By Peter Honerkamp | July 18, 2014

Its storied history of hosting music legends and work with the local community have made The Stephen Talkhouse an Amagansett institution.

The Stephen Talkhouse in Amagansett is a local haunt with a global music scene.

"We went there for everything we needed. We went there when thirsty, of course, and when hungry, and when dead tired. We went there when happy, to celebrate, and when sad, to sulk. We went there after weddings and funerals, and for something to settle our nerves, and always for a shot of courage just before. We went there when we didn’t know what we needed, hoping someone might tell us. We went there when looking for love, or sex, or trouble, or for someone who had gone missing, because sooner or later everyone turned up there. Most of all we went there when we needed to be found.” —Excerpt from The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer

Chris Robinson Brotherhood band on stage in August 2011.

That was written about a different bar in a different place, but it could easily apply to The Stephen Talkhouse. For 27 years, we’ve been a local bar that doubles as a sanctuary. It’s a place where everyone is equal and everyone is accepted. There are lots of places out here populated by people born on third base who think they hit a triple, but the Talkhouse is laid-back, unpretentious, and populated by a group of friends uninterested in proving anything to anybody. A gay man or a single woman can come here alone and feel completely at ease. For those of us who work here, that egalitarian spirit infuses our relationships. There are two signs over the bar. One, from It’s a Wonderful Life, reads: “No man is a failure who has friends.” The other says: “Customers come and customers go. Here at the Talkhouse the employee is always right.”

Gary Clark Jr. on stage in August 2011

The Talkhouse had always been a great saloon, but it was closed when I bought it with a few friends and relatives in 1987. We opened on August 1 of that year. My cousin, Klyph Black, and a friend, Eddie Mac, started playing every week that September. I got the idea from them that live music on the East End could work. I knew the bluesman, John Hammond, and he was the first national act to play there. We had a six-channel sound board and a stage that was about eight feet wide by six feet deep. We charged $10 and sold out.

An August 2013 performance by Mac McAnally (left) Jimmy Buffett.

Since then, more than 50 artists and bands that are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame have played here, including such megastars as Billy Joel, Paul McCartney, Jimmy Buffett, Jon Bon Jovi, Paul Simon, and Sting, though those six did so for charity or fun.

Paul McCartney and Jon Bon Jovi sing a duet.

The musicians come from all musical genres—folk, blues, soul, jazz, country, and rock ’n’ roll. This year some of the acts are Luka Bloom, Southside Johnny, Buster Poindexter, 10,000 Maniacs, Loudon Wainwright III, Judy Collins, Taj Mahal, Steve Earle, The English Beat, Leon Russell, Big Head Todd, Ingrid Michaelson, Collie Buddz, and Rufus and Martha Wainwright. We are the smallest club in the world hosting this kind of talent.

Talkhouse owner Peter Honercamp (LEFT) on stage with two-time Grammy winner Terrance Simien in 2010.

The Talkhouse is also home for a lot of local artists. Klyph Black still plays here along with The Nancy Atlas Project, Rubix Kube, The Lone Sharks, Little Head Thinks, Booga Sugar, Mama Lee Rose & Friends, Inda Eaton, and Peter Michne, aka Bosco, who has performed here more than any other artist.

Nude pinup pictures line one wall, evoking the venue’s dive bar past.

Everyone here has their favorite shows, but I’d have to choose from over a thousand to pick one. I do remember, however, getting to sing “Can’t You See” on my birthday with Toy Caldwell, who made the song famous when he sang it with The Marshall Tucker Band. I also remember Buddy Guy walking outside with his guitar and getting into a passing car still playing his guitar. And before we had a generator, we lost power three times during shows—Rick Danko of The Band, Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze, and Martin Sexton all played acoustic guitars by candlelight when that happened.

Of course, we lose some of our favorites as time goes by: Rick Danko, Luther Allison, Clarence Gatemouth Brown, Tito Puente, Toy Caldwell, Albert Collins, Laura Nyro, Nicolette Larson, Richie Havens, Kenny Rankin, Jeff Buckley, and Chris Whitley all played here. Roy Buchanan, who turned down playing for the Rolling Stones after Brian Jones died, played here in June of 1988. I paid him $2,000. After the show, the crowd was demanding a third encore. I went upstairs and asked Roy, but he said no. I offered him a $500 bonus. His bass player begged him to take it. Roy looked at him and said, “You still don’t know anything about the blues. If a guy in a club this small asks you for an encore, you do it for free.” He played another half hour, then was found hanging in his cell a few weeks later after being arrested for public intoxication.

Suzanne Vega serenades a packed house in August 2012.

But it’s the staff, more than anything, that gives the Talkhouse its flavor. Paulino Collado, Larry Wagner, Klyph Black, Phillip Vega, and I have been here 27 years. Twenty employees have been here over 15 years. and 30 employees over 10 years. It’s a motley collection of pirates, each of them unique, but united by a common desire to have fun. They are a key component of the entertainment we provide.

I’m known for pranking my staff. I’ve hired look-a-likes of Madonna, Joe Pesci, and Jack Nicholson. I’ve appeared in drag on more than one occasion, once arriving as the drunken (I did not have to rehearse) sister of a famous director. The highlight of that night was when a friend asked me to dance. One year, I hired three transvestites to bartend at a staff party. The “girls” served in their underwear, which did not please the women in the crowd until one took off her bra, revealing she was a he. The women then loved me, while the men who had been flirting with the bartenders hated me.

We’re also proud of the many benefits we’ve hosted for people in our community in need, donating the place, the staff, and the bar profits. It’s much easier to give than receive, but you actually are being given a gift by the person you help. In 2003, we organized a benefit concert for a Long Island soldier who was traumatically injured in Iraq. One of our bartenders, Chris Carney, came up with the idea that he would bicycle across America to raise money and awareness for a fledgling organization called The Wounded Warrior Project. At the time, it had one employee and had raised about $10,000. We put a beer pitcher outside and raised enough money to send Chris and a support vehicle driven by Tek Vakalaloma (who still works here) 4,400 miles. We raised millions along the way.

More vintage signs adorn the venue’s interior.

Chris did it again the following year, only this time he was accompanied by two soldiers. Ryan Kelly, a single amputee (whose prosthetic hangs from the wall), and Heath Calhoun, a double amputee on a handcycle, biked from LA to Montauk with a stop-off at the White House for a meeting with President Bush. We not only raised more millions but realized our Soldier Ride was more than a fundraiser—it was a rehabilitative tool. We revolutionized how we treat wounded soldiers. Instead of being relegated to a hospital bed, where their only contacts were loved ones and doctors, these men and women were getting on bikes with their fellow wounded, empowering themselves and each other, setting the example for the incoming wounded, and going out into the communities they sacrificed so much for. It’s part of their rehabilitation to be thanked, and it’s something we should and need to do. It’s the least we can do, especially in light of our collective failure to properly welcome home the Vietnam vets. The Wounded Warrior Project now raises over $200 million a year, employing 450 people in nearly 20 offices nationwide. It has 19 programs that help our wounded and has touched the lives of more than 45,000 soldiers.

There are places of concentrated evil in the world, like Auschwitz and the Roman Colosseum, but the Talkhouse is a place where a roaring party continues through time. That’s what we sell—a good time. The owner of Mulates, a famous Cajun music club and restaurant in New Orleans, told me the other day that there never was a bar like the Talkhouse and there never will be one again. I have the best job in the world. I get to make people happy for a living.

Photo by Lyle Greenfield

Before Stephen Talkhouse became the iconic, legendary performance venue and bar that it is today, it was an iconic, legendary juke box bar. Some of us remember both iterations of the place through the hazy portal of smoke, drink and noise (full disclosure: that’s my demographic).

The transformation of which we speak took place nearly 30 years ago, when an aspiring writer and Long Island native, Peter Honerkamp, along with a small band of family investors, acquired the establishment with a very specific vision: build a big stage directly in front of a long bar and  invite the country’s greatest rock & roll, blues, soul and reggae performers, as well as the East End’s finest homegrown talent, to play. “Build it and they will come,” as the expression goes. And come they did.

Richie Havens, Alec Baldwin & friends. Photo: Talkhouse

From R&R Hall of Fame legends Buddy Guy, Patti Smith, Jimmy Cliff, David Crosby, Billy Joel, Paul McCartney, Paul Simon and dozens more…to local legends, Nancy Atlas and Klyph Black, the Talkhouse has been home to more brilliant musical talent than any joint on the eastern seaboard.  

So how does a genuine, true-to-the-roots roadhouse bar come to exist and thrive at the epicenter of the toniest resort community in the east? We caught up with Peter for a talk at his “house” on Main St. in Amagansett to get the backstage story, along with a few wild tales.

So Peter, in 1987 you were writing novels…suddenly you’re running a live music bar in Amagansett! How did this happen? An epiphany? A dare?

I had spent seven years writing a really bad novel. I was about 300 pages into my second novel, told in the first person feminine, when I knew I was in trouble. One night I was getting drunk with the author Clifford Irving. I told him my writing had stalled. He asked me if there anything else I always wanted to do. I told him I always wanted to run a bar. He pointed at the Talkhouse—which was closed at the time—and said, “Buy that bar.” So I got some relatives together and one week later we did.

You grew up in Douglaston, in Queens. When did you first come to the East End?

I followed a woman out here around 1977 and liked the place, so when I quit my job as a reporter for the NY Post, I came out here to write my brilliant novel in the fall of 1980. Except for a few stints on Ibiza, I have been here ever since.

Did you hang at Stephen Talkhouse in the juke box days?

Yes I did. It was the best bar I had ever been in. It still is.

"Hurricane Irene had knocked out the power in town. We had a generator so the show could go on. The Secret Service checked the club out and positioned themselves throughout. The Clintons walk down a dark ended street. Jimmy Buffett is on stage. After the first song there is a loud pop, and the lights go out."

Who was the first big name you booked, and how did you convince them to come to an unknown place 110 miles east of New York City?

John Hammond lived out here and we had mutual friends. I paid him $750 and charged $10—the place was packed. The next few months we had Mose Allison, Loudon Wainwright III, Richie Havens, Taj Mahal, Buddy Guy, Albert Collins, and Jesse COLIN Young. I convinced them by paying them. No one came for any other reason.

Was Stephen Talkhouse successful from day one?

Yes. Some years were better than others, but that’s how life works.

The Talkhouse is famous for the unannounced appearances of some of the biggest artists on the planet—McCartney, Billy Joel…I once saw Keith Richards in the audience, but he didn’t look like he’d be, um, wanting to climb on stage. Who was your most memorable walk-on?

Hard to pick just one!  That’s like comparing the women you loved. Every year, people come up to me and say this or that act was the best they’d ever seen. When you’re in that moment it seems like the best moment you can remember! Paul Simon is in the pantheon for me. So is Bon Jovi, and of course Jimmy Buffett. No one has done more for charities, local or national, this bar, his fans, and me, than Jimmy. He tops the list.

Patty Smyth, John McEnroe and Jimmy Buffett, manning the bar at Coldplay. Photo: Talkhouse

How has the Talkhouse survived the changing scene here? New heat-seeking clubs and attractions every year…yet here you are!

We have great national acts in the smallest venue in the world. We have a great layout—three different environments in one space. We have great late night bands. We have a staff that stays the same and that makes people feel welcome. And we do it consistently—we don’t disappear after Labor Day, or Columbus Day.

I walked in a few summers ago, and seated in the first banquette were Bill and Hillary Clinton & friends, on stage was Jimmy Buffett, stationed around the room, large men in black suits. Free drinks for the Secret Service guys? What was it like dealing with all that?

Bizarre. Hurricane Irene had knocked out the power in town. We had a generator so the show could go on. The Secret Service checked the club out and positioned themselves throughout. The Clintons walk down a dark-ended street. Jimmy Buffett is on stage. After the first song, there is a loud pop, and the lights go out. I wouldn’t be surprised if they thought it was a gun. It was the power in the street coming back on, which overrode the generator causing it to go out. Then the power flashed back off. We sat in total darkness till the generator slowly came on over 10 seconds later while I prayed they weren’t whisked out. Getting a headache just thinking about it again!

From your perspective, the most memorable Talkhouse concert ever…

Ah, that “Who do you love?” question again! Okay, it’s another blackout story. Before we had the generator, power went out for three shows: Glen Tilbrook, Martin Sexton, and Rick Danko—they all played acoustic by candlelight! Of course Phil Vega as Cher and me as Sonny Bono singing “I Got You Babe” eclipses them all.

A few weeks ago Coldplay took the stage with Jay Z and Beyonce in the audience and Jimmy Buffett behind the bar…what the..?

A Sirius XM party—they treat us so well. We owe that to Scott Greenstein, who lives here and is the president [at Sirius XM]. It was amazing, if stressful. The band was great, but seeing Jimmy Buffett and John McEnroe bartend was the best. Hilarious, and they fit right in—both drank on the job. Which is a requirement at the Talkhouse!

Jonny Buckland (left) and Chris Martin (right) of Coldplay. Photo: Talkhouse

I’ve seen bachelorette parties walk in on a Friday night in spike heels and little Trixxi party dresses. Anyone ever get married here?

I did, about six years ago. We’ve had at least 50 “encounters” that led to engagements…and god knows how many babies.

Biggest last-minute cancellation you’ve ever had?

Virtually none. Janis Ian had her flight cancelled. Rory Block cut her finger badly. Buckwheat Zydeco had to cancel twice this year due to illness.

Peter, you’ve hosted hundreds of benefits at the Talkhouse, from friends in need to the Surfrider Foundation to the Wounded Warrior Project, for whom you’ve helped raise millions—tell me about your passion for the Wounded Warriors, how that came about.

I have enormous respect for the American soldier, the true hero of this country who puts his or her life on the line for our nation, way of life and freedom. In 2003, we did a benefit for a young man from Rocky Point who was injured in Iraq. A group of us wanted to do more. Chris Carney, who bartended here, came up with the crackpot idea to bike across America to raise money and awareness for wounded soldiers. The rest is history.

Broad statement: the Talkhouse is in the “hospitality industry,” in a seasonal resort town, where staff turnover is the rule, not the exception. Yet your people stay with you year after year after year. What’s the secret to that level of loyalty?

I let them drink on the job, an example I consistently set. It’s easy. Treat people as you want to be treated. Trust them—and they will be trustworthy. Sure, it helps that they make money, but we are a family and each of them has a stage on which they get to be the star and perform. We back each other up. If someone who works here makes a call, then that is the call of the bar and no one, including me, can overrule it.

"I let them drink on the job, an example I consistently set."

There is a sign over the bar that reads, “Customers come and customers go. Here at the Talkhouse the employee is always right.” We took a pretty big hit from Hurricane Irene. But so did the staff in tips lost, hours working the door and the sound. It took me awhile but the bar reimbursed everyone for what they lost. Treat people as you want to be treated. And let them drink on the job.

Okay, a bar with live music is still a bar, and bars have stories—tell me one the public has never heard before.

I may have told this somewhere. Jimmy Cliff showed up to play. A guy in the band came into my office and asked for a bandaid. His white t-shirt was covered in blood. I told him he needed a hospital, not a bandaid. He begged me not to call one, insisting the wound really wasn’t bad. He’d cut himself on a metal cabinet edge on the bus. He said he’d get in trouble if he made a scene. I asked one of our guys to drive him to the hospital. A few hours passed. As Jimmy Cliff was about to hit the stage some East Hampton detectives showed up.

Turns out the guy was stabbed by another band member, his best friend, over what show they would watch on TV! He didn’t want to press charges. However, one wound was potentially serious. They told me if he died, they had to go on stage and arrest the other band member. I told Jimmy Cliff. The show went on. Midway through, our man shows up with the wounded musician, who walks on stage and starts playing, standing next to the guy who stabbed him.

What’s the most popular drink poured at the bar?

Bud Lite.

If you could book one artist that you haven’t yet booked, who would it be?

The Rolling Stones, though Bobby Keys, Ron Wood, Mick Taylor and Marianne Faithfully have played here and both Mick and Keith have seen shows here.

Klyph Black, Chad Smith of Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Max Honerkamp, Foo Fighters’ drummer Taylor Hawkins, barman Brandon Gabbard, Nancy Atlas, with Peter Honerkamp. Photo: Talkhouse

If you could have a drink with one person, living or dead, who would it be?

Hmmn. Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Churchill, Ben Franklin, Cleopatra, Lincoln, Washington….no, it would be Jesus Christ. I would love him to teach me that water into wine trick.

And the drink?

Five kegs of beer and a dozen cases of wine—I would like the conversation to last.

Can I join you?

Yes, but raise your hand if you want to say anything—I hate being interrupted.

Keep up with Peter and the East End’s most iconic music venue via the Talkhouse Instagram, and see all their upcoming shows over to the Stephen Talkhouse website. If you’re interested in diving deeper into the Talkhouse’s origins, check out Emily Siegel’s History of the Talkhouse article on our site.

The Band was a great band. Originally called Levon and the Hawks The Band backed Bob Dylan on his 1965 and 1966 world tours. When they returned they called themselves The Band. Robbie Robertson played guitar, Levon Helm drums, Rick Danko bass, Richard Manuel keyboard and vocals, and Garth Hudson sax and keyboard.When the group broke up in 1976 it was covered in one of the greatest music documentaries of all time—-Martin Scorcese’s The Last Waltz. A few years later they started touring again minus guitarist Robbie Robertson who had a falling out with Levon. Richard Manual committed suicide.

Rick Danko became a friend and played the Talkhouse solo for several years. Robbie Robertson stopped by once with Jann Wenner. Then around 1995 Levon, Rick, Garth and others started playing the Talkhouse. At the time it was our biggest show. If you go to Wikipedia it’ll tell you that Levon never played The Band classic “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down“ after Robbie Robertson left the group. But it’s not true. My partner at the time, Tim Myers, asked Levon to play it once and they did.

Then Rick Danko got busted with drugs in Japan and Levon had had enough of him. That was the end of The Band. Rick played a few more times solo then died. Levon developed throat cancer in 1998 and I presumed I’d never see him again. But around 2000 I had a local band from Long Island playing in the winter for very little money. Unbelievably, their drummer was Levon Helm. The cancer had taken his voice but watching Levon playing drums with the same passion as if he was at Madison Garden was one of my most memorable nights at the Talkhouse. Around that time he started the Midnight Ramble up in Woodstock and for another seven years many great musicians played there. He got some of his voice back and a Grammy nomination before the cancer returned and he passed.

A few years ago his daughter Amy performed and saw his handprints in cement on our patio and told me he loved playing at Talkhouse. The Midnight Ramble continues to this day.

