Show Business is Murder

Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden A Hollywood Fable by GARY PHILLIPS

FADE IN.

ON SCREEN

[Sometime in the near past.]

INT. ALAN ROSS’S OFFICE-DAY

{ALAN ROSS is thirtysomething, a vp of development at Ten-Shun Productions. He is built like the runner he is, wears tortoiseshell glasses, and is in shirtsleeves and suspenders. Ross sits behind his stressed antique desk in his tastefully appointed office. Absently, he fools with one of his Mont Blanc pens as he listens to:}

{WALSH KAGEN, late fifties, sitting across from Ross. Kagen is craggy-faced, thick in the middle, the product of too many Scotches for lunch for too many years. He is a director-writer with a track record of cult features and cable movies.}

ROSS: I’m going to take a pass on the interstellar doctor transporting medicine for sick alien kids, Walsh. It’s cute and touching, but not blue sky enough, you know? Hardball, how that was a heart-tugger and we could identify with those kinds of kids, their problems, what have you. See what I mean? (beat; fools with pen) What else?

{Kagen leans back in his chair, a satisfied smile spreading his cracked lips.}

KAGEN:Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden.

ROSS: Pardon?

KAGEN: You ever see that flick by Peckinpah?

ROSS: The old dead western guy?

KAGEN: Yeah, but he did other sorts of pictures, too. Though you could argue they all had western sensibilities. Anyway, this one, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, was released in 1974.

{Ross says nothing, jiggling the pen in one hand. Kagen leans forward again.}

KAGEN (cont’d): Alfredo Garcia starred Warren Oates-

ROSS (interrupting): He was in that other movie of Peckinpah’s, The Wild Bunch.

KAGEN: Right. Anyway, in this one I’m talking about, it’s set in present day, and Oates is hired by this Mexican crime lord to bring back proof that the scum punk who seduced his daughter is dead.

ROSS: Wasn’t this already re-made with Joe Pesci?

{Kagen swallows a caustic comeback, instead he says:}

KAGEN: Not really. That was Eight Heads in a Duffle Bag, and it was a comedy.

ROSS: Oh. I’m sorry, go ahead.

KAGEN: No sweat. Okay, in Sam’s picture Oates goes through all manner of turmoil to get this Garcia’s head. And his character arc is, each step of the way his psychological state deteriorates faster than the head he’s bringing back.

{Ross says nothing. The pen is held motionless in his hand.}

KAGEN (cont’d): I mean, Oates at one point is talking to this head in this crummy stained canvas sack, flies whizzing all around it, as it sits on the seat next to him in his car.

ROSS: So in your picture, what, your protagonist is riding around in a jeep in the hills of Afghanistan yakking it up with the world’s number-one terrorist’s head next to him in a Trader Joe’s shopping bag?

KAGEN: Not exactly. The idea here is a group of guys, men and women, who have failed at one thing or another, led by a disaffected vet, hunt bin Laden down, who has now fallen out of favor with his other Al Qaeda pals.

{Ross absorbs this.}

KAGEN (cont’d): Remember this guy has been called the “venture capitalist” of terrorism. He’s got an extensive network and has been working out his strategies for a long time. He would have prepared for the contingency of capture.

ROSS: This is pretty, you know, out there, Walsh.

KAGEN: Jesus, Alan, the goddamn Producers is a fuckin’ comedy about Hitler.

ROSS: We’ve had decades of distance, Walsh.

KAGEN: That won’t bring back the millions who died in the camps or on the battlefields.

ROSS: So your point is?

KAGEN (enthused): It’s a great story, it’s got action and suspense, and a certifiable bad guy. See, the subtext is about how this isn’t about Islam versus the world, because of course these terrorists subvert any religion they purport to advance. This is about how an extremist of any stripe is dangerous. Because they feel they can do anything in the name of God.

{Ross puts the pen down, leans forward on his elbows.}

ROSS: Mid-East politics is a very touchy subject, Walsh. The Siege and Rules of Engagement didn’t exactly burn up the box office or make Arab-Americans all that slap happy either. We want heat, but not that kind of heat.

KAGEN: In this version of Bring Me the Head, the hunt for this bastard takes us to Paris, London, and out West.

{Ross taps his desk with his finger.}

ROSS: Here, too?

