the pin of the shining badge, he pokes a hole in the wet end

of the cigar.

Jerry has stopped playing, and is watching Mulligan's

operation with morbid fascination. Joe, completely unaware,

continues talking.

JOE:

Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas

Fairbanks?

JERRY:

(nudging him)

Hey, Joe!

JOE:

(paying no attention)

Suppose Lake Michigan overflows?

JERRY:

Don't look now -- but the whole town

is under water!

He nods toward Mulligan. Joe looks off. Then, without a word,

they both start packing their instruments.

Mulligan pins the badge back on, checks his wrist-watch.

MULLIGAN:

(to himself)

...four, three, two, one...

He glances toward --

the door from the funeral parlor. Right on the dot, a pair

of police axes smash through the door.

Instant pandemonium breaks loose in the speakeasy. MUSIC

stops, women scream, customers, chorus girls and waiter

scramble toward the side doors. But they too are splintering

under the assault of the police axes. The crowd falls back,

milling around frantically.

Mulligan stands up, cups his hands to his mouth, and roars

at the top of his voice.

MULLIGAN:

All right, everybody -- this is a

raid. I'm a federal agent, and you're

all under arrest.

Policemen come streaming through the splintered doors.

Carried in on the tide is the Drunk who was just tossed out,

reeling unsteadily, and waving his empty coffee cup aloft.

DRUNK:

I want another cup of coffee.

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