I was living in the Hamptons in 1980 when I was visited by a friend who was severely depressed. Over the course of that summer this burly man who loved to drink and smoke had been dealing with mental issues that no doctor or psychologist could decipher. He was not merely depressed he had segued into a childlike state. He wanted me to take him for an ice cream cone not a beer.

He went back to where he lived, and I had lived, in Queens and, for no apparent reason, experienced a complete recovery. He was his old sense again. Or so it seemed. I decided to move in with him and make sure all was well.

That November I went out to Colorado to be the best man at my friend's wedding. I was gone four days. My friend had gone through another transformation, only this time it had taken a very dangerous turn.

Back then I was working on a novel and making ends meet by selling ambulances. The night I returned from Colorado six ambulances were driven to my house by six drivers. The ambulances were for the Nassau County Police Department and had POLICE emblazoned on their sides. The drivers went to a nearby hotel. I went to sleep around 9pm. My roommate and friend wasn't home. I got up in the middle of the night to take a leak and noticed the light in my friend's bedroom was on. When I got up in the morning I knocked on his door and asked if he was ok. He told me he wasn't---he said he knew the cops were going to come in the house and kill him just like they did Fred Hampton. I knew Hampton had been a Black Panther who had been killed in his sleep in a police raid in 1969. I did not yet comprehend my friend thought he was a Black Panther who was about to be assassinated by the officers he imagined were in the ambulances. I also did not know that over the last day he had gone mad, manically mad.

I assured him the ambulances were empty and were there just until they were to be delivered later that day. He told me to open the door. When I did I saw him with a rifle, pointed in my direction, the sweat bubbling on his shaking upper lip. I walked outside, clad only in my briefs, said hello to my confused friend's mom who was my neighbor, and opened each and every door to each and every ambulance.

He later told me he had the rifle trained on my head every moment---imagining my brains flying out the back of my head. I came back into his room, gingerly taking the rifle pointed at me from his hand. I locked the gun in my trunk and watched, in utter disbelief as he drove off to work. I called a few friends, all of whom urged me to flee. I was processing that when he walked back into our cabin, followed by his boss who twirled his forefinger by his ear to indicate my buddy was crazy. The boss left.

My friend pulled a large hunting knife from his belt and told me, almost jovially, how he had almost gone into my room and slit my throat the night before. I nodded, fully aware I could die momentarily, and suggested we start drinking. When he headed to our kitchen I ran out the front door. I kept running.

Over the next month he brought obvious prostitutes to the local country club, got ejected, then threw rats at commuters heading to Manhattan at the local train, and threatened everyone he knew. He was arrested outside the Plaza Hotel in NYC for threatening a passerby with a knife. He was sentenced to an institute for the criminally insane for as long as it took for him to not be criminally insane.

A doctor diagnosed him as manic depressive with violent tendencies. He proscribed lithium. It cured my friend who was released and reemerged to lead a normal life if such a condition exists. I see him rarely but we remain great friends as he was before and during that day.

So I was in the finals of the 14 and under tournament on court one at the club back in the day when the courts were red clay. I barely knew my opponent. He was 8. Eight and yet there he was rushing the net on me. I could barely see his head but there he was with only his racquet racing at me as I lobbed shot after shot over his head.

I won six love. Ten years later he won the US Open. By then he was well on his way to becoming one of the greatest tennis players of all time. His neck game is, and will always be, legendary.

His name is John McEnroe. He has played with his band at my bar and his wife, Patty Smythe, plays there as well.

THE MIRROR---24 HOURS IN PARADISE

It was his first time he had gone away by himself in 30 years. There had been many vacations, but always with wives, girlfriends, children, or assorted groups of friends. But he was single now and there was something romantic about heading off to an exotic place by himself. Besides, being alone, he would be forced to meet people instead of falling back on a friend. And maybe, just maybe, he’d meet a woman.

He chose the Mediterranean. He had fallen in love there once. At the hotel the concierge directed him to a strip of bars by the sea.

“They are mostly crowded---with young people,” he added. “You might prefer the hotel bar.”

“But there’s no one there,” he answered.

The concierge shrugged.

The first bar was dark and small, with low ceilings and loud music. But Hendrix was playing and it brought him back to Queens in l968 when he first saw Jimi play with the Chambers Brothers and Janis Joplin & Big Brother & The Holding Company as the opening acts. He found a spot at the end of the bar with his back to the wall, better to see everything and not be crowded. A woman who looked to be in her early thirties entered. He hoped she was forty. Though there were plenty of open seats at the bar she actually took one just two seats from him. He convinced himself this was a good omen. The bartender kissed her, then danced for her behind the bar. He was about 25, gorgeous and she clearly thought he was adorable. He hoped this was merely the affection of an older sister.

He bought another beer and left a ridiculous tip. It had the desired effect---the kid asked where he was from. Over the next several minutes---during which he spoke loud enough for her to hear him---he used the opportunity to tell the bartender everything he could that might engender a question which he could answer by saying something flattering about himself. Over a mere l5 minutes he mentioned he owned a nightclub, had written a book, had widely traveled, and helped little old ladies across the street almost daily. He could see in the reflection in the mirror behind the bar that the woman was listening. He even thought he saw her eyes widen on two occasions. He bought the bartender a drink and recalled the many times he had seen Hendrix play.

“That’s pretty cool,” the kid said. “I love Hendrix and I wasn’t even born when he died.”

As the kid poured himself a drink he stood ready to accuse himself of being rude and offer the woman one. It was a tactic he had used before and he was light-headed at the prospect of it working again. As he turned to speak her face lifted to his and a man about 40 leaned over her shoulder and nibbled at her ear.

“Ciao bella”.

She smiled, turned and offered each cheek to be kissed. He ordered two wines and sat in between them.

“Were you going to say something?,” she asked him.

“Me, oh no,” he said. “Why, should I?”

She looked at him like he was a child. He bought the bartender another drink, and again left a large tip.

“My friend, I appreciate it, but you realize I’m not gay,” the bartender said.

“Either am I,” he said.

The bartender lifted his shoulders, smiled and turned to another customer.

He fled.

Two blocks down a 30 year-old sat outside a bar with blackened windows. He motioned him in. He knew it was a mistake but he went anyway, anxious to please, grateful anyone was paying attention to him.

This bar was darker and louder. There were at least a dozen young, very young, women at the bar and only three guys. The girls all looked slightly older than his l5 year-old daughter. He remembered when what he was looking at would’ve been heaven. What had happened? His hearing was so shot all he could make out was a high-pitched girlish buzz intermingled with the techno beat. He ordered a martini. The child behind the bar flipped the Absolut bottle and caught it behind his back. The girls cheered. He hated him.

“Shaken or stirred”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the new Bond movie---shaken or stirred.”

“No matter. It’s the vodka that counts.”

“Exactly.”

He decided he liked the kid.

Looking around he decided it was bearable. After all, these girls were too young for him l5 years ago. He stared at one girl till she stared back, non-plussed and not remotely threatened. He was invisible. He found another one actually looking at him, but when he engaged her stare he realized she was talking to her friend. She wasn’t looking at him, but through him. It was as if he were a piece of furniture, a tattered couch that was part of the background. He left another huge tip and left before it hit the cup.

At the empty hotel bar he asked the young female bartender, “Where can you meet a woman my age?”

“Maybe on-line,” she said. “You look so sad.”

“I feel old.”

“Oh no, you look even younger than my dad. Really.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. I mean, he looks really old.”

In the morning he went to the sauna, grateful he was in a 5 star hotel that increased the likelihood he would be surrounded by men his age. He yearned for balding heads, bellies, and sprouts of hair emerging from the ears and noses of pale bloated men. The fact they were all richer than him hardly mattered.

Unfortunately, the small, coed Jacuzzi was occupied by three young men and a gorgeous girl. He missed a step in descending and managed to mostly fall in next to her. A disjointed smile shot across his face as he inched away from her. He felt like a moron---an elephantine moron. She left. He told himself to get a grip---it was a coincidence. He felt at a pulse too rapid to count. He closed his eyes and waited till the other guys left then emerged and wrapped his towel high over his belly, feeling like Charles Laughton in Spartacus.

He found refuge in the steam room, then grabbed his razor. There were mirrors in front and on either side stretching down a row of sinks. He didn’t look directly at the men on either side of him. He glanced sideways and spotted what looked like an axe mark in the side of the man next to him. He quickly realized it simply delineated where his pauch sagged over his waist. He tried not to look again, though as he shaved he inevitably snatched glimpses of the pale, mole-ridden belly caught in all its exhausted unguardedness. The back had swaths of hair---not the omnipresent fur of the Italian or Jew---but the haphazard sprouting of a body whose testosterone clogged portals had lost the ability to push it out the head. He froze as he caught the unexpected sight of the large expanse of flesh that reached from below the ear to what used to constitute the neck. It was then he stared at the face and realized he was alone. He fled to the bar, like a criminal on the dodge, refusing to admit to anyone let alone himself that he knew what he looked like. The longer he spent trying to recapture himself the more he realized he was no longer who he thought he would always be.

After two martinis he found refuge on the perimeter of the beach, a place in the shade well away from anyone. He had a bathing suit under his shorts and over the course of a half dozen beers he debated getting up and going into the water. He reminded himself he didn’t care about other people who had aged and gained weight. But then,
after all, this WAS him, not them. He leaned forward to rise from his lounge chairs, but his belly kept hitting his legs and he felt slightly out of breath. He wasn’t sure if it was psychosomatic. He leaned back to collect himself and ordered another beer. He was overreacting. Nonetheless, when did this slow descent into decrepitude progress so much? He knew at 30 he wasn’t 20 and at 40 not 30 let alone 25, but 52seemed out of a whole other reality.

Three 20ish young women pulled up lounge chairs and slowly undressed, unclipping their bikini tops a mere l0 feet from him. In that moment they were the six most beautiful breasts in the world. He yearned for sunglasses and tried to find a
point on the horizon where he could pretend to be looking at some distant point while a quarter of his vision could remain fixed on them. Yes, he was alive, visually, physically, palpably alive. But it made him all too aware why he was sometimes afraid to see people he hadn’t seen in awhile. He knew people didn’t care---not really---- if you were a failure or success whatever that meant, rich or poor, happily married or cruelly divorced. Even if they cared how you had fared in the game, it didn’t define you to an old acquaintance, let alone a real friend. But everyone noticed how you looked and everyone knew it. He fantasized living in a fat colony where he was the thinnest person and he was safe. He would benevolently assure all, especially the women, that they were beautiful and they would love him for it. Ah their concern---“He may look gorgeous, but he’s too thin. It’s bordering on unhealthy.”

He felt flushed in the face. The water was desirable, but now impossible. Undoubtedly there were thin people watching him. He got up, tottering a bit, staring at his sneakers and socks and wondering if he needed to sit back down to get them off. Falling would be the nail in the coffin.

Ultimately he leaned against a nearby rocky ledge, trying to decide if these beauties were girls or women. No, they were definitively girls. He went back 25 years and 50 pounds to a similar beach in another part of the Mediterranean. He was 27, slim, in his prime and as handsome a guy as anyone around him. He knew some of the countless naked women around him were watching as well. . He was akward, but only because he was alone. It was a rocky beach and to get out over the shallow shoreline bathers had to negotiate a narrow 50 foot long rocky path that led to a point where you could dive into the water. Everyone pretended to find a way not to notice everyone as they negotiated this catwalk without being found out. This mutually obvious lie would no doubt serve all well in future married lives. On that walk he had worried about tripping and falling sideways into the shallow sea and he was embarrassed by his nervously shrunken circumsized cock hidden like a golf ball in the rough. Now it was a more telling firing squad he faced. Oh, to be once more feeling as bad as he once had.

The panic quickened. He ordered another beer, rationalizing more calories was less dangerous than sobriety. His blood was racing too fast. He wanted to have contact, talk to someone about anything, tell a story, share a tragedy, laugh at a joke, or accept an insight that didn’t involve him. He was good at all of that and that was something that hadn’t changed. But there was no one to approach, least of all these kids. He yearned for a pause. This was ridiculous.

As he contemplated working in an assisted living facility where he could flirt with former Ziegfeld (or were they already dead) girls his eyes again rested on the six breasts. Only now there were six eyes shifting back to see if his gaze was settling, ready to reprove him. He looked away quickly. At what point was it no longer ok to look at them? At l9 he could lust for his l6 year old girlfriend. There was nothing wrong with bedding a 22 year-old when you were 30 and he had done so at 40. That was especially true here in Europe where people were more honest about desire and had better things to worry about. Yes, up to 30 you could look at anyone over l6, at 40 over 21, but what about 52---only then were you entitled to an aesthetic abstract and to flesh over what--- 35? When did this happen and who defined what? When did he evolve into this other---when did the butterfly awake to being a slug?

He lurched to his feet and headed to the bathroom, alone in his torment on a beautiful beach with naked women. At least it wasn’t a totally nude beach where people would wonder why his clothes were on---or would they? He plodded ahead, a white whale, gaining weight by the second, a reddened walrus, like those engorged tourists with miniscule hookers one can see on so many such beaches. His heart pounded. All was beyond him. Maybe he could just die right here.

No, appearances don’t matter, your friends do, your heart does. Even Robert Redord doesn’t look like Robert Redford anymore. Ah, but he aged so much better. He had once looked a little like the younger Redford. Old friend knew this. It was true, but who would believe it? What actor did he look like now?

His was sweating uncontrollably, increasingly disoriented. He saw his funeral service, all those pictures of a thinner and younger self alongside his plump corpse, people commenting on how he looked. No, he had to stay alive long enough for one last diet so his cadaver would be passable. Of course, cremation was an option.

Somehow he made it back to his room. And that evening she was there again, same seat, same bar, same guy next to her. He looked for a corner. He would be the old guy---that guy who always seemed to be in every bar he grew up in---in the corner, looking at his drink. But the guy at the bar motioned him to sit next to them. Unbelievable, but true. He grabbed the adjoining stool, smiled at both of them, and offered to buy them a drink. The man thanked him, but said he had to go, kissed her, and left. The hand drifted a bit too excessively as he waved goodbye. He caught an angle of himself that masked his weight in the mirror and held it.

“It wasn’t anything…,” he started.

“No, of course not.”

“He’s not your boy…”

“He’s my brother. Besides he’s gay.” She laughed and shrugged. “Things aren’t always what they seemed to be.

“They’re not?”

“Are you ok?,” she asked.

“It’s been a weird day---I’m a bit over the top.”

“We both need a drink.”

“I’m not coming on to you, don’t worry. I’m just alone and it’s my birthday.”

“I rarely worry. Ah, how old are you?”

“62.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why?

“You look so young.”

“You’ve made my year.”

“I really can’t believe you’re 62.”

“I work hard to keep in shape.”

“Well it shows. 62?”

“That ancient,” he paused. “I run every day. And I watch how much I drink---though not too closely.

Again the laugh. “Age doesn’t matter.”

He started to protest, then stopped. “How true---when I was your age I fell in love with a 52 year-old woman.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m past bothering.”

She laughed.---such a beautiful laugh. “True enough. Besides it could be true---though it’s usually an older man with a younger women.”

“Women are more forgiving than men.”

“In some things,” she said . “We simply see other things.”

he lamely nodded. He was sure she had leaned closer.

“Where is she now---your older lover---oh sorry, is she still alive?”

He shrugged, absorbing the setback, yet certain her thigh now lightly touched his. Where was this going, this sudden belief, renewing hope that pulled him in every direction at once?

“What do you remember most about her?”

“Her laugh”

“How charming,” she said. There was no doubt about it---her hand had claspsed his, squeezed and stayed an extra second before pulling back only an inch or two away.

“Let’s have that drink,” he said.

“Let’s have two---at least.”

Her leg was now definitively pressing ever so lightly into his.

“Why?”

“Why what?,” he asked.

“Why her laugh?”

“It never changed.

So it the winter of either 1993 or 1994 and Buster Poindexter, a.k.a. David Johansen, brought his band, The Banshees of Blue, to the Talkhouse in South Beach. It was his birthday and the band asked me to hire a stripper to deliver a cake to him topless. She was to appear about 40 minutes into the set at a pre-arranged time.

I hired the stripper. The show began. The stripper called me and told me she was running an hour late as she was making a fortune at a bachelor party. "No, you have to come now. You have to be on stage in 25 minutes." Click.

I called a hooker. She arrived with less than 10 minutes to spare. I led her to my office. "There is good and bad news,"I explained. "Am I getting paid?," she asked. I paid her and explained my dilemma. Just go out, strip to your underwear and give him the cake. " just strip. You don't have to have sex." " I know how to fuck, not strip," she complained. With four minutes to spare I showed a hooker how to strip. She did just that, descending a spiral staircase to give Buster his cake.

I was in a NYC cab circa 1992 with my buddy Michael Genth and we were talking about betting and how there were no sure bets. I pointed the NY Jets were 18 point underdogs to the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl and they won 16-7.

The cab driver snorted agreement, we waited.

"I bet my house on the sure thing," he finally explained.

We waited.

Now this was 25 years ago but the gist of the story was this.

He worked in the late 60s for a private limo company. He was called to pick someone up at a private after hours club.

The next day the Jets were going to play an irrelevant game against an AFC opponent. Irrelevant as the Jets were already in the playoffs. Back in those days there was no very little parity in the AFL, meaning there were some really good, and really bad teams. There were 20 plus point spreads.

This was a game where the Jets were favored by a ridiculous spread.

My cabbie got to the club around six am. Joe Namath was at the bar with several women. He was whacked. His buds got him into the limo and up to whatever hotel he was staying at. The game was going to start at Shea in 6 hours, or thereabouts.

Meaningless game, big point spread, whacked quarterback. The cabbie bet the house on the opponent.

We waited.

"Namath had one of the best games of his career. He covered the spread and then some. I lost the house."

We waited.

"Never bet the house," he said.