KAGEN: Yes, of course, this is where the third act will take place. And I see the lead as this semi-burned-out character who at first is hunting bin Laden for the money, the reward, you know. Then in the course of events, his arc is that his patriotism is reawakened. Not the stick-a-flag-on-my-car then put it away halfway into football season, kind, but real, tangible. (beat) Some of what was felt when we didi maued out of ’Nam. Even though by then, the grunts were disillusioned with our government and its policies

{Ross says nothing as Walsh shakes a faraway look from his face.}

KAGEN (cont’d): So here, try this. Our hero is a somewhat cynical, slightly burned-out veteran of Beirut or the Gulf War. This guy came home after doing his duty, wounded, you know, the whole bit. He’s drifted from job to job, but now there’s this opportunity within his grasp.

ROSS: Which is?

KAGEN: The twenty-five million dollar reward for bin Laden is reactivated when the rumors are confirmed that he isn’t dead. Like Stalin and Saddam, I’m going to posit in the picture that bin Laden uses doubles to fool his enemies. One of them is killed and at first everyone thinks the sonabitch is dead.

{Ross scratches the side of his cheek.}

ROSS: But we find out different. How can the hero, ah, what’s his name?

KAGEN: Flagg.

ROSS (nodding head): That’s good. Who are you thinking about for the lead?

KAGEN: Not sure, maybe Cage, or even Snipes, who needs a hit.

ROSS: Yeah, yeah, I can see that.

KAGEN: Like I said, Flagg has been going from job to job, more bitter each time, more withdrawn. He comes to a town in rural Illinois. A friend from the service has sent him a letter, offering some kind of a vague opportunity.

ROSS: But this friend has been tied into some shady stuff, right? Cut-out kind of work for our intelligence agencies.

KAGEN: Exactly. He’s a kind of NRA/soldier of fortune borderline nutzo.

ROSS: Bruce Willis? You know, he’ll work for scale if he likes the project.

KAGEN: I had in mind someone like Ben Affleck, or maybe make him Latino or even an Arab-American. Get Tony Shaloub or that tall good-looking guy from UnderCover, what’s his name? He was in the Mummy movies. This would show we’re not out to beat up the Arab community. Anyway, the friend has these on-the-ground contacts and now has a line on where to get bin Laden.

{Ross holds up a hand.}

ROSS: Look, I get it, all right? I know you can do this, but I need to talk this over with… (makes vague hand gesture) the others.

(smiles)

KAGEN (rueful smile): How well I know.

{Ross rises, signaling an end to the meeting. Kagen gets up, too.}

ROSS: We’ll noodle on it and I’ll get back to you. I like it, enough to maybe talk about it further. But as you’re well aware, it’s going to be tough to do in this market.

KAGEN: Think on it, Alan. Without going out of our way this could be entertaining, but a subtle take on the meanings or rather, the dimensions of patriotism.

{Ross shakes Kagen’s hand.}

ROSS: I will. I’ll be in touch.

{Kagen exits, a noticeable limp to his gait. Ross sits back down and starts fooling with his Mont Blanc again. He then buzzes his assistant, JOSIE.}

ROSS (into phone intercom): Get me Eddie, will you, Josie?

JOSIE (over intercom): No problem.

{Ross leafs through that morning’s Hollywood Journal, the industry newspaper. He begins to read an article that catches his interest when Josie buzzes him again. Ross presses the intercom button.}

JOSIE (over intercom): I have Eddie for you, Alan.

ROSS: Thanks. (he picks up the handset) Eddie? I just had a meeting with Walsh Kagen. (He listens) Yeah, yeah I know he hasn’t made anything in a while, but he’s got this crazy idea that, well, may be something.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. BILTMORE HOTEL, DOWNTOWN L.A.,

ESTABLISHING-NIGHT

ON SCREEN

{Three nights later.}

{Various limousines and trendy cars pull up to the valet parking at the swank hotel in L.A.’s downtown and disgorge smartly dressed men and women.}

INT. BILTMORE HOTEL, CRYSTAL BALLROOM

CU-SIGN

{Announcing the ninth annual Frontlines of Justice Dinner sponsored by the Legal Aid Council of Greater Los Angeles.}

{W IDEN to reveal many well-dressed guests milling about drinking and talking in the large foyer of the ballroom, the curtain still drawn as the space is readied.}

ROSS

{-sips his drink and spots IVAN MONK, whom he has met before.}

MONK

{-is black, six-two, built like an aging linebacker, but solid, despite the fact that he’s a private investigator who owns a donut shop. He’s casual in a dark Bironi sport coat, open collar, and cuffed slacks. His shoulders say he’s relaxed, but there’s an energy to him that’s notched in neutral.}

{Near Monk is a handsome Japanese-American woman with medium length brownish hair and alert eyes. She is JILL KODAMA, Monk’s significant other and a superior court judge. She is smooth in her St. John ensemble. They are chatting as Ross walks up.}

{Ross sticks out his hand.}

ROSS: Hi, you remember we crossed paths when I was with Exchange Entertainment?

