NIGHT 5
154. INT. STAIRS AND LANDING - BEN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Raymond clutches a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Next to him is Dorothy, standing perfectly still, and looking straight ahead. Her eyes are dead. All the fight has left her.
They're in front of a dingy apartment, with stained, rusted walls. Raymond steps up close to Dorothy.
RAYMOND
One wrong move. That's all it's gonna take.
He steps back, and starts banging on the door.
FRANK
Hey Ben. OPEN UP. It's Raymond.
A tall, slender man with a smoking jacket and a powdered face opens the door. It's BEN. His voice is effeminate, disarming, and ever so threatening.
BEN
(very gracious)
Raymond. Come in. Where's Frank?
RAYMOND
Dead. Along with Paul, too. Shit's happened
BEN
Welcome. Come sit down, and we'll talk about this nasty business.
155. INT. BEN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
The apartment is very large. All the furniture is over-stuffed. In the room there is a very much over-weight WOMAN dressed in black and a greasy-looking COUPLE. On the couch, a YOUNG WOMAN plays with a large doll.
BEN
(to the heavy-set woman)
Darling, get some glasses. We'll have some beer with Raymond. Won't you sit down?
Raymond sits down, while Dorothy remains on her feet, still staring into the distance.
BEN
So, Raymond. Who killed Frank and Paul?
RAYMOND
This fuckin' teenager. Just threw a knife in Frank's goddamn face. But, believe me, you don't have to worry about him. He's been dealt with.
BEN
I know.
RAYMOND
What? Excuse me?
BEN
A teenage boy did this, right? Well, I caught a teenage boy harassing my men during their business hours. Apparently, he thought Frank killed his girlfriend.
RAYMOND
What happened to him?
BEN
The same thing that happened to Frank and Paul. Killed in the most unfortunate circumstances. It was quite a shame, really. He was quite the football player, apparently.
RAYMOND
No, no, no. The kid who killed Frank was named Jeffrey. He wasn't no football player, too big of a pussy.
The large woman re-appears with glasses.
BEN
Hmm. In any case, both of them are dead. Thank you, darling.
Ben takes the glasses, and starts pouring out the Pabst Blue Ribbon.
BEN
Now, we must worry about business.
RAYMOND
I don't...I don't see a reason why things have to change at all. You were dealing with Frank, now you're dealing with me-
DOROTHY
Is my husband here?
Her sudden interjection, in fact, her first sign of life in the entire conversation, comes as a slight shock to both me.
RAYMOND
Shut the fuck up! Ben, is he here?
Ben sighs.
BEN
He's in the back room. Let her see him.
DOROTHY
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The young woman opens up a door, and Dorothy rushes inside.
BEN
Back to what we were saying, I don't think that arrangement is very feasible.
Raymond tenses.
RAYMOND
What do you mean?
BEN
I think the solution is simple. What was once Frank's business, is now my business.
RAYMOND
And where does that leave me?
BEN
Frank was your boss, now I'm your boss. Although, you may be looking at a bit of a demotion. After all, you let your previous employer get killed.
Raymond angrily stands up.
RAYMOND
You're fuckin' me over, aren't you? You goddamn bastard. I always told Frank you were a fuckin' liar.
Ben smiles.
BEN
Raymond, Raymond. Calm down. Sit down. No need to raise your voice. Now, we're both reasonable adults, and we should converse as such.
Raymond sits back down, still fuming. The YOUNG WOMAN creeps behind him.
DOROTHY (O.S.)
Don! Don! What on earth did they do to your face?
RAYMOND
I'm...I'm not asking for all of Frank's territory. Just some of it...to prove my worth, y'know?
BEN
Of course. A trial that leads to greater opportunities.
The young woman gets closer and closer.
RAYMOND
Yes! Right on the fuckin' bullseye. "Greater opportunities," I like that. Frank always said you were one suave fuck, and now I see-
BANG.
The young woman puts up her smoking gun.
Bits of Raymond flow around the carpet. His corpse slouches off the seat.
Ben sighs, and sips his beer.
BEN
(to himself)
Now I have to go and clean the carpet.
Epignosis has been killed. He was Mike, a vanilla civilian.
Now it's dark.
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