Carl the Greek was the most famous bartender in the Hamptons till he passed away in May of 2012 of a heart attack. He was 77.
The last seven years he worked the patio bar of the Talkhouse. He had worked for years at O'Malley's in the Alley (now Rowdy Hall) and then the O'Malleys on Route 27 in East Hampton. When those places closed we adopted him.
Cafe Carl was open from 3:30 to 7 p.m. on Thursday to Sunday. Carl held court, bringing his snacks, cracking his familiar line of jokes (the only jokes that got funnier in the retelling), and serving the 10 to 20 folks who came to see him.
He was an inveterate gambler, and he lost more often than not. One of his friends, George Bowdin, came one day.
"George, I keep trying to dig myself out of the hole I'm. What should I do?" he lamented.
"Stop digging," George advised.
I always knew and liked Carl before he worked at the Talkhhouse. When he started working at the Talkhouse I fell in love with him.
Shortly before he passed he told a customer he was writing his autobiography, entitled "My Life Behind Bars."
I am a Civil War buff and took the staff to Gettysburg one year. We were broken up into groups of six. I was with Carl and our guide was a solemn Presbyterian minister. As we looked over the battlefield and heard about Pickett's charge Carl thrust his head into his hands and trembled. The minister placed a hand on Carl's shoulder.
"What's wrong my son?" he asked.
"This morning I woke up with a long gray pubic hair on my chest."
The minister was as much flummoxed as perplexed. Carl waited. "You don't understand. It wasn't mine."
The next year I took the staff to Chattanooga, where the battles of the city of that same name and one at nearby Chickamauga took place in the fall of 1963.
Carl and I were at one of the weirdest hotel bars I have ever been at. Small bar, karaoke scenario, and 10 of us or thereabouts at around midnight.
Our voluptuous, or should I say voluminous bartender, takes her shirt off. Then, shortly thereafter, the bra is tossed to the floor. They were beautiful breasts. The guy next to Carl now thrusts his hands in his head and trembles. Carl asks, "What's wrong, isn't this great?"
"No, that's my wife."
Carl was a great man and we all loved him. I always did special things for him on his birthday. One year I hired a stripper who was gorgeous. She walked up to the bar and asked Carl to make her a margarita, adding she would take her clothes off if she liked it. Carl laughed. After one sip she was dancing with him in her birthday suit.
Another time I threw him a big party at my house. A half dozen female friends dressed up in outfits from the Robert Palmer videos and sang "Simply Irresistible" for him.
But my favorite was when I got a female buddy of mine to dress up as the health inspector. I got her a uniform, nametag with title, and all the standard report forms inspectors use.
I put glass in an ice bin, left dead mice from the pet store in the basement, put dirty wine glasses in the rack, and a condom under the ice machine. I had all his crew bring in dirty food plates and smoke cigars. Then I sent her in. Carl panicked, screaming at his friends to put out their smokes (they refused) and take the food outside. George Boudin blew cigar smoke in her direction.
She placed the dead mice on the bar in a plastic bag. Carl put the bag outside, telling her he prided himself on a clean bar.
"Mr. Gust, then what is this," she demanded, holding up the filthy wine glasses. She kept writing furiously on her pad. Picking up a shard of glass from the sink she glowered at Carl. "This could result in someone's death," she announced solemnly.
She then pointed to the condom under the ice machine. "No one can fit under there let alone fuck under there," Carl said.
"This is the most violations I have seen anywhere," she announced. My son, who was around 18 at the time, walked in. "Him, he's the manager," Carl announced. She ignored him.
"And do you want to know what your worst violation is?" she demanded.
"I am afraid to ask," he said woefully.
"You have topless women parading around in here."
"Where?,” he asked.
She proceeded to take off her shirt and her bra. Another woman at the bar, on cue, did the same.
When a local attorney brought a candidate for Town Supevisior in to the bar, Carl was seated on a bench, his head buried in whipped cream between one of the women’s breasts. The candidate walked on. Carl forgave me. The whipped cream helped.

The only time anyone guaranteed a home run at Maidstone Park where I used to play softball was me.

So I played ball every summer Sunday at Maidstone Park in East Hampton from around 1985 till around 2010. It was a ritual I loved. Your problems left you in the camaraderie of lunatics who wanted to win, but could care less if they lost.
I was not a good ballplayer. I never came close to a home run. One afternoon, while the lads were maligning my hitting prowess I pointed out that my bloop Texas League doink singles were works of art. My hits, deceptively disguised as ineptitude, were in fact an achievement no one else could replicate, whereas their power shots were remarkably identical.
" I could hit a homer anytime I want," I casually added.
They jumped on that, asking me when.
"Next week, first time up," I promised.
So there I was, the guarantee. And all week I was needled about it.
I called my buddy and she agreed to help me out, for $400. Her name was Coco and she had stripped for the bachelor's parties over the years.
I hid her, sans clothes, in the crop of trees behind first base and gave her instructions. I imagined how it might go down, preparing her for various eventualities. "If they seem to catch on, pretend to faint. If no one comes to your aid pretend to have a seizure," I explained. "Failure is not an option, " I added.
I stepped up to the plate, catcalls everywhere. I hit a weak grounder to short. The shortstop bent over.
Coco, boobs bouncing, raced onto the field. The shortstop allowed the ball to dribble past him into short left field. Coco had thrown herself into the first baseman's arms. I walked to first, asking everyone what was happening. It was 2 p.m. and a naked woman was on the field. A lot happened at Maidstone, but this was a first.
When I reached first Coco raced to the second baseman as, in feigned amazement, I approached. And then I rounded second and stood next to the shortstop and third baseman as Coco was now in the arms of the pitcher, Steve Day. When I reached third I saw the left fielder, Alfredo Merat, divine the ruse. He raced in for the ball. I raced home. I was safe.
And I had done it.

When my friend Caren Rosenthal heard from my teammate and her husband, Randy Rosenthal, what had happened she asked what I paid the stripper. When told it was $400 she added, "He should have spent it on therapy."

The Rolling Stones are my favorite band. I got to see them at Madison Square Garden in 1972 and in1975. I never thought six people who were in the band or involved in their songs would come to my bar.
Mick Jagger came in 1988 to see Buddy Guy. Buddy had a few too many that night and didn't register that Jagger was in the audience. Jagger left midway through the set. After he left a bandmate told Buddy that Mick was there. He played “Satisfaction.”
The next time Mick came was late in the summer of 1994 to see Peter Wolf (of J.Geils fame) perform. He stayed the whole show. Keith Richards came around 2013 to see Leon Russell. Ray Ledda, who works the door, walked Keith down the block so he could visit Leon on his bus.
But there were three people who performed there that played in the band and another who influenced them.
Ron Wood came into our South Beach club and jammed one night, though for the life of me I don't recall who was playing with him. I booked Mick Taylor a number of times in the mid to late-1990s. Mick replaced Brian Jones after he drowned in 1969 (after Roy Buchanan turned down the job) and then left the band in 1974. He also played in a band that the Stones sax player, Bobby Keys, put together, called Tumbling Dice (a Stones song from the 1972 album “Exile on Main Street”). Tumbling Dice, which included Ivan Neville of the Neville Brothers, played the Talkhouse around 1995.
Bobby Keys was a larger than life character who played our South Beach club, occasionally sleeping upstairs. He died in 2014. He played with Joe Cocker, Leon Russell, George Harrison, Eric Clapton, Delaney & Bonnie and Friends, and John Lennon, among others. He was best man at Mick Jagger’s wedding, but had a falling out with him in 1973. While on tour he reportedly filled a bathtub with Dom Perignon and drank most of it. We had a lot of laughs in the brief interlude our lives cris-crossed.
And, finally, Marianne Faithfull played the bar around 1999. She had an eventful career with the Stones. A book she gave Mick, “The Master and the Margarita,” by Mikhail Bulgakov, in part inspired the song “Sympathy for the Devil,” which was featured on the 1968 album “Beggars Banquet.”
The song “You Can't Always Get What You Want" (on the 1969 “Let It Bleed” album) was supposedly inspired by her. "Wild Horses" and "I Got The Blues" on the 1971 “Sticky Fingers” album were songs allegedly influenced by her. She co-wrote "Sister Morphine" with Jagger while she was romantically linked with him from 1968 to1970.

In the fall of 1987 Phillip Vega came to work at the bar. By 1988 he was bartending.
In the fall of 1988 I booked John Lee Hooker to play for $3,500. At the time it was the most expensive show I had booked, and it was occurring after the summer season, which made it a greater risk.
The show wasn't selling well. In those early days the office was in the basement. I went downstairs and listened to the answering machine. The machine had been running when Phil had answered the phone. I listened in horror as he told a woman who wanted to buy 16 tickets to the show that it was sold out. I had no way to contact her.
I then went over with him in detail how to answer the phone, how to see how a show was selling, how to always get a name and number, and, finally, how not to sell reserved seats when they were gone, just seating at the bar. He said he was sorry and understood.
Our next show was John Hammond and all our reserved seats were gone though we had some general admission – bar seating -- tickets available.
I called Phil a few hours later.
"Hello, I am Pierre Menard, I would like eight tickets at the best table in the house for John Hammond," I stipulated (I did not ask). My French accent was plausible.
"I am sorry, but we have no reserved seats. Those are sold out."
"You silly man, that is no concern to me. I am Pierre Menard. You give me the best seats. Do not bore me with how you fix your problem."
"You are not listening. Seats do not exist,. Phil explained, growing exasperated."
"Make them exist, you silly little man" I said in my French accent.
“I have no more time to waste on this,." Phil said.
"My silly little spic. You do not know to whom you speak, you...."
"Fuck you Frenchie," he yelled and hung up.
A few hours later I came in and put my head in my hands. Phil came over.
"What's wrong?"
"I cannot get a mortgage. I have too much credit card debt and no bank will touch me."
"No one?" he asked.
"Maybe one guy. He 's an asshole. But he is my last hope. French guy, big shot banker named Pierre Menard."
“Really?"
"Yes, by the way, he may call for tickets to a show. If he does give him whatever he wants."
"OK."
"By the way, anyone call today?"
"No."
I walked to the door.
"Fuck you, you silly little man," I said.

So I was on the balls of my ass in the summer of 2003. My girlfriend and I were heading toward our denouement and my bar was tottering for reasons I do not need to enumerate here. Suffice it to say I had gotten overextended and it rained, or was supposed to, almost every weekend.
I was on the outs with my ex in-laws ,who were my partners. They wanted to sell the bar and I, for myself and those that worked there, wanted to keep it.
My buddy, Chris Carney, worked with me as a bouncer and bartender. He had a falling out with his friend who ran the gym where he worked as a personal trainer that cost him his job. His girlfriend had moved out and he was trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. He was not doing much better than me.
In mid-August of that year I had booked a band called Big Voodoo Daddy. Around 4 p.m. the power went out. I thought it was a local, temporary outage. It was not.
We thought it was a terrorist attack. When we realized it wasn’t we thought about how we could keep the show on. But the generator we had used in 1995 for Tracy Nelson when we lost power was not available and, unlike Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze, Rick Danko of The Band, and Martin Sexton, who had all played acoustic by candlelight during other power outages, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy was an electric band.
Large parts of the Midwest and northeastern United States as well as Ontario were blacked out. The power was restored in some areas by 11 p.m.; it took two days in others.
We rescheduled the show for October. I decided to donate the proceeds to help a wounded soldier. I called my Congressman, Tim Bishop, and found out about a young man from Rocky Point named John Fernandez, who had lost his legs in Iraq.
Somehow that decision would change my life and those of many others.
I somehow stopped feeling sorry for myself and started trying to help someone who had bigger problems than me. I got outside myself. So we spread the word. John was still in the hospital but some relatives came and we raised close to $5,000.
Along with others in my pirate crew, most notably Nick Kraus, I decided to put on a concert at the Patchogue Theater. We got the Commitments (which included members in the band featured in the movie of the same name) and the Nancy Atlas Project to perform and donated the proceeds to John Fernandez and two other wounded soldiers on Long Island. All of us worked for free, but after expenses we only made about $3,000.
Then Chris and a buddy of his bounced around the idea that he would bike across America to raise money and awareness for our wounded soldiers. I was doing sit-ups at the gym he had moved over to when he raised the idea.
I jumped up. "Great idea. We have to do it, " I exclaimed.
"Whoa, whoa, slow down."
"No, it 's a no-brainer. You already did it."
"What are you talking about?"
"Stop looking at the obstacles. See the goal achieved. Then we have to work backwards to see how we did it."
The workout session continued. Chris pointed out we were both broke. He would need a support vehicle and someone to drive it. If we were starting the ride in our neck of the woods he would need to do it in the summer because he needed to bike over the Rockies in warmer weather, but that's when a bartender and trainer makes all their money in the Hamptons.
Besides, he said, if he was going to repair his relationship with his girlfriend, riding a bike to California might not be the smartest idea. I told him I understood, then I asked him a question.
"If you decide you can't do it for whatever reason do you mind if I get someone else?"
"Fuck you," he responded.
The bait was swallowed.
I still had to set the hook.
I called the family of John Fernandez and asked them if any organization had helped her son.
"One person, John Melia. He was with a group called the Wounded Warrior Project."
So I contacted the parent organization of the fledgling Wounded Warrior Project and spoke to a guy named Al Giordano who had been in the Marines. It took some convincing but he agreed to set up a meeting in Washington D.C. with Melia.
I flew down with Nick and Chris and some friends. This was May of 2004. Melia was the only employee of WWP, and the organization had raised about $10,000. He heard our plan and then took us on a tour of the amputee ward at Walter Reed Hospital. It is not a place civilians get to go. Chris kept saying we didn’t belong there. But there we were.
I remember a mailman from Kansas who lost a leg and a guy from San Francisco haunted by the fact that he had NOT killed a 12-year-old boy who had pointed a guy at him during an ambush. His group had taken out the adults but he let the kid run when his gun jammed. Another soldier in the convoy behind his was killed at the same spot shortly thereafter.
We were blown away. We had lunch later with some wounded soldiers recuperating at the hospital. One was a leg amputee named Ryan Kelly. He later told me that when he heard our idea he thought, "Novel idea, but they'll never pull it off."
By the time we left Walter Reed the hook was set. Chris was all in.
Then we went home and I contacted the parent charity. I met the powers that be in Queens. Giordano wasn't there but a guy named Steve Nardizzi was. I could see he bought into the idea. But the lawyer and charity head had big doubts. They wanted to know what would happen if Chris bailed on the trip. I told him he wouldn't. They asked what would happen if he got hurt. I told them
he would come back, get well, then resume the journey. It wasn't a race. My favorite thing was when they pointed out that my ops plan called for a 4,400-mile journey.
"It's only 3,300 miles coast to coast," the lawyer pointed out.
"That's as the crow flies. He is not a crow. He's riding on bike paths whenever he can."
I told them we would fund everything on our own and just give them the overage.
Eventually, they agreed.
We put a beer pitcher out front of the club and pitched our idea before every show. A conservative friend ,Paul Ryan, gave us five grand, as did the liberal actor, Alec Baldwin. The whole community got behind the project. We raised what we needed to get Chris and a support vehicle across America.
The next critical piece to the puzzle came when Chris's buddy Tek Vakalaloma agreed to drive the RV and stare at Chris’s butt for eight hours a day for 44 days.
Then another piece fell in our laps. Tony Snow, a popular Fox radio show personality, heard about Chris. Chris met him and Tony offered to follow Chris across America, interviewing him on the air periodically.
At the same CNN interviewed Chris and we got voluminous local press. Then one August morning Chris took off. Fifty of us followed him the first 15 miles. I brought up the rear with John Melia, who rode a tandem bike with a soldier named Jeremy Feldbusch who was blinded in Iraq.
The money started coming in. I remember opening an envelope with a $25,000 check in it one time when we were struggling. It only got better. The doubting Thomas, Ryan Kelly, flew out to Colorado with a double leg amputee named Heath Calhoun for two days of riding. They were there again when Chris, Tek, Nick, Tony, Chris’s girlfriend Elissa, and me biked into San Diego. We had done it.
But wait, then came the kicker. Heath and Ryan said if Chris biked across America again they'd do it with him. All of us looked at Chris who was, without hesitation, all in. So seven months later the three of them took off and another 45 days later Ryan and Heath, one leg between them, biked from LA to Montauk.
Along the way they were honored on the field by the L.A. Dodgers, Colorado Rockies, Kansas City Royals, Philadelphia Phillies, and the NY Mets. President Bush heard about the ride and brought the team into the White House.
Something even more important happened. More soldiers wanted to join us. John, Steve, and Al started sending them out -- -some biked for a day, some for several days. Think Forrest Gump. Ten wounded soldiers and Chris biked from the White House to Montauk.
We raised millions more, but we realized we had more than a fundraising tool. We had a rehabilitative tool. Instead of being relegated to a hospital bed talking only to their loved ones and doctors, these young men and women were hopping on bikes, empowering themselves and each other, setting the example for the incoming wounded and going out into the communities they had sacrificed so much for.
Part of their rehabilitation was America’sgratitude -- being thanked by us. America yearned to embrace them. It was something everyone, left or right, wanted to do given our failure to properly welcome home the Vietnam vets. As the ride concluded Gary Sinise and the Lieutenant Dan Band and Bon Jovi did benefit concerts for us.
Then Nick and I planned an outdoor concert with Joan Osborne, The Nancy Atlas Project, Mary Wilson of the Supremes and the Funk Brothers. It was not working out and my investors and me stood to lose $30,000. I went to my friend John Alexander who was close to Jimmy Buffett and asked him to ask Buffett to save the day. Buffett did and we went in the black. Jimmy has gone on to play other shows for WWP and has been aces for the soldiers.
One of the soldiers who joined us was Melissa Stockwell, a high leg amputee who had real trouble biking. She finally chucked her prosthetic off and biked with one leg.
Ryan Kelly currently works with a team of helicopter pilots transporting accident victims in rural Texas to the hospital. Melissa went on to swim in the Paralympics in Beijing. Heath Calhoun brought out the American flag at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver and then got the silver in downhill skiing at Sochi. They went on to accomplish things they might never have accomplished had they not been injured.
In the fall of 2005 I went to Miami and Key West to put together a shorter ride so we could involve soldiers for a few days. I just got back from our 11th ride. WWP now hosts 53 rides each year, 30 of them Soldier Rides, all over the United States, involving 1,800 soldiers annually.
We now have over 500 employees in 25 offices across the country. We raise over $450 million dollars a year. We are the largest veterans advocacy group in the country and the 45th largest nonprofit in the country. We offer 20 different programs to honor and empower wounded soldiers. We just donated $100 million to four private hospitals in Chicago, Atlanta, Boston and L.A., to provide inpatient and outpatient care for our wounded warriors.
We have a lot more to do. We need dough to keep funding the programs that honor and empower our heroes. We have touched the lives of close to 100,000 soldiers and countless caregivers. But we missed a lot. We didn't have the financial wherewithal and infrastructure to help everyone. Over 400,000 soldiers suffer from PTSD, over 300,000 have traumatic brain injury, and 22 American veterans commit suicide in our country every day.
We have to find everyone we missed. They are out there in our country. They need our help.
I took a soldier to Israel in 2011 . There were 15 wounded Americans and we biked (or they did) with a group of Israeli wounded soldiers. There was one guy who, four days in, was still withdrawn. We were at this place a rabbi had bought for the wounded Israelis where guys and gals could talk about what they went through. We had dinner and a few beers and the Israelis started telling their stories, of what they had endured physically and mentally. I retreated to a corner. Finally it came time for the withdrawn American to talk. He did not want to. But he looked at another American soldier who had lost an arm.
"I don't think I belong here. You lost an arm. I lost nothing."
The arm amputee looked at his arm.
"This is nothing. When I got home my wife told me to leave until I could go back to being the man she married. I kicked the refrigerator, looked at my two-year-old son, and wondered if next time I would kick him. Then I got help."
The withdrawn guy came out of his shell right then and there. He now works for WWP. Our symbol is one soldier carrying another off the battlefield. That night that soldier morphed from the guy being carried by another soldier to the one carrying the soldier.
Then there are the catastrophically wounded, those 1,400 men and women who will need total care for the rest of their lives. They cannot feed themselves or do all the things we all take for granted.
We helped get legislation passed in 2005, signed by President Bush, that got immediate financial assistance to those who were wounded. We then got legislation passed by President Obama that provides a stipend for a caregiver, so they could afford to stay at home with their loved one. In times past that loved one had to work and that injured soldier wound up in a V.A. hospital.
But we needed to do more.
I give you the story of the Schei family. Erik went to war, telling his mom and dad to pull the plug if he was a vegetable. Then he went to his brother Deven and told him that if anything bad happened to him Deven had to go over and finish the job. Devon agreed.
In Iraq Erik suffered one of the most catastrophic wounds of the war. A bullet went through his head. The doctors told the parents to pull the plug, that he was a paraplegic with no chance of regaining cognitive function. Devon went off to war. Erik's parents broke their promise. They did not pull the plug.
The WWP has stayed, and will continue to stay, with the Scheir family, psychologically and financially.
So where are Erik and his family now?
Erik regained cognitive ability. He can speak through a voice box. He can wink at a girl, watch a sunset, and go to a movie with his mom.
He is glad he is alive.
Devon got blown up in Afghanistan. He lost part of his thighs and calf, lost cartilage in his back, suffered shrapnel wounds over his body, lost sight in his eye. He emerged from his vehicle and was shot. Multiple operations later he attempted suicide twice.
His will, coupled with the help of WWP, helped him survive. He works for WWP and travels around America, sharing his story and that of his family. He became the guy on top helping the guy on the bottom.
I get thanked by soldiers all the time for helping them out. Are you kidding? Short of my kids, WWP and the soldiers I have met trumps everything in my life. Whatever I have given I have gotten back in spades. My experience with WWP and our wounded has enriched my life and made me a better person.
I was never in the military. I do not know what it is like to suffer or sustain a lifetime injury. I do not know what it is like to absorb the enormous shock of conflict. But I do know this -- we owe an indelible debt of gratitude to the American soldier who puts his or her life on the line for us, our freedom, our country and our way of life.