{Monk blinks, then:}

MONK: Right, Alan Ross.

{The two shake hands. Kodama looks on.}

ROSS: Exactly. We had some discussions with you about turning one of your cases that got some ink into a movie of the week.

MONK: This is my squeeze, I mean, this is Judge Jill Kodama.

KODAMA: (to Monk) Be cool. (She and Kagen shake hands) Good to meet you. I recall you wanted to make my character a Latina beer truck driver going to law school at night, because that would make Ivan more down, more like the working man.

KAGEN: The demographics you know.

MONK: What brings you here?

ROSS: We donate to the Legal Aid Council.

{Monk and Kodama look equally surprised.}

ROSS (cont’d): No, really. I’m at Ten-Shun now and we were developing a show a few months ago and their attorneys provided technical assistance to the project. My boss, Eddie Mast, took a liking to them and there you go.

{Ross has some of his drink.}

KODAMA: I’m glad you do, the LAC fills a necessary need.

{The two men nod in agreement. SANDI LOFTON, an aging beach bunny and reporter with the Hollywood Journal, appears at Ross’s elbow, butting in.}

LOFTON (to Ross): Is it true you’re considering doing a picture about bin Laden?

{Monk and Kodama perk up.}

ROSS (smiling): I shall demonstrate my usual blasé indifference to you, Sandi.

LOFTON: I heard this from our friends at the American Jewish Association. More than one of whom sits on your board, Alan. And it’s not just Jews who will be upset if this project goes forward.

{She turns to Monk.}

LOFTON (cont’d): What do you think?

MONK: I’m not completely sure, but if other warped people and events aren’t off limits, then why bin Laden? Wasn’t there a musical about the hijacking of that ship, the Achille Lauro?

LOFTON (jerks head at the sign): Figures a lawyer for this group of worn-out hippies and disillusioned revolutionaries with law degrees, that helps welfare cheats and renters duck their responsibilities would say that.

KODAMA (to Monk): Doggone dewy-eyed Taliban simp.

{Monk and Kodama exchange shit-eating grins. Lofton is unsure what to think while Ross looks bemused and tips his drink to someone else from the “industry.”}

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. ROSS’S LOS FELIZ HOME/ESCAPE

ROOM BAR-NIGHT

INTERCUTTING

{Between Ross’s house and Escape Room Bar that Kagen exits.}

{Later that evening, Ross pulls up and parks his late model BMW Z-3 roadster in the driveway of his restored two-story Tudor on a cul-de-sac street in the quiet neighborhood. He gets out and walks toward his home, fishing his keys out of his pocket. There is weak illumination from a nearby lone streetlight. He passes a high shrub.}

ROSS

{-turns toward the shrub at a Sound.}

ROSS: Who’s there?

EXT. ESCAPE ROOM BAR,

CULVER CITY-NIGHT

{Walsh exits the bar, arm-in-arm with a tipsy middle-aged dyed blonde with frizzy hair and a dress too short for her age. They are laughing and kissing as they meander toward his car.}

AN SUV

{-screeches around a corner.}

EXT. ROSS’S LOS FELIZ HOME

{The exec now has a anxious look on his face as an INTRUDER, indistinct in the dim light, emerges from the shadow of the shrub}

ROSS: What is this?

INTRUDER: Judgment.

ROSS: For what?

EXT. ESCAPE ROOM BAR

{Kagen and the woman kiss and grope each other but react to a voice yelling from inside the SUV zooming by.}

VOICE (in SUV): Charlatan.

{A Molotov Cocktail is tossed and breaks near Kagen, exploding into flame.}

KAGEN: Fuck.

{The woman SCREAMS as Kagen beats out the fire that has ignited his sleeve from a splash of lit gas.}

EXT. ROSS’S LOS FELIZ HOUSE

INTRUDER: You know, traitor.

