THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS.
THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FROM THIS SOFT COPY.
Wilson's first impression of Los Angeles was blue. He was in
the sky at the time, so it was a curious reversal, looking
down rather than up at the color he had always felt was
Swimming pools. Hundreds of them. Pockmarking the landscape
like miniature lakes. A flat landscape of straight streets
and square blocks and sparse grass that didn't look quite
As far as Wilson could remember, he had only ever seen seven
or eight swimming pools in his entire life and they had been
public ones. Here everyone had their own. Marvellous.
There was the one at the Butlin's holiday camp where he had
enjoyed his last legitimate employment -- as driver of a tour
bus. And there was the one at Crystal Palace he had gone to
once or twice when he was younger. He was most familiar,
though, with the Chelsea Baths as he had lived for some time
in a flat nearby in what he now thought of as his good years
-- before he'd gone grey, went to prison, and found himself in
a plane over a foreign town arriving to avenge the death of
WHOOSH! The sound of automatic doors opening and --
EXT. ARRIVALS TERMINAL. L.A. AIRPORT. AFTERNOON.
WILSON steps out into the late sunlight and the heat of the
day. A slow-motion moment while he gets acclimatized. He
wouldn't have ever felt quite this kind of heat before.
After such a rigorously air-conditioned interior. Or seen
cops wearing guns on their belts. Or black cops, for that
matter, with guns on their belts. Or seen people as fat as
Americans on their home turf. Things someone from England
notices immediately, whether consciously at first or not.
EXT. MOTEL. EVENING.
Wilson's not here for comfort. Shown to a shitty room, round
the corner of a typical 2nd-level outside walkway. Airport
INT. MOTEL ROOM. EVENING.
He draws a curtain open across a window in one strong easy
glide. His moves are neat. His expressions just as
economical, not giving much away. Outside the planes are
practically on top of us. The sunset colors strange and
He's only got one light bag. Unzips, unpacks a few things.
Change of clothes, a travel kit, and some familiar items
(shaving foam/toothpaste/deodorant} bearing unfamiliar
British brand names.
Goes into the bathroom. Turns on the shower in there.
Comes back to sit on the bed. Takes an envelope out of his
Turns it over to see the return address on the back.
INT. TAXI. NIGHT.
Wilson in the back. Stares at the impenetrable name on the
driver's posted ID. Glances at the driver.
DRIVER glances back at his quiet passenger in the rearview
EXT. SMALL HOUSE. NIGHT.
Wilson walks up a cracked little path to the front door.
Lower middle-class street. Two cars in the driveway, one
behind the other. Lights on inside the house -- as he rings
Answers it. Hispanic. Late 30's. Chairman Mao on his T-
shirt notwithstanding, an easygoing sort of fellow. Not
looking for any trouble -- anymore. But once did, and able
to handle himself if any shows up. Which it has.