Around 1990 The radio station WNEW decided to broadcast a morning show from the bar. It consisted of interviews with Billy Joel and Mick Jones of Foreigner. Toy Caldwell had played the night before and some of the staff stayed straight through the night.
The stars arrived, the audience filed in, and the WNEW staff raced around. An animated woman with voluminous breasts was in charge. With 15 minutes to showtime the bartender plugged in the coffee machine. In seconds all the power in the building blew out. Our antiquated electrical system could not handle the surge. My buddy and I raced downstairs to find the spare breakers I needed to restore power. The clock ticked down.
The big-breasted woman kept screaming downstairs. "Five minutes to air time.” "Four minutes," as if her supplying this information would help us find the breakers. With one minute to spare we found the breakers and restored power. I thought I was having a heart attack.
I grabbed a beer and stumbled outside by the garbage dumpster and took a leak. WNEW had its own security guard in the back. He asked me to leave the property.
It was exactly what I felt like doing.
But I didn't.

The 1960s folk singer Dave van Ronk was a Talkhouse regular in the late 1980s through the mid 1990s. He was a fixture of the Greenwich Village folk scene in the 1960s and knew all the figures who populated that world---Dylan, Joan Baez, Peter Seeger, Tim Buckley, Phil Ochs, etc.
The first time he came to play the bar he looked at our tiny stage, maybe eight feet wide by six feet deep, and our six-channel sound board and shook his head.
"If you told me 25 years ago I'd wind up playing in a bar like this in a town called AMAGANSETT," he said, pausing for effect, "I'd do it all over again."

In the middle of 1995 a very bad hurricane hit the East End on a Sunday. Power was knocked out and it wasn't coming back on for several days. Tracy Nelson was scheduled to perform. She had been the front woman for a 1960s rock band called Mother Earth. She walked into the club Monday morning. "I guess this gig isn't happening." "Sure it is," I said. My partner at the time, Tim Myers, had already hooked up a generator.
The entire town was dark except for us. Tracy Nelson walked onstage. Her first song was "Stormy Monday."

So Mick Jones, the guitarist for Foreigner, put the band back together again, minus Lou Graham, the lead vocalist. Tough sell. The Stones are not the Stones without Mick Jagger. The replacement vocalist was great and young and they rehearsed in the bar a lot, in, I’m thinking, about 1993. Then they played.
I was outside on the street and the bar was packed. A couple walked by.
"Sounds just like Foreigner," the woman said.
I watched them walk away.

I was sitting at the bar around 1991. One of the great acts to play the bar in the early days was onstage. Toy Caldwell had been in The Marshall Tucker Band. The first time he played the bar I went upstairs to pay him.
Toy was a big man. He picked me up and tossed me on the couch. "Pay me later, let's drink some whiskey."
When I was a lovelorn kid a song he sang, "Can't You See," consoled me on many nights. I would get to sing it with him one night on my birthday, one of my signature nights at my saloon.
Anyway, the cover was a whooping $15. So I am sitting there, anonymous, a way I ironically more often than not prefer to be, when a guy sits down me to me. "Fuckin $15 cover, place is a ripoff," he says. I shrug. A minute passes. He leans in. "Man, Toy Caldwell is my hero and that guy looks and sounds just like him."
"That guy is Toy Caldwell," I said.
No further talk about the cover.

Holly Woodlawn died last week of cancer. She or he was 69. She
starred in underground films like “Trash” and “Women In Revolt.” She was
immortalized in the 1972 Lou Reed song "Take A Walk On The Wild Side.”
It opened:
“Holly came from Miama F-L-A
Hitch-hiked her way across the USA
Plucked her eyebrows on the way
Shaved her legs and then he was she
She said, Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side”
In 1993 I hired her to play the South Beach Talkhouse during a gay pride parade. I picked her and her pianist up at the airport, bringing Holly back to Miami F-L-A. We looked down on the madness of the parade from my second floor office before her show.
There was a giant lesbian whipping 20 topless girls dressed as sled
dogs that pulled her along on all fours. There were men with everything on display.
Holly's lounge act was more suited to a crowd of septuagenarians in an
elegant hotel then the hordes of young people cavorting below. She
looked at me and said, "They are going to eat me alive."
I told her she was of the first people to publicly come out. That she was the Rosa Parks of the gay rights movement (a stretch). She helped make their liberation possible.
She smiled gratefully, finished her smoke, and downed a double tequila.
Then she took the stage. The only people in the club were hordes of
lesbians using our bathrooms. No one listened. No one even looked at
her. They just raced by the boy who helped set them free.

In my years in Cuba creating adventures I had to meet with numerous Cuban officials, several of whom were spies. They couldn't figure me out. On the one hand I was bringing in 30-plus beer guzzling softball players for goodwill games. We were definitively not C.I.A. agents. On the other I was lugging in clothing and medicine. Then I was bringing in Taj Mahal for the Havana Jazz Fest. Then I brought East Hampton Town officials down to become the sister city to Playa, Havana suburb.
I was also on the board of Fundacion Amistead, a nonprofit headed by Luly Duke, a Cuban exile married to Tony Duke of the Duke family of Duke University. He had, in 1964, flown an assassin into Cuba to kill Castro for the C.I.A., though I doubt the Cubans knew that. He had also helped Cubans escape during the Mariel boatlift by taking them by boat from outside Havana.
I was trying to bring the original cast of “The Price,” an Arthur Miller play that had been on Broadway, to Havana, possibly with Arthur Miller himself (he was then still alive) Who was I? I was only what I was.
But the secret police regularly searched my hotel room when I was out and about in Havana. I had two handlers at the Cuban Mission to the United Nations who helped organize my events. I would ultimately learn they were top spies from the FBI. I met the wife of the Ambassador in New York, drank coffee with the Minister of Culture in Havana ,and dined with the mayor of Havana. Both these men were in the Cuban Politburo, and were two of, I believe, the 10 most powerful men in Cuba.
In New York the F.B.I. met me and warned me to be careful as I could be arrested and used as a pawn to be exchanged for Cuban spies imprisoned in the United States. This was no idle warning. Alan Gross spent years in jail for distributing cell phones to Cubans till he was exchanged for three of those prisoners last year. My friend Amado got six weeks in a tiny cell with six men for having my cell phone. There was a hole in the ground for a toilet. I walked a fine line.
I had a meeting with one of my Cuban “handlers” in New York around 2001. He was a new handler as my previous one was back in Havana. He introduced himself as Asdruval. I do not remember his last name.
"That is an unusual name," I remarked.
"It is a horrible name," he responded. "Asdruval, horrible. There is no way to even abbreviate it except by calling me an ass. It sucked when I was a kid and it still sucks. But it was my father's name so it became mine."
We talked for another half hour or so. When I left I gave him two tickets to a Yankee game as he had mentioned on an earlier phone call he had a young son. He thanked me.
When I got to the door I turned.
"What's your son's name?"
"Asdruval," he said matter-of-factly.
I do not know how I made it outside before I cracked up.

I went in for a physical around 2000. I did not know the doctor's aide who examined me. I never knew her before and I never knew her again but she saved my life.
So you move from bloodwork and blood pressure to bending over so she can examine your prostate, then turn around so she can feel your testicles for cancer.
As I was dressing and she was leaving I remarked:
"Normally I have to take a woman to dinner before I get that far."
"You are a riot," she said as she turned to go.
She stopped.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing at me.
"What's what?” I asked.
She pointed at a mole.
"Doesn't look right. You need to check that out with a skin doctor."
No one told me to examine my moles. I had no family history of melanoma.
But I went. And it was.
When they were cutting it out of me I asked the doctor, "If she hadn't spotted that how long would I have lived?"
"Six months."
I went back to thank her, but she had moved away. No one knew where.

When I was 12 my parents took me to Fort Lauderdale to visit their friends. My father had served in the Navy with the guy, who was named Galley. I sat on the canal looking at an alligator swim by when Galley came out and explained he was a newspaperman before the war.
He interviewed Wyatt Earp in the mid-1920s about, among other things, the shootout at the O.K. Corral in 1881. Earp lived a long life.
"Son," Galley intoned. "Someday tell someone you shook the hand that shook the hand of Wyatt Earp." I have.

I grew up watching Johnny Weissmuller play Tarzan in the ridiculously unforgettable TV series. His great line to the female lead: "Me Tarzan, you Jane." There even was a boy in it who was cleverly named Boy. His Tarzan yell was iconic. When they lowered him to his grave in Acapulco they played it.
Johnny had been one of the fastest swimmers in the 1920s, winning five Olympic medals and 52 U.S. National Championships.
When I was around 12 I used to travel from my Queens neighborhood to Manhattan on Saturdays to go to the New York Athletic Club, which, like me, still exists. We're talking 1966. There was basketball and swimming and you wore suits and tie -- -men that are members still have to. Except in the pool. You had to swim naked if you were a boy. The program was cleverly named The Saturday Morning Boys Club.
So the boys swam nude. At the end of the season there were races. You had to stand on the diving platforms naked, with your dad -- moms not allowed -- staring down at you from the stands, cigar in mouth, as you stood there with your noodle out feeling horrible.
Alas that year I won the 25-yard freestyle and had had to mount a mock Olympic three-tiered stand to get my gold, next to the silver and bronze winners one and two tiers down. Yes, it was Johnny Weissmuller who put my gold medal round my neck. One swimmer to another. I was Boy for a day.

Around 1980 I walked into an East Hampton bar, fancy that. The bar was named The Laundry as it had once been a laundry. I sat in the corner where I always sat. You could see everyone who was there and everyone who was coming in and you could see what was coming without looking over your back. The bar was empty except for a stunning Asian. I sent her a glass of champagne.
She joined me. Her name was Hoa and she had come to America when Saigon fell in April of 1975, with her little sister. After that first night we became great friends and casual lovers.
She told me she was a hooker in Las Vegas in the winter and one in the Hamptons in the summer. She never took less than a grand, 1980 dollars (she never charged me).
"Why did you choose hooking?" I asked.
"When I come to the United States I had no money, spoke little English, and had a little sister to support. I was sitting on a box when I got to Seattle when I realized I was sitting on a gold mine." She never charged me and was as skillful a lover as I ever encountered.
One night I was holding her in bed when I realized she was missing the tip of her pinkie. I had read in a James Clavell novel, “Taipan,” how some Asian women cut their pinkie tips off if someone they loved hurt them.
"How did this happen?" I reluctantly asked.
"I did it. My boyfriend cheated on me so I had to punish myself."
She had an ever so slim scar that ran from one eye to the opposite cheek.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I don't know you well enough."
When she left I sent her a dozen roses. When she returned she had a sugar daddy from Canada.
They stayed with me a week. I befriended the guy. They bought a house. One day she called me and said they were moving and she could never see me again. She had told her boyfriend we had once been lovers and he forbade her to see me. They moved away shortly thereafter. I never saw her again. I never felt slighted. He was her ticket out and he loved her. If she played it right she would never have cut another finger off.

So we do benefits for lots of folks at the bar. It is a great platform to help people and by helping people you help yourself. It is easier to give than receive and when people let you give something, they are giving you a gift. It enriches your life. It makes you a better person.
One such benefit was for the Amagansett Fire Department. Someone was playing and the door went to our local fire department.
So I hired a professional make up artist and paid $800 to be made up to look like I was a 400-pound, 80-year-old man. I had a wattled neck, wrinkled face, and pillows galore under my shirt and 48-inch pants.
I had my buddy, Don Sharkey, drive me to the bar in a fire department vehicle and had the sound guy announce that the department was honoring an ex-fireman who had some 40 years of service and was going to get an award.
Made no sense really, but no one noticed.
I was wheeled in by Don in my wheelchair to be given a plaque for my years of service. A plaque I had made up.
"To Pappy Cap Warner, 40 years of service, we love you."
I was helped onto the stage and got my plaque. This was what I said, or thereabouts: “I am honored to receive this honor. Long time ago me and Mrs. Warner used to go down to the beach near here and kiss under the moonlight. I would lift up her bra and kiss her breasts for as long as she'd let me.
That was when this place was pure. But now it ain't. Now it’s filthy. Now we got heterosexual men risking their lives entering the homes of rich fags who live in Manhattan and only come out here on summer weekends to do their buggering, This is sinful, don't you think?”
My audience looked at me with mouths agape and wide eyes.
Don helped me down and wheeled me away. There was no ovation.
I went back down to McKendry’s to visit the lunatic bartender that worked there. I told him I loved NASCAR and thought all Democrats were assholes. I knocked over six beers before I was ejected.

About 2010 I arrived at my office, and before I got down my first cup of coffee the main sound guy, Mike, walked into my office naked and started doing jumping jacks.
I am rarely pranked because everyone knows retribution will be swift and severe. Mike was relatively new, young and naive.
First I had an agent I knew at William Morris email a request that the transgender son, now daughter, of the head of the William Morris Agency wanted her to open for an act so her friends in the Hamptons could see her. The scheduled act was Dave Wakeling and the English Beat, a great ‘80s band. A transgender solo act had as much business opening for Dave as I did for The Rolling Stones.
My fake email response was to point out Dave would be against it. The fake reply insisted he already knew and knew he had to go along as he was a William Morris act.
The fake equipment and hospitality rider for the fake act, Va-Voom, followed. On it was every amp, piano, and other equipment, that actually existed but was impossible to obtain --as were the absurd food requests.
I met Va-Voom at the train and over a martini explained the gig. She loved it and pulled it off flawlessly.
She was tall and black and dressed to kill in ridiculous high heels. I watched every head on Main Street turn as she walked into the club for sound check. She bitched about the food, she wailed about the equipment, she swooned as I had her sound check repeatedly interrupted by customers and staff barging in, repositioning tables, asking for me, or fake passerby inquiring where they could buy drugs.
"Control this outrage," she shrieked at Mike and the monitor guy, Kevin. "If my father hears of this you will never see another William Morris act on this stage.
Mike put people at every entrance. Every entrance but the exit door by our bathrooms.
Va-Voom announced that since the equipment was deficient she would perform a capella. She proceeded to moan like she was having an orgasm, then transitioned into guttural grunts.
"It is my birth and death," she explained.
She continued her grunts and orgasms. Mike and Kevin sweated through all this, yearning for closure. Dave Wakeling came in through the side door and motioned to Mike.
"I know I have to put up with this, but I am pissed off. Can we get on with this?"
Mike and Kevin were dying.
That's when I went for the jugular.
I sent one of the bartenders that evening through the unguarded bathroom door. But I sent him with his two dogs who he, on script, led across the stage.
Va-Voom collapsed, screaming she would not perform. She was writhing on stage when they found me on the back deck where I was shooting pool with my cronies.
In unison my crew responded."What Va-Voom wants, Va-Voom gets."
When they realized it was a sting Kevin said, "This is genius."
Va-Voom had a drink with us. The show went on. I have not seen Mike naked since.

Somewhere around 1999 my softball team, The Maidstoners, played a series of goodwill games against local teams to raise money for a local charity. One of our opponents was a restaurant named Bostwick’s. Both staffs had known each other for years. We were to play a softball game then retire to our bar where one of our opponents had hired a comedian to perform.
I told our bartenders to take the night off as I had hired a few of the Asian girls from the local sushi restaurant to serve for the party. What I didn’t tell them was that this was a lie. I had hired some Asian transvestites from the Screaming Queens website and dropped them off at the local Japanese sushi restaurant. I had my assistant pick them up.
By the time I came back from the game all three boy-girls were already bartending in panties and short, very short, shirts. They flirted with the men. Most women laughed it off, but some were aghast. The girls were soon dancing with a few guys and one swung from a sprinkler pipe and wrapped her legs around a guy's head.
The comedian stopped performing as he was hopelessly upstaged.
"Perhaps one of you ladies would like center stage?," he inquired, expecting them to back off. One didn't and gleefully hopped onstage. She sat on a stool with her back to the audience. She then pulled her panties down to reveal her butt, and slowly lifted off her shirt.
I was now getting some heavy duty disapproving glares from some women.
She unclipped her bra, wheeled around, and tossed off her wig as the other two transvestites also did in concert. She was a he. The women laughed, as did most men. But there were now some masculine glares.