{Ross regains his nerve and charges. The Intruder is startled as he throws his Molotov Cocktail. The bottle explodes on Ross and he’s ablaze.}

ROSS: Oh God:

{Ross has enough presence of mind to drop and roll on the ground as the Intruder runs away.}

END INTERCUTTING

INT. KODAMA’S AND MONK’S HOUSE, BEDROOM,

SILVERLAKE-DAY

{It’s the next morning and the two are in bed under the covers making love in the tastefully appointed bedroom. Morning light creeps in beneath a partially drawn shade.}

CU

{-on one of the judge’s oil paintings hanging over the bed. The work depicts denizens of Skid Row at dusk. Some wear Mardi Gras party masks. In the background, there’s a building with a lit neon sign that reads: “Justice.” The Sounds of the couple’s passionate lovemaking can be heard.}

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BEDROOM

{A little later and Monk exits the shower back into the bedroom. There’s a towel wrapped around his waist and he’s brushing his teeth. Kodama, in a slip, sits on the bed, using a blow dryer on her wet hair. The radio is on to the local NPR station.}

MONK: You meeting with the Asian Pacific Islander Caucus tonight aren’t you?

KODAMA (wearily): Yes, as you well know.

MONK: I ain’t player-hatin’ baby. I’m all for you running for the State Senate.

{He rases the dripping toothbrush above his head and pumps his fist.}

MONK (cont’d): I’ll door knock the ’hood till I’ve worn my shoes to my ankles for the one true Asian sister who’ll stand up for all our rights.

{Kodama makes a derisive sound as he re-enters the bathroom to finish his teeth-cleaning chore.}

MONK (cont’d, from the bathroom): You said you wanted to do something different than adjudicate.

KODAMA: That doesn’t mean-

{The RINGING phone cuts her off. She leans over and plucks the handset up. Monk re-enters the room.}

KODAMA (into handset): Hello?

{She listens then:}

KODAMA (cont’d): He’s right here, Nona.

MONK: What’s my mother want?

CUT TO:

EXT. MAGNOLIA AVENUE, SHERMAN OAKS-DAY

{Monk and Walsh Kagen, his arm bandaged but not in a sling, walk along the thoroughfare in the San Fernando Valley. Monk has his hands in his pockets and Walsh puffs on a thin Parodi cigar.}

KAGEN: Again, I’m sorry to have bothered your mother, but judges like cops have their addresses blocked by the phone company.

MONK: But they’re aren’t a whole lot of people with my last name.

KAGEN: Yeah, and Thelonious ain’t with us anymore.

MONK: And you’re willing to see if I can find out something about this attack on you and Ross the cops can’t?

KAGEN: According to the piece in this morning’s Journal, you were one of the last people seen talking to him.

MONK: So was the waiter bringing the drinks.

{Kagen snickers.}

KAGEN: But you’ve got story potential, Ivan.

{Monk halts before a bookstore. On its green awning are the words: Mysteries, Murder & Mayhem. Through the window, the proprietor, a rugged individual with a red/browninsh beard, talks animatedly with a customer.}

MONK: So you want to make this into a screenplay? You follow me around while I look for whoever torched you and Ross? I got news for you, Walsh. He might be all doped up now from his third-degree burns, but in a day or two Ross is going to be able to talk and that will be the end of the mystery. His attacker got up close and personal.

KAGEN: But until then who knows what can happen. What if all he has is a vague description?

MONK: You mean of some Middle Eastern perp?

KAGEN: Middle Eastern doesn’t necessarily mean an Arab or Muslim.

{Monk resumes walking and Kagen falls in step.}

MONK: Herv Renschel of the AJA gave you grief, too?

KAGEN: He hasn’t been called the Jewish Farakhan for kicks. I got a few threatening calls the day after I saw Ross. Nobody I.D.’d themselves, but is it a coincidence that the day of the night of the attacks, the AJA ran a full page ad in the Journal denouncing Ten-Shun and the purported project?

MONK: Just to be broad-minded, what if it’s one of the sleeper agents of the Al Qaeda that did the deed?

KAGEN: Okay.

MONK: Shit. I’ve already had somebody blow up my donut shop once.

KAGEN: Come on, Ivan, you got a rep as a man who goes at it until the job is done. This could be big.

MONK: Not to mention good press for you to get a deal.

KAGEN: I’ll make you a producer if we roll film. Hey, I got enough to cover your nut for a week or so. If we get bupkis, no hard feelings.

MONK: I hope I don’t regret this.

{Kagen beams, clapping Monk on the shoulder.}

EXT. SUPERIOR COURT BUILDINGS, DOWNTOWN

L.A., ESTABLISHING-DAY

INT. JILL KODAMA’S COURTROOM

{A criminal trial is in progress. The defense counsel, MS. WINTERS, is about to talk but Kodama, from the bench, cuts her off. The defendant, MR. REESE, is white, twentysomething, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. He has an American flag tattooed on his tricep and slouches in his chair, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings.}

KODAMA:… hold on, Ms. Winters. (to the defendant) Mr. Reese, sit up.

MR. REESE

{-glares at Kodama then reluctantly obeys.}

RESUME

{-Kodama talking.}

KODAMA (cont’d): Mr. Reese, you and your friends are charged with a serious matter. You may think that because the man you chased and, by your own admission, fought, turned out to be Guatemalan and an undocumented worker, and not of Arab descent somehow mitigates the circumstances, but they do not in my courtroom, sir. So I suggest you make some effort to pay attention to what’s going on, because I do take attitude into account should there be a sentencing. (to the defense lawyer) And counselor, do a better job of preparing your clients.

MR. REESE

{-looks at Ms. Winters, frowning.}

EXT. CONTINENTAL DONUTS, CRENSHAW

DISTRICT, ESTABLISHING-DAY

{It’s late afternoon at the donut shop-with a massive plaster donut anchored on the roof-on Vernon Avenue owned by Monk. The regulars are seen through the large picture windows sitting inside, talking, playing chess, and so forth.}

INT. CONTINENTAL DONUTS

{Monk selects a chocolate crueller from the case. ELROD, the six-foot-eight, muscled ex-con manager of the establishment looks on disdainfully.}

ELROD: You will have to do penance for that.

MONK: “Keep up appearances, there lies the test.”

{Monk bites into the donut with relish.}

ELROD: You can quote Churchill all you like.

MONK

{-is shocked that Elrod can place the quote.}

ELROD (cont’d): But that doesn’t change the fact that you are backsliding, weak to the allure of butter and sugar.

MONK: Night school must agree with you.

{Monk walks into the back of the shop and then a right along a short hall. He unlocks a heavy screen door protecting an inner door.}

INT. MONK’S INNER SANCTUM

{Monk steps into the Spartanly furnished room. There’s a cot, a small refrigerator, CD boom box, several old school file cabinets, a carburetor on top of one of the cabinets, a new model PC on a sturdy wooden table, and a comfortable swivel chair before it.}

{Monk turns on the boom box which is tuned to a jazz station. He sits down, finishes his snack, and fires up the computer.}

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. WILSHIRE OFFICE OF HERV

RENSCHEL-DAY

{Monk stands at the window, looking out on the city. Kagen sits on a couch before a coffee table, a fine china coffee set before him.}

{HERV RENSCHEL, early sixties, lean and rangy, has a crew cut topping a lined face that bespeaks of his experiences from the Six Day War to being a political infighter. He prowls back and forth on the carpet before them.}

RENSCHEL: You guys crack me up.

MONK (turning): I try.

{Renschel stops and glares at the detective.}

RENSCHEL: I know about you, Monk, the black nationalist private eye.

MONK: I do my best to give everybody a fair shake, Renschel. I don’t wear my race on my sleeve.

RENSCHEL: What, you leave your kafir in the trunk?

KAGEN: If we could stay on point, gentlemen.

{Renschel leans against his messy desk.}

RENSCHEL: Are you interrogating any Arab organizations in this quest for the attackers?

MONK: If that’s where the case take us.

RENSCHEL: Somehow I doubt it will.

MONK: Doubt all you like. I know you were on a radio show the day the Journal leaked that Ten-Shun was considering the Bring Me the Head movie. You didn’t parse your words too much when you said that a judgment should be levied against Ross and Kagen.

KAGEN: He said that?

RENSCHEL: I have a right to my opinion.

MONK: But did you put your words into action, Renschel? Like that time after the ’92 riots when you and some of your more eager members jumped those kids coming out of Canter’s on Fairfax?

RENSCHEL: There had been two gang shootings in that neighborhood in less than a week.

MONK: So any blacks would do, huh? Only these guys were UCLA basketball players and you got the shit sued out of you.

RENSCHEL: I’m a big enough man to admit my mistakes, Monk.

KAGEN (gesturing): We all want the same thing here, find the guilty party.

RENSCHEL: I can say without fear of contradiction, the AJA had nothing to do with these distasteful incidents. I suggest, as I did to the police, that you and your UPN Herculot Perot here could better use your time following up leads elsewhere.