In 1991 Alan Parker directed a movie called “The Commitments” about a group of Irish kids trying to become blues stars. The movie was hugely successful and though the idea of a sequel was always bounced around one never came off. Some original members from the movie started touring as The Commitments and throughout the 1990s they played the Talkhouse a lot.
So I shaved my mustache and legs, and polished my toenails and nails. I wore a wig and a hopelessly frumpish dress and brought along my female makeup artist as my assistant. I had the band explain that the alcoholic sister of Alan Parker was their opening act. They described me as insufferable, but they had to do what Alan wanted if there was ever going to be a movie sequel.
I tottered in and demanded a table outside for dinner. Our menu consisted of a turkey burger, burger, or cheeseburger. I ordered two martinis and demanded to see the chef. He arrived, not sure why. But he had been told I was a witch and he was nervous.
My assistant explained, "Livia would like to hear what is on the menu."
He dutifully enunciated the menu.
"I'll have the duck."
"There is no duck," he explained.
"No duck," I thundered.
"You can get duck at John Duck, a restaurant about 15 miles from here."
"No fucking duck," I screamed, clearing the table with a sweep of my arm and shattering the martini glasses.
I then did my opening act , which consisted of me singing “Walk on the Wild Side,” substituting the names of my staff for the gay boys in the song.
Later that evening an old friend arrived, drunk. He asked me to dance and nearly fainted when I whispered in his ear that I loved him, then removed the wig.
The next day in the sauna at the local spa I noticed everyone giving me sidelong gestures. I knew I had removed my nail polish and makeup. What had I missed? It was only then I saw my purple toenail polish.

So I was split up with my wife and was with another woman. It was June of 1997. A buddy, Kenny, who worked at the bar,was getting married and it happened to be on my 10-year wedding anniversary.
My ex was dating one of my best friends and so my paramour at the time and I agreed it was better for us not to attend so our mutual presence would not distract from the bride and groom.
Of course that did not mean I could not attend as someone other than me.
I hired a makeup artist. I went minimal. I had my hair dyed gray and pulled into a ponytail. She made me a trim gray goatee and I wore sunglasses. I dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black bow tie, and drove back from New York City to the Hamptons.
In the mirror I thought I was too obviously me, but when I picked up my young nephews and nieces on the way from N.Y.C. no one recognized me. Hopeful sign.

I went to the local sushi restaurant where I was a regular and sat at the bar. Friends of mine, Randy and Caren Rosenthal, were sitting nearby. They did not have a clue. A few beers later I faced my next test.
So far, none of the staff (who I knew well) recognized me. I pretended I was gay, overly gay, gesticulating flamboyantly and speaking effeminately. I motioned to the bartender who had served me over a hundred times. He came over.
I leaned in and whispered.
"I have no money."
"What?!"
"No, no, it's OK. Look I know none of you are really Japs. You're illegal chinks living in an illegal group house."
A panicked, then outraged look emerged. No words came. He was unsure where this was going.
"Hey, forget about my bill," I said, nodding at my beer. "You forget about the bar tab. Even better, I work, wash a few dishes, sleep in the walk-in. You get a security guard, I get all the chicken, rice and booze I want. No harm, no foul."
He went into the kitchen, but before the emerging samurai tossed me out my sunglasses were off and I was identifying myself.
Now I knew I was safe.
Next victims.
I walked into a nearby restaurant called The Farmhouse, where the wedding reception was being held. It was an open outdoor bar. There was no waiter service. I grabbed a serving tray and ran around taking orders from everyone I knew and never delivering them.
When I came to my ex-wife I asked what she wanted. “A Budweiser,” she responded.
“How do you spell it?” I asked.
“Just put B-U-D,” she said.
“Please, it’s important. Spell the whole word. I want my orders to be perfect,” I pleaded.
When she spelled it out I lifted my glasses. “Happy Anniversary,” I said. I fooled everyone at the wedding.
Next victims. My own bar.
It was a Saturday June 27th, 1997, around 6 p.m. Dennis Lawrence, a great human being and a great artist ,was working our patio bar. No one was there except Billy Hofmann, another artist. But Billy was Billy and he was quick to latch onto an admirer, especially if that meant a free drink.
"My Lord, are you an artist?" I asked him.
“Yes, a great one,” Billy assured me.
Dennis, who knew Billy well, rolled his eyes.
"Oh my god, may I buy you a drink?,” I asked.
Billy motioned me over. A gay man did not faze him more than a straight man. A man who wanted to hear about his art was a rarity, if he was a stranger. Billy, more even than most of us, loved to talk about himself. If you were buying him a drink all the better. I was a gay man hitting on a man 20 years my senior and it meant a double vodka for free and someone who thought you were special. Isn't that what all of us want?
We chatted briefly. I told him I thought he was fascinating. He agreed. I told him we had so much in common. He agreed. We, this human species, just want someone to pay attention to us.
I went inside, explaining I was an artist as well and needed to play the drums. Billy asked me if he could have another drink before he left.
The guy who did the door was named Paul Cleary. When he arrived to open the doors at 7 p.m. he came upon an older guy in dress pants and shirt banging on the drums.
"I'm an artist," I simply stated.
"Get out of here," he explained.
My Talkhouse career over, crushed. I went to Billy the artist, revealed who I was, and told him to meet me down the street at a nearby bar where a homophobic guy bartended..

"Give me 10 minutes to push him to the end of the cliff, but just ten.then go in and tell him I’m crazy," I said to Billy.

I wandered down the street to McKendry's. When it was plopped in front of me I looked at him plaintively.
"No bev napkin?"
It was produced. He turned away.
"No glass?"
No one asked for a glass at McKendry’s. But I got one.
Billy arrived on cue, whispering to the bartender that I was mad. He nodded knowingly. I was already going to be asked to leave. All I had to do was get thrown out.
I motioned him over. He came, ready to pounce. There were six men and three women at the bar. I motioned him closer.
"I would like to buy everybody with a penis at the bar a drink but none for the girls who do not have one."
He came round the bar and grabbed me. Then I smiled and he knew it was me.

I pull pranks on my friends. My first one was around 1995 and I hired a Madonna lookalike to sting the club. She brought her boyfriend and I met them nearby in a rented limousine. The driver pulled up in front of the bar. The boyfriend, pretending to be a bodyguard, got out.
He went to the front door, where a local who idolized Madonna happened to be standing out front. Me, I hid in the bushes across the street, watching the show, cackling madly. I could see the boyfriend/bouncer get out, approach my friend/manic fan, and explain he had Madonna in the limo and she wanted a drink. I watched my friend twitch and shiver, then on cue “Madonna” emerged and hugged him and kissed him on the cheek before going back into the limo as my friend motioned it to the back parking lot.
I am a heavy and consistent drinker, a fact not lost on the community I inhabit. A regular (in A.A.) was walking by and saw me. But all he saw was me lurking in the bushes, madly laughing..
"Peter, come to a meeting, I would be honored to be your sponsor."
Before I could muster a response I heard my friend across the street bellow, "My tits just touched Madonna's tits." I lost it. I could not even answer the A.A. guy. He handed me his card, adding "Call me anytime."
I followed the lookalike inside, playing dumb. She chatted with my friend Jeff, who took pride in his garden, before being escorted to a table. I had our chef get his chef's jacket from his trunk (our joint didn't require such niceties) and personally take her order. I told her to order sushi and mashed potatoes, neither of which we served.
Jeff was out of breath when he came up to me. "She's using her off day from her schedule to come look at my garden tomorrow." Wow! People believe what they want to believe.
The chef rushed by.

"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To the Japanese place for sushi and the deli for mashed potatoes."
Similar deceptions ensued. She was a great lookalike, but with a few exceptions no one seemed to realize she looked like the Madonna of 10 years past.
My friend from the front door, Louie, came to my back bar where she had joined me after complaining to the chef the potatoes were cold and the sushi stale.
"What kind of chef are you?" she demanded. He was devastated.
Louie hovered around her, her bodyguard, and me. On cue, the bodyguard left to use the restroom.
"I need to get rid of him," she announced.
"Why?,” Louie asked.
"He doesn't fuck me good enough."
It was Louie's moment. He stepped right up."I'd like to apply for that position."
My cue. "Madonna, this is Louie, he's not up to your standards."
"I trust your judgment,." She said to me.
Louie stormed outside. When I followed he threw me up against the building and pinned me there.
"Are you fuckin’ nuts, you asshole. This was my big chance."
I smiled. "Sorry."
"This was my chance." I thought of Marlon Brando in “On The Waterfront” : "I could've been a contender"
"She's not a Madonna. It's a joke,” I explained.
She and the "bodyguard" emerged. She thanked me, said she had a blast, and kissed Louie on the cheek. They got in the limo and disappeared.
Louie was in shock, then he shrugged. "I knew it all along, I was just fucking with you."
"Lie to me all you want, I'm not your girlfriend," I replied.

So my brother Robert was my hero. I was 15 years old in July of 1969, and he was 19. We had just seen Tom Seaver come within two outs of pitching a perfect game against the Cubs at Shea and he was planning to let me sneak away with him to a soon-to-be music festival in an upstate New York town called Woodstock.
We were not hanging out together, four years being a significant age gap at that time, but he was letting me tag along. We would be moving from the older brother/younger brother relationship to being co-equal friends in a few years – two to three at the most.
I saw him at around 5 p.m. at the Douglaston Club, a country club where I flipped burgers, on Friday, July 25. He was a lifeguard. We both played tennis and bird-dogged girls. He was wearing a brief red bathing suit and he waved to his buddy Mike Begley to say he would meet him for softball in an hour.
I do not know exactly where he went after the game. But he hit Patrick's Pub around midnight on Northern Boulevard in Little Neck with his buddies Charlie Torpey, Joey Finnegan, and Joe Sanchez.
Charlie was the driver in his silver Camaro. His nickname was Crash Torpey because he seemed to hit something every week. They left around midnight, dropped Sanchez off, then roared around our small town, pausing by a dock that reached into Little Neck Bay to chat with Begley and others. They had about four blocks to go to reach my house where I shared a bedroom with him.
They never made it. Charlie floored it and hit a tree square on. There were no skid marks. I have no idea why or whether they even realized what was in front of them. This was before anyone wore seat belts.
My brother was in the passenger seat and died instantly. Torpey lingered a day or so, then died. His parents donated his kidneys and eyes to whomever might need them. It was rare in those days and I remember it was on the local TV news.
Joey survived, but endured a long physical, and longer psychological, recovery. My oldest brother Frank woke me at 6 a.m. to tell me I had to be the man in the family now. I had no idea what he was talking about. He was already married and out of the house. He thought I already knew. I heard my grandmother wailing, keening, as she heard the news.
My father had gone down our block when he heard his son was dead, looked at his body, and then walked into a stranger's house, laid down in a spare bedroom, and had a heart attack. Over 700 people came to the funeral. My mother stood by my brother and spoke to every one of them.
I just stared at my brother and the small splotch of blood visible on his chin. I went to Rome with my parents that year and watched my mom weep as she looked at the Pieta.
I got adopted by my brother's friends and grew up quick. I emulated him. To this day I have no idea who I would be now had he lived. But I know it changed me and the course of my life and I feel his death to this day.

Richie Havens first played the Talkhouse with his band on February 25th, 1988. He played solo after that at least once a year for over the next 20 years till he became ill and died in 2013. He was a Talkhouse fixture and a friend.
One day around 2000 we were talking upstairs after sound check. He told me this story. After he burst on the national scene by opening the Woodstock Music Festival with a searing performance of his signature song, “Freedom,” Richie was enjoying his 15 minutes of fame.
The Who asked him to open for them soon after when they performed the rock opera “Tommy” at Prince Albert Hall. After the show Peter Sellers came backstage. Sellers was a hero to Richie for his classic Inspector Clousseau performances in the “Pink Panther” movies. They chatted and that was that.
Fast forward to the Cannes Film Festival. This was around the time various rock stars were getting busted for drugs. Richie loved his pot. He was surreptitiously rolling a joint with his manager when who should saunter down the beach, accompanied by six gorgeous topless women, but Peter Sellers
"Richie baby, rolling a joint, I can get as much as you want and it's the best stuff," Sellers bellowed loud enough for everyone around to hear.
Richie shook his head and smiled weakly.
"I'm cool," he whispered, wishing his hero would vanish. Sellers smiled broadly and continued on down the beach.
That night Richie and his manager were parked in front of their hotel when a gendarme knocked on the window and asked them to step outside. He then searched every inch of the car, shining his flashlight into every crevice. He opened their luggage and left their clothes on the street.
He squeezed all the toothpaste out of the tube, examining even the most obvious objects meticulously. Then Richie froze. He made them open the locked glove compartment where their stash was. The gendarme lifted the bag, shined the light on his pot, squinted, nodded, then dropped the bag and left them alone. Confused and relieved, they went to their rooms.
Six months later Riche was on a Concorde flight back to NYC when Sellers walked down the aisle. He shook Richie's hand.
In a French accent he asked, "Did you like my little gendarme routine?"
Sellers had dressed up as a bumbling policeman a la Clousseau, all for Richie.
Priceless.

Around 1995 Eric Burdon and the then-incarnation of The Animals played the Talkhouse. They were a fixture at the Talkhouse throughout that decade. After one show a roadie with the late-night band Stepping Out came upstairs. He was wearing a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt.
"Excuse me, Mr. Burdon, I 'm sorry I don't know who The Animals are, but someone said you knew Jimi Hendrix. He's my hero." The kid was black and his Afro emulated Hendrix.
Indeed he did know him. The Animals were part of the British Invasion bands of the early 1960s. After The Beatles and The Rolling Stones it was the Animals, whose hits included “We Gotta Get Outta This Place,” “House of the Rising Sun,” and “Misunderstood.”
Around 1967 the Animals’ bass player Chas Chandler happened to see Hendrix, then known as Jimmy James, playing at the Cafe Wa in Greenwich Village. He managed Hendrix for the next few years before they parted company. He nursed and financially supported him through his first two albums, bringing him to London where he introduced him to everyone, including Eric Burdon, and another Eric with the last name Clapton.
"I have a story," Eric said.
"Tell me," the kid pleaded.
"I was at a very boring party with him when he first got to London. It was populated by lots of pretentious music industry types speaking bullshit in between hits of hash. Hendrix was by himself, holding his guitar like a security blanket. I asked him if he was OK and he said hash didn't work for him, and did I know where to get any pot."
“I said I did and I told him to wait. I went out to my car and rolled a joint. But when I got back no Jimi. Someone told me he was outside. So I went out back on the vast grounds of this Tudor estate and found him behind a bush. He had pulled down his pants and was jerking off. What do you say when you stumble on a guy yanking on his wanker?”
"Excuse me," I offered.
“He smiled, kept going till he ejaculated. ‘Excuse me while I kiss the sky.’ “
And that became the line in “Purple Haze.”

So I am guessing it was the early 2000s and Jimmy Cliff was playing the club for about the 10th time.
I had seen “The Harder They Come” in a Nassau County theater in the early 1970s when no one in the States knew what reggae was. And now this reggae icon was a regular at my club as were other reggae greats like Burning Spear, Toots & The Maytals, Steel Pulse, Yellowman, Third World, and the remnants of Bob Marley's Wailers.
Around 4 p.m. the band’s tour bus pulled up outside. I was sitting in my office when a tall guy in the band, I think it was the saxophonist, walked in and asked for a Band-Aid. His T-shirt was covered in blood.
"You don't need a Band-Aid. You need an ambulance."
"No ambulance, please mon."
He told me he tripped and fell into a sharp edge on a counter and just needed a few stitches. He told me Jimmy would be pissed if an ambulance came. I believed him, forgetting that men lie to men too. I went downstairs and got one of the sound engineers to drive him to the hospital.
The show went on. A few songs in, three police cars pulled up and a detective I knew got out.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
"The guy in the band was stabbed. He fought with a friend in the band over the channel changer."
Turns out they were best friends. They were on the last day of a long tour. The guy who was stabbed was sick of what the other was watching. They were out too late together. The larger one went after the younger one and the younger one pulled a knife and hit his buddy with three quick thrusts. They were both aghast at what had occurred.
The hospital had to inform the police that the guy had been stabbed. When the cops interviewed him he assured them he did not want to press charges. The band was scheduled to fly back to Jamaica the next day. The cop pulled me aside.
"Two of the wounds are superficial, but the third one is close to the heart. If he lives we're letting it go as the guy says it was an accident and we have nowhere to go. If he dies we have to go on stage and arrest him for involuntary manslaughter."
I told Jimmy's wife and she spoke to the police. She understood. The show went on. The detective and five cops waited. Twenty minutes passed. My sound guy pulled up. The bandaged sax player emerged. He walked onstage and bumped hands with his buddy, picked up his instrument, and the show went on. The cops shrugged.
Will wonders never cease.

The Five Blind Boys of Alabama are a a capella gospel group that played my bar, The Stephen Talkhouse, around 1992. They dressed in gray satin suits and wore sunglasses. My friend, the artist John Alexander, was having a small party at his nearby house and asked if I could bring the group over to sing a song after their show.

I had had a few drinks so I decided to walk them over. So I walked them 500 yards from the club to John's house. Since they were blind we walked single file, each one putting one hand on the shoulder of the man in front. We entered. There were 20 or so guests, including Paul Simon, Barbra Streisand, Chevy Chase, and “Saturday Night Live” producer Lorne Michaels.
The Blind Boys sang their song and we headed out, declining a lift. On the way back I happened to glance back and saw the fifth of the five members staring up at the star-filled sky.
When we got back to the bar and they were getting into their roadie's van. I pulled the guy aside.
"If you're blind why were you looking at the sky?"
"Man, the fifth blind boy died last month. I ain’t blind. Don’t tell anyone. I really need this gig.."

I've met a lot of famous athletes in my day, mainly through my bar. They include Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Don Mattingly, John Elway, Mark Messier, Lawrence Taylor, John Starks, Larry Johnson, Alan Houston, Keith Hernandez and Pele.
I grew up with another one, John McEnroe. His band played at my club a few times in the 1990s and he played the last two summers with his wife, Patty Smythe, and her band Le Scandal. I once beat John six love in tennis. I was 14 and he was 8.