MONK: Like with Josef Odeh?

RENSCHEL (nodding): I’ll give you credit, Monk, you do your homework.

MONK: Like I said, I try.

EXT. WILSHIRE BOULEVARD-CONTINUOUS

{Kagen and Monk walk away from Renschel’s office building and toward the latter’s fully restored cobalt blue ’64 Ford Galaxie parked at a meter.}

KAGEN: This Odeh I gather is a leader in the Arab Community?

MONK: Yeah, he’s considered a moderate, particularly compared to your boy.

{Monk hooks a thumb in the direction of the AJA office.}

KAGEN: So why do we need to talk to him?

MONK: It’s pretty fascinating what you can find on-line added to some old-fashioned working the phones, Walsh. One of the service organizations Odeh sat on the board of was caught up in the Justice Department net around the hawala method of money laundering to the Al Qaeda. {Monk unlocks the car and the two get in.}

INT. ’64 FORD GALAXIE

{Monk cranks the car to life and pulls away from the curb.}

KAGEN: So this charity was a front that skimmed off money to the terrorist network?

MONK: That seems to be unclear. But the point is that Odeh was tainted and did some back-peddling. He proclaimed he knew nothing of money transferring, etcetera. He wasn’t arrested, but I bet he’s been under watch.

KAGEN: But he could be jiving, and he really was part of some scheme to move funds.

MONK: Something like that.

KAGEN: You gonna be more objective this time?

{Monk lets some silence drag.}

MONK: You’re right, Walsh, I was being unprofessional. I’ll be on point.

{Kagen winks at him.}

EXT. ’64 FORD GALAXIE: DAY

The car zooms along.

EXT. MASJID AL-FALAH ISLAMIC CENTER,

INGLEWOOD: DAY

{Monk and Kagen walk up the steps of the Center and stop at a locked door where there’s an intercom.}

CU

{intercom as Monk bends to it and pushes the button to speak.}

MONK (into intercom): Hi, I’m Ivan Monk with Walsh Kagen to see Jabari Hatoom. I had an appointment.

WIDEN

{Monk lets go of the button and the door BUZZES. Kagen opens the door.}

INT. MASJID AL-FALAH ISLAMIC CENTER-

CONTINUOUS

{Monk and Kagen stand in a foyer. A twentysomething east Indian woman, SUNAR, in her hijab-head covered, long dress-comes out to greet them. As is the custom, she does not offer her hand.}

SUNAR: Gentlemen, this way.

{Monk and Kagen follow the young woman past a spacious worship area with a podium, classrooms, and into a spotless stainless steel kitchen off a well-lit hallway.}

INT. KITCHEN-DAY

{Monk and Kagen are ushered in by Sunar who departs. JABARI HATOOM is African American, tall, balding, early thirties, and dressed in slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He has the garbage disposal unit out and on a table, working on it with a screwdriver. He smiles upon seeing Monk.}

HATOOM: Homeboy.

{Hatoom puts down his screwdriver and embraces the P.I.}

MONK: Glad you could see us.

{They disengage. Monk indicates Kagen.}

MONK (cont’d): This is Walsh Kagen.

HATOOM (shaking the director’s hand): Man, what a pleasure. You don’t know how many times I’ve seen The Plunderers and One Deadly Night.

KAGEN: That’s flattering. And how is it you know Ivan?

HATOOM: He busted me.

{Kagen regards Monk.}

MONK: Long time ago, when I used to do bounty hunting.

KAGEN (to Hatoom): And you converted in prison?

HATOOM: Exactly.

MONK: Will you set up a meeting for us with Odeh?

{Hatoom is uncomfortable.}

HATOOM: I have not made the call.

MONK: I know it’s hard, Jabari, but you know good and well it’s the Muslim community that has to step up if there’s an extremist running around.

HATOOM: Is that just another way to say we have to be good, shuffling handkerchief heads? Being a Muslim is not synonymous with being a terrorist, Ivan. And depending on the political winds, freedom fighters become rebels become evil-doers.

MONK: Odeh put himself in the mix, Jabari.

KAGEN: What am I missing here?

{Hatoom and Monk exchange a look.}

HATOOM: Odeh demanded and got a meeting with Alan Ross two days ago.

KAGEN: Does everybody read that Journal rag?

HATOOM: A possible movie about bin Laden that would invariably put our community in a bad light was bound to draw attention, especially in these times.

KAGEN: But that’s the point; my idea is ultimately that the film is about tolerance. I’ll admit I’m exploiting bin Laden because, well, frankly, like any out-size madman, he’s great pulp material. I’m not a student of Sam Fuller and was an A.D. on a couple of Frankenheimer’s films for nothing. Look guys, great villains and the horrors they commit make powerful statements about us. From King Leopold and the Congo to Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge as depicted in The Killing Fields… that’s show biz, fellas.

HATOOM: The meeting deteriorated, and Odeh, from what I understand, was removed by security.

KAGEN (to Monk): And you found this out by calling around?

[Monk shrugs.]

KAGEN (cont’d): Some Rolodex. Sam L. Jackson or Ving Rhames for sure, Monk. The best is what you deserve.

MONK: Lovely. Look, Jabari, you know damn well I’m not going to be part of an attempt to railroad Odeh or anybody else. But somebody tossed those hot totties.

HATOOM: And the Molotov is the Intifada favorite?

MONK: Maybe it’s a set-up or it was done to send a message and a signature.

HATOOM: You’ve already made up your mind.

MONK: I’m suspicious by inclination, not vindictive, man. It comes down to this, you want it to be only the FBI that gets to talk to Odeh?

HATOOM: You drive a hard mule, Mr. Monk.

MONK: Make the call, will you, Jabari?

HATOOM: Okay. But I’m not promising anything.

MONK: Understood.

{The two shake hands again.}

CUT TO:

INT. ’64 FORD GALAXIE-DAY

{Monk and Kagen drive away and Kagen’s cell phone RINGS.}

KAGAN (clicking on phone): Hello? (he listens, then:) Thanks, Mina. We’ll swing by there to see him.

{He clicks off the phone, and over this says to Monk:}

KAGEN: That was my assistant. She’s got a friend over at Cedars. Alan is awake and lucid, and the cops don’t know it yet.

EXT. ’64 FORD GALAXIE

{The car picks up speed along the city streets.}

INT. BURN WARD, CEDARS SINAI

HOSPITAL-DAY

{Alan Ross is propped up in his hospital bed in the burn ward populated by several other patients, visitors, and hospital staff. His upper body is bandaged as is part of his face and head.} {Numerous flower arrangements are spread out on the night stand and floor near his bed. Monk and Kagen stand on either side of his bed.}

MONK: That’s it?

ROSS (soft voiced):’Fraid so. He was young, about twenty-two or so, dressed in normal clothes (beat) you know, jeans and a sweatshirt.

MONK: Any logo on the sweat shirt?

ROSS: No, no it was plain.

KAGEN: And this kid was Arab?

{Ross hesitates.}

ROSS: He didn’t have an accent, but he was, well, brown-skinned and dark-haired.

KAGEN (to Monk): All the more reason to get to Odeh.

MONK: But he called you traitor?

ROSS: That’s right.

MONK: Are you of Arab extraction?

ROSS: No, nor am I Jewish.

{Monk says nothing, mulling over the information.}

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. KODAMA AND MONK’S HOUSE,

STUDY-NIGHT

{In the comfortable and book-lined study, Kodama is sketching with a charcoal pencil on a freshly stretched and guached canvas on a easel. Monk sits and sips on Scotch from a tumbler. His face is a barometer of his intense concentration.}

KODAMA: Even if the attacker was Arab, that doesn’t mean he was operating on anybody’s orders. There’re plenty of people inflamed on all sides of this who are more than willing to act alone.

MONK: Sure, but the reality is I’ve got to talk to Odeh to satisfy myself.

KODAMA: What if he ducks you

MONK: Then how would you interpret that?

KODAMA: It doesn’t mean he’s guilty. It might mean despite Jabari vouching for you, he doesn’t want to in any way further jeopardize his organization. He’s doesn’t know you to be the big, sweet, voodoo daddy I love.

{She laughs and he grins.}

KODAMA (cont’d): But you’re right, you will have to have some face time with him.

{She continues working.}

MONK

{-is sullen then brightens.}

MONK: You got a sharp Number 2 pencil, baby?

KODAMA (stops sketching): What?

MONK (standing): Grab one and your sketch pad. We got a patient to see.

KODAMA (hand on hip): I am not your secretary.

{Monk has crossed to her, his arm around her waist.}

MONK: You’re a Renaissance woman, you know that?

{He points at the canvas.}

MONK (cont’d): And bring your glasses, baby. I want those lines crisp in this next drawing.