But I got to know another athlete, Maury Wills, who I took on a tour of Cuba in 2000.
Maury was a pro baseball player from 1959 to 1972, primarily for the Los Angeles Dodgers. He was an essential component of the Dodgers' championship teams in the mid-1960s and he is credited for reviving the stolen base as part of baseball strategy. He played in seven All Star games. In 1962 he was the first All-star Game Most Valuable Player and was the National League M.V.P. His lifetime batting average was .281
Wills began his Major League career in 1959 and played in 83 games for the Los Angeles Dodgers. In Wills’s first full season in 1960, he hit .295 and led the league with 50 stolen bases, being the first National League player to steal 50 bases since Max Carey stole 51 in 1923.
In 1962, Wills stole 104 bases to set a new MLB stolen base record, breaking the old modern-era mark of 96, set by Ty Cobb in 1915.[6] Wills also stole more bases than all of the other teams that year, the highest total being the Washington Senators' 99. Wills’s success in base stealing that year led to another remarkable statistic, he was caught stealing just 13 times all season. He hit .299 for the season, led the NL with 10 triples and 179 singles, and was selected the NL Most Valuable Player over Willie Mays (Mays hit .304 with 49 home runs and 141 runs batten in) by seven points. Not until Barry Larkin in 1995 would another shortstop win a National League Most Valuable Player Award. Late in that record-setting 1962 season, San Francisco Giants Manager Alvin Dark ordered grounds crews to water down the base paths, turning them into mud to hinder Wills' base-stealing attempts. Wills played a full 162 game schedule, plus all three games of the best of three regular season playoff series with the Giants, giving him a total of 165 games played, a MLB record that still stands for most games played in a single season.
While playing for the Dodgers, Wills was a Gold Glove Award winner in 1961 and 1962, and was named a NL All-Star five times (5 seasons); selected seven times for the All-Star Game (2 games were played in 1961 and 1962).
Although Chicago White Sox shortstop Luis Aparicio had been stealing 50+ bases in the American League for several years prior to Wills' insurgence, Wills brought new prominence to the tactic. Perhaps this was due to greater media exposure in Los Angeles, or to the Dodgers' greater success, or to their extreme reliance on a low-scoring strategy that emphasized pitching, defense, and Wills' speed to compensate for their lack of productive hitters. Wills was a significant distraction to the pitcher even if he didn't try to steal, because he was a constant threat to do so.[citation needed] The fans at Dodger Stadium would chant, "Go! Go! Go, Maury, Go!" any time he got on base.[citation needed] While not the fastest runner in the major league, Wills accelerated with remarkable speed. He also studied pitchers relentlessly, watching their pick-off moves even when not on base. And when driven back to the bag, his fierce competitiveness made him determined to steal. Once when on first base against New York Mets pitcher Roger Craig, Wills drew twelve consecutive throws from Craig to the Mets first baseman. On Craig's next pitch to the plate, Wills stole second.
In 2014, Wills appeared for the first time as a candidate on the National Baseball Hall of Fame's Golden Era Committee election ballot[3] for possible Hall of Fame consideration in 2015 which required 12 votes. Wills missed getting elected by 3 votes.[4]
Maury Wills, like Keith Hernandez and Gil Hodges, belongs in the Hall of Fame. But Maury got hurt by the fact that his career started late. He also developed a bad alcohol and cocaine addiction. As a manager he was so out of it that he called for a relief pitcher when no one was warming up and took 10 minutes to find a pinch hitter. He left one game in the sixth inning to fly to California.
Maury told me he was so whacked one Sunday he flew from L.A. to Detroit thinking he had to be there. When he got there he realized he had no idea why. He flew back to L.A. and was arrested for driving the wrong way down the LAX freeway. The cops pulled him over, then pulledhim from behind the wheel, guns drawn. But he was Maury Wills and so the cops drove him home. He didn't leave the house for months. What can you say, he named his son Bump.

But with the help of a woman he got sober in 1989 and went back to work for the Dodgers.

I met him in 2000. He was traveling with a former San Francisco Giant, Tito Fuentes, and a journeyman ball player, Nate Oliver, who was a Yankee for all of a day.
They were with a group of professionals who had patronized a fantasy baseball camp in Arizona in the 1990s. They got to meet and play ball with some of the greats from the 1960s and 1970s for a fee. The guy who put it all together, whose name eludes me, was a doctor. He had closed the camp and was taking these three ball players on a weeklong Cuba trip.

An organization called Global Exchange arranged for them to tour the island, speak to sports officials, and conduct clinics for kids. By the time they landed the Cuban government had cancelled the clinics for reasons unknown to all but the bureaucrat who decided the issue. Global Exchange hired me to be their tour guide as they knew I had brought softball teams to the island.
When I Googled Maury Wills I found out he didn't hit the Majors till he was 26. The first day I was with the group I played it low key as I had to explain that while there were no clinics I could figure something out, or so I thought, or so I hoped they would believe.
I took Maury to a meeting of a 50 or so sports officials. He had them mesmerized. Cubans live and breathe baseball, American as well as Cuban baseball. These guys were in their 50s. They knew who he was.

One of his tricks was he studied every pitcher meticulously. He knew every pick-off move, what they were going to do and when and how.

So after a day I asked him why he never broke in before he was 26.

"I couldn't hit a curve. I stepped out of the bucket."

"Come again?” I asked.

He explained. He was a right-handed hitter. A right-handed pitcher could throw a curve ball at his head. Pitchers like Juan Marichal, Bob Gibson, and Don Drysdale were throwing hard. There were no helmets then. And there were no umpires warning them off. A guy threw a ball at your head, a curve ball coming at you -- with only a cap to protect your cranium, you did not know till a split second before it arrived if it was going to hit you so you pulled your left foot back to protect your head, you stepped out of the bucket, where you could hit nothing as all your weight was on your back foot.

Wills stepped out every time
So Wills was mired in the Minor Leagues at age 25 and going nowhere. One day a Dodger scout, a teammate of Pee Wee Reese, told Wills he'd never make the big leagues, unless, he added, "You become a switch hitter." He did. He could bat lefty when a righty pitcher was on the mound and see the curve ball coming. He could bat righty when a left-handed pitcher was on the mound. When he batted lefty he had that extra step to first base.
Only three modern era players have stolen more bases that Maury Wills in a single season -- Lou Brock, Vince Coleman and the all-time leader, Ricky Henderson.
Wills and Fuentes were also there when the most violent confrontation in MLB history occurred.
It was August 22nd, 1965, and San Francisco Giant Juan Marichal, one of the hardest throwers in baseball, was routinely throwing fastballs at the Dodgers’ heads, brushing them back off the plate. L.A. Dodger catcher John Roseboro kept pleading with Dodger pitcher Sandy Koufax to retaliate, but Koufax would not throw at an opponent's head. So Roseboro let a pitch get past him on purpose. He ran back to get it and in the course of pretending to throw it back to Koufax he threw it right by Marichal's head. When he got back in the catcher's squat words were exchanged. Roseboro stood up to confront Marichal, who proceeded to hit him on the head with a bat . Benches emptied. Fuentes, a teammate of Marichal, told me he raced out with a bat. He was new to America, via Cuba, and thought this was OK. The next day his picture, holding a bat, was in newspapers across America with his number on his uniform. "I changed uniforms. I knew they weren't trading Marichal, but I was expendable," he said. Roseboro needed 14 stitches and suffered headaches the rest of the season. But Marichal and Roseboro reconciled and Marichal spoke at Roseboro’s funeral where he said "Johnny's forgiving me was one of the best things that happened in my life. I wish I could have had John Roseboro as my catcher."
Anyway, I spent a week with Maury, Nata and Tito. I arranged informal clinics with a few kids here and there. One day we were in Santiago
I was watching a baseball game in Santiago de Cuba with Maury Wills. It's 800 miles from Havana, Cuba's second largest city and the site of Teddy Roosevelt's famous charge up San Juan hill in the Spanish American war. An American approached me when I went to get a beer. He was around 50. "That guy looks like Maury Wills." "It is Maury Wills," I responded. The guy went up to talk to Wills but Maury ignored him. The guy was crushed. I felt really bad for him. It seemed so out of character for the Maury Wills I was getting to know.
When we got on the bus Maury autographed a program and told me to go find the guy and give it to him. He wanted me to explain the only reason he wouldn't talk is he was afraid the Cuban police watching us would object. I found the guy and made his day.
Wills came to my hometown the next few years and brought players like Tito Fuentes, Tommy Davis, Roy White, Paul Blair, Ed Kranepool and George Foster to play goodwill games and conduct clinics. In 2005 he helped arrange for my friend, Chris Carney and two wounded soldiers, Ryan Kelly and Heath Calhoun to be honored on the field at Dodger Stadium and meet Tommy LaSorda.

In 1981 I moved to the Spanish Mediterranean island of Ibiza, a place known for its decadence, artist population, drugs and nude beaches. I was there to work on a novel and I wound up in the sleepy town of Santa Eulalia.
I had wonderful fun times, met great friends, and made memories I still cherish. I hung out in a famous bar called Sandy's.
Before I knew many folks I was sitting there at the bar one day. I had become friendly with a woman and met a friend of hers seated near me at the bar. A large man was arguing with her. Then he was yelling at her in Spanish. The bartender left, wanting none of it. So there was just the three of us.
"Is there a problem?" I asked.
"Why, do you have a fucking bloody problem, mate?"
Odd to hear a Spaniard speaking with a British accent. I just shrugged. The bartender returned. The big guy left me alone. The conversation calmed though he glared at me when I left. The woman snuck me a grateful smile. I went to another bar, then another, finally winding up at the Black Cat bar where anyone still standing stood. She was there. He was not.
She told me her story. She was going out with him but he was verbally abusive. He had screamed at her at a restaurant and stormed out. They did not live together. She used to be a high-class hooker in Paris, (she was still a knockout), but was broke.
There was a line about Ibiza -- the way to make a small fortune there was to come with a large one. He was helping her get by but it was a high price. She needed a ride home as she had no money for a cab and even if I gave her the fare there were no cabs at that hour.
I drove 10 miles to the end of the island. We drove up an unpaved, hopelessly rocky road at a 45-degree angle to her finca, which is a very small house. Water came from a well. She used a kerosene lamp for light.
She asked me inside, ripped off my clothes and we made love for an hour. Something did not feel right. She was having her period and in the kerosene light the blood on the sheet and me only enhanced my sense of foreboding.
She passed out. I rose and started driving down the hill. The road curved at one point and in the moonlight I saw him walking up the hill. He was moving fast. There was no way forward and backwards; the road ended at her door. I could abandon the car and flee in the bush but if he found the car the next day he would eventually find me. And I needed the car to get back. I pulled off the road, turned off the car, and waited in the brush. He passed by. I gave it 10 minutes and escaped.
I have no idea what she told him or what he thought about the blood but he bought me a drink the next day and thanked me for driving her home. I left it at that and never fooled around with her again.
The next night I met a gorgeous woman in the same bar and asked her out to dinner. We met two hours later. She wore a sheer yellow outfit, pants and top. She might as well have been topless. Midway through the entree she slid next to me and grabbed my cock, caressing it till I got hard. It did not take long.
We took a cab to her place. She walked in, took her clothes off and played guitar. Then she threw open her closet. There had to be 100 outfits.
"I am my clothes," she said. The erection began to melt. There had been clues during dinner but an erection obliterates reason.
She explained she was a mime and she would now only speak in gestures. I noticed a new scar on her cheek and when I could not read her gestures I begged her to speak. "My boyfriend bit me in the face. He is insane. If he finds us he will kill both of us." The erection disappeared. I smiled. And ran.
As I ran down the hill outside her house, back towards the town, she followed me. She was screaming and begging me to come back. I kept running, outpacing her. She lay down in the middle of the street, screaming she wanted to die. I was only on the island a few weeks. I had no one who could really vouch for me. I could be arrested, accused by her of rape. The boyfriend could reappear. I ran into a culvert by the side of the hill and watched as people came out of their houses and the police arrived. They wrapped her in a sheet and drove her away. I waited, then climbed back onto the road and walked into town, walking into the first bar I saw. There was a woman at the bar. She was around 40 and she was chatting with two boys around 18 on either side of her. She occasionally caressed their hands in a way that told me she was not their mother. I struck up a conversation and we talked about literature, politics and sex. She told me I was the most sophisticated American she had ever met. Her name was Xaviera Hollander. She had become a hooker at 25 for $1,000 a night. That was $1,000 in 1968 dollars. She ran a brothel in Manhattan called The Vertical Whorehouse. A Dutch citizen, she was kicked out of the United States in 1971 after being arrested for prostitution. She then published a memoir, "The Happy Hooker: My Own Story." It was a sensation, a landmark for its frankness, by the standards of the time, and for its positive writing about sex. For 35 years she wrote a column in Penthouse entitled “Call Me Madam.” In 1975 Lynn Redgrave played her in The Happy Hooker. She announced she had "turned gay" in 1997, then married a Dutch man in Amsterdam. I kissed her when she left and never saw her again. She lives on.

I was a part-owner and helped run a bar in South Beach, Miami, from 1992 to 1995. We had a two and a half year run. But Miami was too fickle and confined for the formula we had to work.
So we were two nights away from closing on the Saturday before Easter in 1995 before a new and unexpected disaster befell me.
I was at our patio bar, listening to The Radiators, a New Orleans band that was then a regular at both our Miami and Hamptons clubs.
I saw Phil Vega, the bartender, start to climb over the bar. I saw the exit door where he was looking. A group was trying to sneak in. I motioned to him that I had it covered and to stay put.
A bouncer saw me and together we converged on a small guy with lots of jewelry who was leading the group.
"Get out of here," I ordered.
He glared at me. Whacked eyes, high as a kite.
"Are you coming on to me?" he asked, leaning in.
I knew the comment meant physical content, not the sexual kind, but it was an odd turn of phrase. I looked back at the bouncer and sighed and when I looked back at the kid I knew it was too late.
I felt the punch before I saw it. Pain shot straight through my head. I did not go down, not that that matters.
Been in the saloon racket 30 years and never hit anyone, tackled a few but never hit a guy. I started toward him till I realized how much blood was pouring from my face.
A customer I knew grabbed me and told me I had to sit down. I knew I was in trouble when everyone who came up and looked at me then looked away. I can still feel the pain to this day.
My friend Billy Hofmann came up and sat next to me and ever so calmly told me he would see me to the end of whatever the night was to bring.
The manager of The Radiators, Tim, who would hang himself for reasons I still cannot fathom in the aftermath of Katrina (but was a great guy to work with for over a decade) came up and thrust his head in his hands. Billy kept saying it was not that bad. I knew Billy was lying. Men lie to men too.
I told my assistant, Mia, to pay the Rads. I’d give a bonus once I knew how we did. If we did especially well the band always got a bonus. It wasn't in the contract. It just was. Funny how that was what I focused on, something structured, away from the reality I was experiencing but trying to deny.
Billy was central to me that night. He was there for me. Billy was one of the best graphic artists of the 1960s. He did the cover of a Doors album. When I was at Columbia University his sketches graced the cover of several Penguin books, including volumes of Aristophenes’s works, “The Clouds,” “The Frogs,” and “Lysistrata.” He was at the top of his game, making six figures. Then a thug sitting at a nearby table in a restaurant started harassing Bill’s date. Billy stood up and confronted the guy, who smashed a beer bottle and stabbed Billy in the neck. It sliced into his carotid artery. Billy was literally brought back from the dead. But that moment derailed him physically and psychologically. By the way, the guy who did it was an East German diplomat who only got deported.
Back to that moment with him in the bar. All I knew was that I was badly hurt and no one wanted to look at me. It would later turn out that my assailant had a huge jagged ring that ripped my face open below the eye and destroyed my tear duct.
They put me on a stretcher and onto an ambulance. Billy came along.
On the ride to the first hospital I heard one attendant tell the driver, "The skin on his face is eviscerated." I knew what that meant. There was so much blood that I could not see out of my right eye. I did not know if I would be blind in that eye.
They wheeled me in. A doctor looked at me and shook his head to my attendants, then whispered to them. They got ready to take me to another hospital. I made Billy go home.
"Why won't they admit me?" I asked.
"They said your injury was too severe. They don't know how to deal with it," the attendant said. Reassuring.
That assessment was made at the next hospital as well. I could not get my head around the fact that hospitals were rejecting me. At the third hospital an Indian doctor cleaned the wound. I thanked him and asked when the Muslims and Hindus in India would reconcile.
"Never," he said.
"What is my prognosis?"
"I cannot address the trauma to your face. I am sending you to another hospital," he said.
He bandaged me up and at 6 a.m. Easter Sunday morning I was deposited in the lounge of what I would later learn was the best eye hospital in Miami. I sat across from a black man whose head had gone through a windshield. His head was bandaged everywhere but the mouth and eyes. I waited with the mummy.
At 7 a.m. a doctor examined me. I lost it as he did. I had a panic attack and could not breathe. He talked me down. He was great. He told me I was not blind but there was significant trauma. He said they were bringing in the best eye doctor in the state to work on me.
Around 9 am I was wheeled into a large, very large, operating room. A whole collection of nurses, assistants, and doctors filed in. Three of the doctors stayed in the background. I would find out later they were there merely to witness the procedure.
I asked an immense nurse if they would knock me out when they did whatever they were going to do.
"Absolutely," she assured me.
Then the head guy came in, straight from the golf course. He was gentle, but reassuring, and he was clearly in control. He looked at me and told me a swath of skin from under my eye was rolled in a ball by the edge of my eye.
"I'm going to bring it back one stitch at a time."
"How much is there?" I asked
" I don't know yet, but I think at least a lot of it."
"We're going to give you Novocaine now."
He moved away. I looked to the nurse.
"He means anesthesia."
"You have to be awake."
"You lied?"
"Squeeze my hands, honey. This is the worst part."
And it was. The shot of Novocaine hurt. A lot. After that it was waiting and watching as he retrieved my face one stitch at a time. The longer he took, I knew, the better. The more of my face was there. Then he smiled.
"It was all there."
"Thank God. Are we done?"
"Almost. We just have to drill a hole in your head so the tears can drain from your eye."
I emerged into the sunlight dazed and confused. A friend picked me up. I made it through a quick appearance for the closing night of the club. Nil Lara played.
Then Monday I got an arrest warrant for the guy. I learned through the grapevine his name was Nevin Shapiro. He had skipped town. I hired a detective to find him. The detective, as it turned out, knew my brother from grammar school in Queens. He knew my brother had died when a car his buddy was driving on a summer night in 1969 hit a tree. Both of them died.
He found Shapiro hiding out in northern Florida. But there was an arrest warrant out for him so he gave a cop he knew a few bucks to pull him over on a bogus traffic stop and the arrested him on the felony charge.
He pled guilty to the felony, but I was in New York City, and the Miami D.A. gave him probation and some community service. The D.A'.s office never returned my call -- to them it was a bar fight.
Then I sued him. I had a local attorney and maybe a year later I got to face Shapiro and his witnesses in a deposition. My friend, Debra Reiser, an attorney, flew down with me for moral support. It was a gesture I will never forget. The bouncer who was by my side when I was hit was dead. At age 33, he died of a heart attack lifting gear at Jazz Fest a week after I was hit.
Shapiro was the same little arrogant guy I had heard about, nursing his Napoleon complex, his desire to be a bigshot when all he was was a coward.
His two witnesses were a young couple in law school who claimed they had, with Shapiro, innocently entered through the rear not realizing it wasn't a valid entrance. The rear exits were located down a dimly lit alleyway. The three of them had been in the club before and knew exactly what they were doing. They, along with Shapiro, testified I had grabbed Shapiro without identifying myself and tied a chain around his neck while I was on top of him and that his punch was in self-defense.
My turn. I told the truth -- I was just asking him to leave when he struck me just as I turned back to him. I described my ordeal, glaring at him the whole time. His lawyer asked me to stop looking at him.
"I'm just grateful I still can," I said.
I got my day facing down the man who violated me. I got my medical and legal costs paid. He had to pay his. I closed the chapter on the scumbag.
Fast forward to 2010 when Nevin Shapiro is sentenced to 20 years in prison for defrauding investors of over $930 million in a Ponzi scheme. He used vast sums of money to buy gifts for University of Miami football and basketball players, including hookers and cruises on his yacht and parties at his house -- all funded by the money he stole. He even gave the University of Miami $150,000 to name a student lounge after him.
As his world crumbled the lowlife who fashioned himself a bigshot became bitter, whining that none of the college players paid any attention to him when they turned pro. "They used me."
So Nevin turned in the college and the players, many of whom are prominent pros, from jail, detailing their N.C.A.A. violations as well as his own illicit activities. Miami lost scholarships and a bowl game for a year. Nevins sits in jail, now having even lost the ability to get anyone to listen to him anymore.