KODAMA: Kiss my ass.

INT. BURN WARD, CEDARS SINAI

HOSPITAL-NIGHT

{Kodama, wearing her glasses, sits next to Ross’s bed, doing a sketch of the man who threw a Molotov at him. She stops and holds it up for the vp of development to see.}

KODAMA: How this?

ROSS: A little more shallowness in the cheeks and the eyes wider.

C.U. OF DRAWING

{Kodama resumes working on the drawing.}

ROSS (cont’d): (to Monk) This is the second time I’ve done this. I described this guy to the police sketch artist the detectives who interviewed me sent this afternoon. (beat) They’ve got a head start on you, Ivan. I heard the younger one tell the older one they were going to check the drawing against the Homeland Security database. And canvas several Arab hangouts in the San Gabriel Valley a sheriff ’s friend was hooking them up with.

MONK: When you hesitated this afternoon in describing this cat, that just wasn’t about guessing at his ethnicity was it?

{Kodama stops sketching to look at Monk.}

ROSS

{-chews his lower lip.}

ROSS: It’s just an impression.

MONK: Come on, share.

ROSS: As you know, I come into contact with a lot of actors. Not so much across my desk but at the hot spots, the watering holes that come and go on the A list one must frequent to keep up appearances.

MONK: And a starlet or two you might stumble over.

ROSS: Sure there’s that.

KODAMA

{-makes a face.}

MONK: Are you saying you’ve seen this guy at one of those places?

ROSS: No, like I said, it’s only a feeling. (beat) The way he, handled himself reminded me, well, like he was auditioning, you know?

{Monk and Kodama exchange a look.}

INT. TAYLOR’S STEAKHOUSE-

NIGHT-CONTINUOUS

{The steakhouse is an old school beef and booze joint with a dark interior and decor that hasn’t been updated since the LBJ Administration. Under the din of the patrons, a basketball game plays on the TV at the end of the bar.}

{Monk and Kagen sit in a booth in the upstairs area, enjoying their heavy caloric intake.}

MONK

{-finishes chewing and swallows. He has a drink of water, then reaches over to extract a folded photograph out of his jacket’s inner pocket hanging on a hook. He unfolds the photograph and places it on the table.}

CU

{-of the photograph, an actor’s headshot. His hair is longer in the shot, but it’s the young man who tossed the Molotov at Ross. On the credit line of the photo it reads: ALEX TUCCO}

WIDEN

{-Kagen shows no reaction as he samples more of his whiskey.}

KAGEN: Good kid. He’s got a kind of De Niro-Pacino thing going for him.

MONK: And I bet he’s scared shitless, Walsh, wherever you got him stashed. I suppose your lawyer will argue in court that he never meant to set Ross afire. That like the other one you hired to chuck a Molotov at you, Tucco was supposed to miss. But Ross charged him when he was about to throw the Molotov and it shook him.

{Kagen calmly cuts a piece of his steak.}

KAGEN: That’s good, I’ll have to remember that.

{He eats.}

MONK: You like to gamble, Walsh, you once got a two picture deal in a poker game against a producer with a hand of trip kings.

KAGEN: I play the odds, Ivan.

MONK: Fake the attacks to build up interest in the property, and hire me to show you’re still a player. But how the hell did you think engineering all this bullshit was going to get you a deal, Walsh? Nearly killing someone is a hell of a way to entice future prospects.

{Kagen has another piece of his steak and cleans his pallet with another swig of whiskey. He then clears his throat.}

KAGEN: Nobody was ever going to make Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden, Ivan.

MONK (pointing): But the attacks and the aftermath would generate coverage, you’d be the controversial writer-director on people’s lips like you once were when you did One Deadly Night.

KAGEN (misty-eyed): How many times have you seen it, Ivan?

MONK: At least four. The scene where Hack has been beaten by the guards and pieces of glass ground into his face and he just grins and tells them, “The thieves and junkies will always be on my side.” (shakes his head) Yeah, Walsh, you had it, man. (beat) Of course you’ve guessed when I got up to use the bathroom earlier, I placed a call to the cops.

{Walsh finishes his drink and dabs his mouth with his cloth napkin.}

MONK (cont’d): It wasn’t the potential money you could make, was it, Walsh?

KAGEN: The magic, Ivan, I missed the magic.

Kagen places the napkin gently on the table.

KAGEN (cont’d): Let’s have some dessert and coffee. The carrot cake’s great here.

FADE OUT.