I was stocking the liquor at my gin mill in the spring of 1998 when a high school kid came in and asked for a summer job. People rarely leave jobs at the Talkhouse. I had no job and told him so. He nodded and left. But something about his look stayed with me. But the kid stuck with me. A month later I got my buddy Jimmy Lawler to go to the East Hampton High School, where his wife worked, and find that young man. I invented a job and hired him.

Later that summer EJ told me he was going to go to prison for over a year in the fall. He was 18 and lived alone. His father was in prison in Japan for securities fraud. His divorced mom lived there with his sister. His older brother had moved to the States and brought EJ along and chaperoned him.

But when the older brother took off for Colorado he left EJ alone to finish his senior year. EJ's house became the place where all the kids came to drink, smoke pot, and plot mischief. They broke into homes and stole stereos and such. They stole a car and drove it into a lake. They pulled off around a dozen of these invasions before they got caught. The kids folded on all of the crimes. EJ had a few extra problems. He had been in on each of the crimes. He also had no one with any money or political clout. He was looking at 1 to 2 years.

So I set up a table outside the bar and the staff manned it. We collected thousands of signatures requesting clemency. I contacted as many of the homeowners I could and several of them told the D.A. they did not want him to serve jail time. The East Hampton Star editorialized about our efforts and requested probation and community service for EJ. When President Clinton and Hillary came to town that August I put a giant sign on the front of the bar asking for a pardon. A cover story in the N.Y. Times referenced the sign in the third paragraph.

I put on a suit and met with the D.A. and EJ’s lawyer and argued my case. The D.A. listened. He said he would go for minimal time, but time it was. As I left his office, the D.A .said, "Don't come back here when he does it again." I told him, "He won't do it again." I was right.

EJ’s mom came over from Japan and we were there in court when he got three months. His mom cried when they put him in cuffs and took him away. I visited him in jail and had a job for him when he got out. My girlfriend and I lived with him and his mom for awhile. He still works at the bar today, evolving from adopted son to friend.

I was in the Costa Rican town of Puerto Viejo around 2010. I was sitting with several female locals I had befriended. A young guy came in and sat at the far end of the bar. One woman leaned over and whispered "He's a rapist."

I learned the guy had raped several women, mostly tourists passing through, but had not been prosecuted because his father was the police chief of the area. I got the name and phone number of one of his victims, a young American woman who had lived there for years. She had moved to the capital, San Jose, a few months before. Another victim was 15 years old. She had left the country with her parents.

That night I wrote 20 identical notes. They stated the rapist's name, the known details of his assaults, and the source of his protection. I asserted the community was derelict in allowing this predator to roam through their community unmolested. I put this note under the door of many stores in town.

Then I called the victim and drove to San Jose to meet her. She told me her story.

She had been sunbathing on a deserted beach outside of town. She was walking down a path to her bicycle when she was grabbed from behind and tackled. A bag was placed over the head and she was told not to speak. She knew her assailant's voice. He raped her from behind with a condom. Then he told her not to move for 10 minutes. She could hear him talking on his cell as he left. She heard one word. "Mom."

When she got to town she told her friend. Then she went to the police. The friend went to the rapist's house. In the garbage can outside she found the bag he had put on her friend's head and a used condom. The police discarded this evidence because her friend had found it. They questioned the rapist and let him go even though his cell showed he had called his mom at the time of the assault.

I said I would help her if she would let me. I would need her to go public. She agreed. I found a female reporter at the top paper in San Jose. I told her the story and gave her the victim's names and those of the local women who would give more information off the record. She wrote a scathing story. I contacted the victim's congressman in the U.S. and got an aide who made inquiries through our embassy in Costa Rica. I have a close friend who lives around me in the Hamptons, but also lives in San Jose. I met his friend who was a top cop in the capital. He made inquiries and put pressure, real pressure, on the authorities to act.

The rapist struck again. His victim, a Brazilian woman, resisted, escaped and scratched his face. Coupled with the pressure being applied by the authorities and the press, that scratch resulted in his arrest. This time they included the charges that the woman I met in San Jose had tried to lodge.

I never saw the victim again. She had moved to Peru. But she got to come back and face her assailant in court, testifying against him and confronting him face to face as she described what she had endured then and what she would endure for life. He was convicted and got many years (I forget how many, but it was a lot). The victim wrote me and thanked me.

Roy Buchanan played the Talkhouse only once, on a Sunday night in late June of l987. It was a $20 ticket and the man who turned down the Rolling Stones (after they approached him to play in the band after the death of Brian Jones) was trying to get his alcohol-derailed career on track with a new album on Alligator Records.

In those days of the early shows I made a practice of greeting every artist, asking if everything was OK and assuring them I was the biggest fan of their music in the world, regardless of whether I knew their music or not. That role has since been absorbed by other sycophants or staff who just plain care. Anyway, I bounded up the stairs after Sunday softball, ready to tell Roy just how much I really loved him and froze the moment I met his cold black eyes starring at me. This was not a man who wanted to chat.

I paid him, said nothing and went downstairs. There were probably 50 paying customers and 20 comps that night with more drifting in as one of THE best shows that ever occurred here unfolded. A drummer, a bass player who looked like he was 12 and acted like he was 30, and Roy just wailing away. He did a Hendrix classic I can’t remember (“Foxy Lady” or “Purple Haze:) and Clapton’s “Crossroads” and went upstairs. The place went wild.

In those days I didn’t know to check with the band to see if they had a cutoff to their encores so I let the crowd go 5 minutes or more. Then I ran around the club and upstairs and faced those same black eyes, this time bisected by a joint held between them. “Ummm, is there any chance you could play one more song?” I asked like I was trying to get a kiss after my first date (actually, even worse).

“I would. But I make it a point never to play after I smoke,” he said with unexpected softness.

“I mean, I’m willing to pay, I, er….”

Before Roy could answer the adolescent bass player piped in. “How much?”

“Five hundred dollars,” I said. Now understand, I couldn’t look into those eyes and say less. But that was $500 to a band playing for $2,000.

“Roy, we gotta take it,” the bass player insisted, stepping forward.

Well let me tell you, if I thought I had seen a withering stare earlier that day I knew nothing. Buchanan glared at the kid till he stepped back and slowly and methodically ground out the joint.

“You still don’t know anything about the blues,” he said dryly. “If a man in a joint this small in a room that empty paying you this much already asks you for one more song you do it for free.” He got up and went downstairs, band in tow, and played 45 minutes more. He didn’t take a dime.

I thanked him when he left, he nodded, and two weeks later he was arrested for public intoxication somewhere in Virginia (Norfolk, I believe). He committed suicide in jail by hanging himself by his belt. I never saw eyes like that and that gesture, as much as any other made by the performers here, is with me today.

In 1986 I worked as an ambulance salesman. I sold to fire departments,
volunteer ambulance squads, and hospitals. When you sold to a fire department the committee chose the ambulance they liked the best and drew up a set of specifications. Those specs were then published and put out for bid. Other salesmen who represented other ambulances then could bid on those specs. Ultimately the fire department or town entity that oversaw it could use its discretion in awarding the bid. In short, they could award it to a higher bidder if that bidder more exactly matched the specifications.

I had about four bids in to a Long Island town in Suffolk County, which oversaw a half-dozen fire departments. It was controlled by officials of the Republican Party. One of the fire department committee members told me I needed to make a donation to the Republicans. If I donated a few grand he could guarantee I would win all four bids.

I called my lawyer. He helped me contact the F.B.I. It turned out the feds were investigating this town government for massive corruption. All the bidders on government contracts for major projects involving construction, maintenance, you name it, were being shaken down. They asked me to wear a wire and attend a fundraiser. They told me to talk to certain people they knew would be there and to promise even larger donations.

So I drove to a McDonald’s and met two F.B.I. agents. They put me in the back seat of their car and told me to pull down my pants. The microphone was fitted into my pack of cigs and the wire fed down my side to the recording device, which was taped right behind my scrotum -- the place I was least likely to have patted down. This took some time. An employee saw me with my pants down and a guy with his hands in the vicinity of my genitals and called the cops. Suddenly a cop car, lightbar pulsing and siren screamin,g pulled up. Before the cop got out the F.B.I. guys flashed their badges. The cop left.

So I met the committee member who had shaken me down and went to the fundraiser, where I interviewed a congressman and state senator. I asked a few questions, indicating I wanted to be a bigger player, and was asked if I was wearing a wire. I do remember getting one piece of important information: a list of all the compliant "donors/bidders" was kept in the safe of the head of the water authority. If a "donor/bidder" did not contribute enough in a given year his name was "excised" from the list.

I wound up leaving my job shortly after that so I did not wear any more wires, as I was out of that business. But the F.B.I. did collar some of those responsible the following year.

I will never forget the look on the cop's face.

We had a Talkhouse on Collins Avenue in South Beach from 1992 to 1995. I was only based there in the winter. We had a new soundman named Jens. He was very talented, very good-looking, and shy. I had Drew, our senior sound guy, tell Jens I was arriving that night. He told him I had a horrible temper and to do nothing to piss me off.
I climbed up the ladder to where our soundboard stood atop our walk-in refrigerator, overlooking the stage. The comedian Judt Tenuta was performing. The crowd was overwhelmingly gay. I said hello to Jens and shook his hand, then moved 10 feet away. Over the next 10 minutes I gradually got closer till our bodies nearly touched. I took his hand in mind and caressed his palm. I looked longingly into his eyes.

Jens jumped straight up in the air and hit his head (lightly) on the air conditioning duct.
I told him he was not my type and climbed back to the bar.

Around 1978 I went to Studio 54 for the first and last time. I was with a female buddy and neither of us was dressed up. We waited for a half hour. It was clear the bouncer wasn't going to select us for admission. So I handed him my card, which showed I was a reporter for Page Six.
Moments later Steve Rubell rushed out, escorted me inside, apologized profusely for the delay, and bought us drinks.
“Did you know I can't breathe in the morning till I read Page Six?" he gushed.
"How do you get through Sunday?" I responded.
The Post did not publish on Sunday.

Brett Kaye was a roommate of mine who worked the door at the Talkhouse for over a decade. He committed suicide in 2008. This is the eulogy I gave at his wake.
Everybody loved Brett. I never met a person who didn’t like him and I never heard one person who said anything bad about him. We are devastated over losing this beautiful person who brightened our lives and our hearts go out to Kim, her family, Brett’s mom, his two sisters and their families, and to all of us who loved this guy so much. Most of all our hearts go out to Brett.
This painful and inexplicable loss is so hard to believe and accept. He was one of the best friends I ever had and I am not alone in this room in saying that.
Brett was warm-hearted, gentle in a lumpy sort of way, non-judgmental, loyal to a T, and he possessed impeccable integrity.
He was very smart -- so smart he was the only person who ever worked at the Talkhouse I was never able to fool with one of my pranks, a fact he took no small pride in. He was a great athlete who never reminded anyone how much better a player he was than them -- that made him a true Maidstoner.
But that’s because he was humble, too. He had a sometimes cynical but always quirky sense of humor that could be bittersweet but never dark. He made us laugh when he called a kitten vermin, assured us we were full of malarkey, said cheese and rice instead of Jesus Christ, said Shiite Muslim instead of shit, told us the very sight of us made him want to hurl, and told a shirtless but hairy backed Jason Spielberg when he had slid into third base that he had gotten his sweater dirty. He made everyone laugh at life’s injustices and at themselves, but most of all at himself.
I last saw Brett at Kimi’s birthday party last Saturday. He was so glad to see everyone and he told several people how much he wanted to see and embrace them all. No one could see it but I know now he was saying goodbye. He did love us all.
I can’t appreciate let alone fathom the pain he was in or the decision he made. I do know this. He wasn’t trying to hurt any of us. Kim, he loved you very much. I remember the first time he told me about you. He said the two of you “fit like a glove -- you were someone who kept him close, warm and protected.”
I have so many great memories thanks to Brett. I’m so grateful I knew him all these 15-odd years. He worked with me over a decade, lived with me four years, hoisted countless drinks, and played so many summer Sundays at Maidstone when we were all safe between the lines.
But my favorite memory is of Brett with me in Florida when we worked with several young soldiers who had been severely injured serving America overseas. No one worked harder than Brett and every one of those kids was drawn to him. He told me helping those kids was a defining moment in his life. There was that side of Brett too -- he knew there were bigger things than our troubles in this life. He gave us all so many marvelous episodes -- that’s all we ever get to give each other in life.
So the other night I was sitting in a bar -- fancy that -- with Reggie and Ron and we were trying to understand how this happened. And the best thing we could take from this tragedy that will be with us forever was to try to honor our dear friend by making an extra effort to extend ourselves to our friends, to be a little less self-absorbed, to be a little better to everyone, especially if they need help, to use Brett to make us be a better person.
Tonight, and for many nights to come, we will mourn him. But let us all come to celebrate his life and all the times he gave to us. We all had so much fun with him. As Tommy LaGrassa said, “Whoever we are, he was one of us.” And I know his spirit and soul are with us now. We all loved Brett. And how blessed we were to have been loved by him.

Bob Kerrey is an American politician who served as U.S. Senator from Nebraska from 1989 till 2001. Prior to his political career he was a Navy Seal who served in Vietnam. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor and lost his leg serving our country.

In 1969 he was involved in an action where several Vietnamese women and children were killed. Kerrey said later, "You can never get away from it. It darkens your day. I thought dying for your country was the worst thing that can happen to you, and I don't think it is. I think killing for your country can be a lot worse."

So around 2000 I am sitting in the men's spa at a resort in Montauk called Gurney's and I see the guy sitting next to me has a prosthetic leg. I look up and it is Bob Kerrey. I thank him for his service. He is gracious, then he is off to his massage and I am off to my bar.

But first I stop and leave the attendant my card, on which I write Kerrey a note,
an invitation to attend a Loudon Wainwright III concert at the bar that evening. By the time I got back to the bar two hours later he had left a message thanking me, but explaining he had to get back to Manhattan.

This was in 1999 when his name was being tossed around as a possible challenger to Al Gore for the Democratic nomination for President.

The next day I picked up the phone. it was him, apologizing for leaving a message. "I wanted to thank you personally," he said.

In the winter of 2005, I was organizing a dinner for the Wounded Warrior Project, an organization I helped start. I needed help. My friend, the actor Harris Yulin, was kind enough to secure a performance by the actor Stephen Lang. Lang reenacted the stories, in their own words, of several Congressional Medal of Honor winners. But we needed a keynote speaker, someone with star status. Bob Kerrey was then living in New York City, serving as the president of the New School. I wrote him and asked. He agreed.

His speech was brilliant, focusing on a Republican Senator named Bob Dole and the injuries he suffered in WW II.

One of the great things about our organization is the support we get from liberals AND conservatives. Both Alec Baldwin and Bob Dole appeared (as did Harris) in a video we showed about our organization. Phil Donahue and Oliver North stood and applauded the 20-odd wounded soldiers who took to the stage at the conclusion of the evening.

This is a story about my friend Amado Torrecilla Torres who was my man in Havana. He enabled me to create many memorable moments for the two of us, and for others.

We both believed in each other and we were both there for each other. When I hear his voice in my head I hear “Don’t you worry.” I eventually got Amado and his girlfriend out of Cuba. They lived me with and he worked at my bar. He died 19 months ago. I just heard Yoshimi, his girlfriend, has a new boyfriend and is pregnant.

I used to play softball up at Maidstone Park with an eclectic group of men ranging in age from 20 to 70 and with a degree of talent from very much to very little. I came up with the idea in the fall of 1998 that we would challenge every team who would put up $300, and match that and give it to a charity. At the party after the tournament my buddy Tommy LaGrassa joked that we play winter ball in Havana.

I loved the idea. So I found out about a guide and flew to Cuba where I was met at the airport by my man in Havana, Amado. He was diminutive in stature, but gargantuan in heart. On the cab ride to his apartment I remarked on how beautiful the city was.

"I wouldn't know," he responded.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"This is the only place I have ever been. I have nothing to compare it to."

I told him my plan. He told me I was crazy.

That night we travelled to a barrio and pitched our idea to the manager of a Cuban team. We stood under a movie marquee for a John Ford movie. I remarked how odd it was that a film from the late ‘50s was showing.

"The theater is closed. That sign hasn't changed since the Revolution."

Like the miraculously patched together American cars from that same decade that sputter around Havana the long-since discredited Revolution still holds sway over this island frozen in time.

The coach agreed to set the game up at the Havana University field.

We met the next coach at a seafood restaurant the next day gazing out at the tragedy that is Fidel's Cuba. I ordered one fish dish after another only to have the waitress shake her head.

"This is a seafood restaurant that does not serve fish," I observed.

"Si ,señor, this is Cuba" -- gesturing at the sea.

"Why?” I asked.

"No boats."

There were only tankers in the harbor. If there were fishing boats they'd be sailing to Florida.

Over the next week we found four teams willing to play us after convincing them we were for real and had no political agenda. Without Amado I would never have persuaded them that they were not going to get in trouble with the government (no one in Cuba wants to risk that); that we wanted to focus on something that united us.

A few months later 33 of us went to Cuba and played five goodwill games, beating the Baltimore Orioles’ game against the Cubans by a few weeks. We were covered in the New York Times, on NBX, and in Sports Illustrated and had the experience of a lifetime. We hoisted beers and traded jerseys with the Cubans. Each team sang their national anthems and stood around a banner that read in Spanish and English "The Forty Year Rain Delay is Over."

We returned the next two years, forging friendships that endure to this day. I travelled over 30 times to Cuba over the next eight years. Amado was with me the whole time. We distributed humanitarian aid, brought in Taj Mahal to play at the Havana Jazz Festival and were it not for 9/11 would have brought a Broadway play there. Few people know but the Town of East Hampton is a sister city to the Havana suburb of La Playa. Amado helped me make these things possible.

I watched my friend endure the daily indignities the communist government subjects its people to. I watched the police throw us off a beach because Amado was with me. I watched him get ejected from a tourist hotel because he was Cuban. I got pulled over in cabs because he was with me. He could never attend any meeting with a Cuban official because he faced arrest fraternizing with me.

I remember delivering supplies to one government entity and the official asked if I could give him a lift, presuming him I had a normal cab. When he got in with Amado in his friend’s beat-up car he was puzzled.

"Who are they?" he demanded.

"They are Cubans,” I answered.

On one of our sojourns we visited the sleepy town of Bayamo, renowned for the fact that its 19th-century residents had burned it to the ground rather than let it be captured by Spanish colonial masters. There is (or was) an enormous digital clock that overlooks the town square. It always flashes the same time, though most of the bulbs don't work. Our guide told me it was a gift from the Soviets in the 1960s.

"How long has the clock been broken?" I asked.

"I don't know, it's been that way for as long as I can remember." My guide was in his 30s. All of Cuba has been waiting for someone to start that clock. Obama just did.

It took awhile but Amado and his girlfriend got out of Cuba. He would first end up spending six weeks in a tiny jail cell for having my cell phone. His father got 18 months in jail for having $2 in American dollars. His grandfather got seven years for possession of a joint. His family was thrown out of their home, which was given to a policeman.

When a cop at J.F.K. told him that he could say what he wanted to say in America he knelt down and shouted, "I hate Fidel Castro." He told me he had wanted to shout that in public his whole life.

Like most Cubans Amado loved America. After five years working at the Talkhouse he moved to Texas. He died last year but somewhere out there he is smiling.

Jesse Colin Young gained fame as the frontman of The Youngbloods, a 1960s band famous for their cover of a song called "Get Together."

If you are around 60 as I am you’ll remember it: "Come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try and love one another, right now."

Anyway, he was playing the Talkhouse for the first time in April of 1995. We had just started doing live music. It was heady days for me, meeting the artists whose music defined my youth.

So it's around 6 p.m. and three women stumbled, yes stumbled into the bar. Nowadays I would have told them to come back at 7 when we opened but they asked if they could please stay. I let them. My first mistake.

By 7 p.m. they were wasted, drinking from the flasks in their purses. They had sat at a table reserved for someone else and when they wouldn't move I chucked them. One pleaded with me to let her stay. "I was Jesse's lover," she confided, loud enough for everyone to hear.

I propped her on the bar, went and met Jesse and paid him. I was sitting outside when the show started. I was exhausted. Then I heard Jesse speaking from the stage, "Peter, this is not going to work." When I looked inside the drunk woman was lying on the stage, her arms wrapped around his ankles.

I went inside with a friend and pried her loose.

"But I blew you at Woodstock," she pleaded.

" Another guy, lady, I was not at Woodstock," Jesse said.

So we got her outside and pushed her in the direction of another bar.

I made it back to the Talkhouse. Back then there was an alleyway behind the stage and there were windows behind the stage from the 12th century with sashes manufactured when Claudius was the Roman Emperor.

Jesse has now started singing, finally, when one of those Claudian sashes gave way. It was a windy day and when the window went down and the first gust hit him Jesse walked off the stage.

All I heard was, "Peter, can you get the window."

I did. I lifted it up. The concert resumed, finally. But the sash was snapped. There was no way to keep the window up short of me staying there. The audience could see me holding it up as the window was behind Jesse, so I moved out of sight.

That’s when the lunatic returned. The drunken women, who I had erroneously attempted to accommodate, was in search of a lost earring. My right arm was holding the window and as she began punching me, “You stole my earring,” she shrieked. I had only the left to fend off her blows. Our battle moved into the center of the window.

The audience caught it and broke out in laughter.

Jesse stopped playing. My buddy rescued me.

Eventually the woman went away and the show went on.

I sustained minor injuries, mostly to my ego.

Kris Kristofferson was a Talkhouse regular in the 1990s. In August of 1992 he played an outdoor concert with the Highwaymen at a ranch near my club.

The Highwaymen consisted of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson and Kris. Waylon was the one who did not get on the plane with Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and The Big Bopper in 1959. The plane crashed and everyone on board died -- an event immortalized in the Don McLean song "The Day the Music Died."

This was about a year and a half after we had kicked Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait. Colin Powell was standing in front of the stage. Kris, an ardent leftist, broke the group's protocol by singing a political song, “Slouching Towards The Millenium,” critical of U.S. foreign policy toward Iraq. Waylon, a conservative, responded with a patriotic song. Cash did as well. Waylon went on local TV after the show, swearing he would never play with Kris again.

Kris, who was on the permanent wagon, went off it. He was scheduled to play two shows at the Talkhouse two days later. He was not feeling up to the task.

Paul Simon, who had played at the same concert and lives in the Hamptons, showed up at my joint to help Kris get through the night. He accompanied Kris and Kris accompanied him.

It was a magical night.

By the way, the Highwaymen played together again.

Ted Kennedy challenged the Democrat incumbent Jimmy Carter for the Democratic nomination in 1980. Kennedy was doing well in the polls till a bunch of Iranian terrorists also known benevolently as students by other terrorista stormed the U.S. Embassy and took the staff hostage.

It was rally around the leader time. Carter's popularity soared. Kennedy’s plummeted. Ironically, later the fact that the crisis had NOT been resolved helped Reagan crush Carter in the general election.

But back to March, 1980. Kennedy was cooked and it was the night of the New York and Connecticut primaries. Carter's U.N. ambassador had said something or other that had antagonized the Jews shortly before the primary.

I was covering the Kennedy headquarters in midtown to report on what was presumed to be the funeral of his candidacy. As the results came in, I was sharing a beer with a woman named Bella Abzug who was a major N.Y. politician. Though Carter would win the nomination that night Kennedy won both states by a significant margin. The mood went from funereal to ecstatic. A woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to dance.

I explained I was a bad dancer. It took a minute before I realized it was Ted Kennedy's wife, Joan. She and Ted already had decided to split, but agreed to wait till after the nomination was decided.

I wished I had danced with her.

I first met Bill at a fundraiser at the home of Alec Baldwin and his then wife Kim Basinger. With my son alongside, I positioned myself in the front row of the receiving line, my six-year-old daughter on my shoulders.

It was in the middle of the Monica Lewinsky scandal. When Bill shook my hand, I said, "Thanks for all you've done and good luck with everything." He started down the line, then came back to me. "We'll be alright," he assured me. The photo of that crowd, my daughter in her pink dress, riding above the swarm, graced the front page of the N.Y. Times.

The next time I saw him he was with Hillary in the Hamptons in August, 2011, right after Hurricane Irene. Power was knocked out but we had a generator at the Talkhouse.

Jimmy Buffett told us he was coming to play with an artist he knew from the Canary Islands named ILO. The secret service called, told us the Clintons were coming, and asked to case the joint.

A dozen agents arrived and positioned themselves. I was standing a few feet from the Clintons with a Secret Service agent when Buffett finished his first song. There was a loud pop.

Then the lights went out.

The street power had come on, trumping my generator power. Just as quickly it went off again. It took 10 agonizing seconds for the generator to reconstitute itself. I was relieved when the Secret Service didn't whisk the Clintons out of there.

Graciously they stayed for both the Buffett and the ILO show.

One other thing. When they came up Hillary shook my hand. Bill shook my hand with one hand, then held my elbow with the other. It made the encounter somehow more intimate.

Like Reagan, he was a consummate politician.

So I was working at the N.Y. Post in 1980 when Ronald Reagan stopped by to get their endorsement for President. I worked in the Features office and it was around 10 a.m. While the adjoining newsroom was busy no one but me was in the room reserved for Page Six and some of the editorial writers.

Reagan walked in and looked around. He walked up and I rose to shake his hand.

"Governor,” I said, (he had been Governor of California), “I'm not voting for you.”

He smiled back broadly.

"I don't care," he said cheerfully.

In 1998 Eric Burdon and the Animals were playing the Talkhouse. My girlfriend was bartending at the back patio bar. She was talking to a friend of ours when I impulsively lifted her shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra. Though our friend had seen her breasts before she was furious and stormed away.

I followed her outside and pleaded with her to come back, but she refused.

"It's no big deal," I said.

"You try bartending nude," she answered.

So I took off all my clothes and started bartending. Then customers began stripping. She came back in and took off everything. She was joined by a girlfriend. Soon, there were 20-odd nude men and many topless women, and a handful fully nude.

Eric Burdon came out for a drink and hopped behind the bar nude.

A young man who had just arrived from Ireland walked onto the back deck. It was his first day in America. He looked around, dropped his luggage and exclaimed, "This is the greatest country in the world."

On New Years John and his sister Helen hosted a party at his parent's house. My brother had died the previous July in a car accident. His buddy drove his car into a tree and they both died. It destroyed me and changed my life but that is another story.

My point is the fact that, nonetheless, alcohol and death had not imprinted itself on my consciousness. It is unfathomable, but true. You feel impregnable in youth, especially males.

So I’m outside the party with John, who divined I adored Jane. He tells me they have broken up and gives me the OK to pursue her. He asks if I want to take a ride on his motorcycle so he can flush the hurt out of his system. I was 16, invincible yet somehow destroyed by an event that could not possibly revisit itself on me.
I was finally going to be able to look Jane in the eye and say,"I really like you," perched on the cliff of ecstasy or despair. I imagined enduring the wait as the seconds, seeming like drifted by, waiting for her response.
But wait, by the way, my friend Harry Crawford had died on the same bike a few months before. He was the M.V.P. of motorcycle accidents. He died on that bike, dead sober, after catching his handlebar on a car door, flipping over and catching his forehead on a curb. This was the denouement of the boy who survived cataclysmic collisions without a scratch. You never know. Now John owned the bike.

Genius that I am, there I was hopping on a motorcycle, drunk at 11:30 p.m. with my friend who was just dumped, on a bike which another friend just died on, six months after my brother died, on the ice-caked streets of Queens, male bonding with my buddy before I went in and begged his ex to kiss me or better. It made perfect sense. I climbed on behind him.

Then our buddy Kurt came out.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

It rushed over me, a year of frustration over this girl whose visage was imprinted on my consciousness and my cock 24/7. Now I could go there. I got off the bike and motioned Kurt over. Kurt got on the bike. I went inside. I got within 10 steps of Jane and froze. I just wasn't prepared for this.
A minute passed while I summoned the courage to talk to a girl 10 feet away. Three blocks away John hit a patch of ice and the bike went over. John was killed instantly. Kurt was badly injured. He survives to this day but one arm is paralyzed.
His parents brought his body from the site of the accident back to their home where our party raged in the basement.? Soon it was upstairs and we all stumbled outside and away.
My crush on Jane lasted awhile longer but the moment had passed. John was dead. We were all devastated. There was no going there. At his funeral mass a few days later the pastor wouldn’t allow us to play “My Sweet Lord” because a Beatle had written it.
Years later Jane and I would have a fling. I hadn’t seen her in 30 years when I learned she died of breast cancer a few years back.
One final thought. When we asked our local Catholic Chursch to let us play George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” at the funeral they refused. After all, it was a song by a Beatle.“Here comes the sun.” The words brought him home.

In 1970 I was a president of my junior class at an all-boys Catholic high school in Queens,
I was a radical who drove the Christian brothers crazy because I gave speeches about how the brothers shouldn't smack us around, make us wear suits, care about the length of our hair, and -- here's the kicker -- whether a boy brings a boy to the prom. This was 1970. I was one of the smartest kids in the school, the fifth Honerkamp to be there, and I had never been in trouble.

But when I convinced the school librarian, poor Miss (it was Miss then) Barzenbach to start a club, called the Humanities Club. Our mission was to advance the cause of human rights. I was walking down a dangerous path. It did not get better. I concocted the courageous idea to invite the fledgling Gay Liberation Front to speak at the school.

The school panicked.

I had no date for the junior prom. I was in love with a girl, Lori Reinhardt, who is a soul buddy to this day, but she loved a boy who then counted himself gay. The boy loved me. No one got anywhere.

I could not take a girl other than Lori. She could not go with me as she felt it would be incorrect to lead me on. All this coincided with the school powers squelching the Gay Liberation Front invite and calling my parents to ask if I had lost my mind. They had no reason, technically, to get rid of me. But boy, did they want me gone.

They brought me to the principal’s office and asked if I did not think I would be happier in a public school. I said something to the fact that I was happy here, fighting for human rights.

There was a teacher there, a powerful one, who had rubbed my leg in chemistry class. I knew what it meant at 17 but I ignored it, pretending it never happened.

In retrospect it was odd but easy to ignore. You were frozen, but incredulous. The sex scandals that were to engulf the church were inconceivable then. The tsunami was on the horizon.

I knew I put a stop to it. But I knew it happened and it was real and it gave me a glimpse, albeit a very dim one, of what was to come.

A brother who was a guidance counselor ask me how many times I masturbated. I didn’t answer. It went no farther so you lived with it.

Now we know better what happened. There were boys and girls abused by the clergy throughout time but it exploded when the sexual revolution happened.

When my older brother was a junior in my high school in 1965 there were a few guys getting hand jobs or better. That was the exception, not the norm. By 1970 everyone in high school was getting everything everywhere all the time. Sexual child abuse by the clergy, the Catholic clergy, exploded as well. Many priests ran amok and the church did nothing about it except to pay victims off and move the abusers around.

Anyway, back on point. The class president, who wanted gays to speak at the school, was not bringing a girl to the prom. All my friends knew I wasn't gay, but when quizzed, and quizzed is a benevolent word ("Honerkamp, you a fag or what?"), by kids I did not know as I walked through the hallways on a daily basis, I refused to answer.

"I am Spartacus" was the line that ran through my head. Obtuse that this might seem it resonated for me. There was a movie titled “Spartacus” that starred Kirk Douglas, Lawrence Olivier, Tony Curtis, and Charles Laughton. When the slave army in revolt against the Romans was crushed, the Roman general demanded who was Spartacus, the revolt’s leader. Kirk Douglas, playing Spartacus, rises and identifies himself. Then one by one hundreds of slaves do the same.

This is not meant to be a direct analogy, except insofar as I was not merely sticking up for gay rights, I was undergoing the daily humiliations heaped on me by my peers. I was 17, going from the president of the class to being whistled at in the halls, insults that were then heaped on, commonplace, on actual gays. It got worse. A lot worse.

The principal of the high school went round and spoke against my request in every classroom, except the ones I was in. They were afraid to confront me directly because they did not know how to then refuse me the opportunity to respond.

They disbanded the Humanities Club. Richard, the chemistry professor who tried to rub my leg in class, called my parents to speculate that I had been raped by a man. That was the last straw.

I had made my point. Now I was mad. I went into Richard’s chemistry class and before he knew what do I confronted him with words to this effect: "I am actually not gay, but those of us who have had you rub our legs in class know you are. Instead of attacking me you should thank me for helping you get free." He ran after me and chased me up and down and around several floors till he followed me, winded, into the principal's office, where I told the principal what Richard had done.

"This ends here," the principal said.

"Fine with me, I made my point."

Then all the reindeers loved me. I brought a girl to the senior prom. I moved on. I was a newspaper reporter with the N.Y. Post around 1979, drinking in a bar, fancy that, named Kenny's Castaways when a high school friend named Tom Duane sat down next to me. Tom was one of my buddies back then but I had not seen him in seven years. Back then all his friends knew he was gay. He shook my hand.

"I never would've come out when I did if it wasn't for you."

I smiled.

"You were straight and enduring what I feared. It was heroic. Thanks."

I never saw Tom again but he went on in N.Y.C. government as a gay rights advocate. He contracted AIDS and survived. Several years back I opened the front page of the New York Times and there was Andrew Cuomo signing the bill that made gay marriage legal in New York State.

Tom Duane was handing him the pen.

Roy Cohn was a lawyer aligned with Joe McCarthy, a Wisconsin senator who epitomized some of the excesses of the Red Scare trials of the 1950s.

By 1980 the discredited Cohn still operated and was the defense attorney for Stevie Rubell and Ian Schrager, the owners of Studio 54, the hottest club in the country. The flamboyant Rubell had bragged, in a New Yorker magazine article, about how much cash they were taking in and how little they were declaring. The Feds closed in and they were busted and facing real jail time, indicted for tax evasion, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice. It was the death knell of Studio 54.

I had interviewed Cohn once when I answered the phone and he gave me some dirt on a Brooklyn judge. It was pretty obscure stuff, impossible to prove, and hardly Page Six stuff. It made no sense. So I went to the morgue. That was where you could get clips from old stories about anyone and anything. This was before computers. There was a lot on Cohn, very little on the judge. But there it was, a clip on the judge ruling against Cohn in the year of the flood. He had castigated Cohn in court. Over 20 years later Cohn still wanted revenge. He was a man who breathed it.

I got a call one day from a guy who vaguely identified himself as a top PR guy. He said he saw Hamilton Jordan, President Carter’s Chief of Staff, doing cocaine in the basement of Studio 54. There were no other witnesses. This was not a story.

But the guy, or someone, got to someone else on the paper.

A week later the headline of the Post read "Hamilton Jordan Does Cocaine at Studio 54," then in much smaller print, "Top PR rep says.”

The top PR guy, my vague informant, was a lover of Roy Cohn. Cohn was actually trying to pressure the Carter Administration to ease up on Stevie and Ian. In return he would ease up on Hamilton, whose only real crime was to have noted that the Egyptian ambassador's wife's breasts looked like the Great Pyramids, or something to that effect.

Over the next week all the reputable news outlets were picking up on the story. Jordan said he was at the club for an hour, but denied doing blow. This was the pathetic last gambit of a lawyer who luxuriated in destroying people to enhance his last chance at self-importance. He no longer had Joe McCarthy at his side. He had Stevie Rubell. Cohn said he had a tape of a drug dealer who sold the coke to Jordan.Really? No, not really, just a lie. Cohn was good at that.Rubell said he would only testify to the fact that he saw Jordan do coke in exchange for immunity. Really? He would’ve testified that Jordan was a communist spy at that point.

Next thing you know the F.B.I. is investigating whether Chief of Staff Jordan and Press Secretary Jody Powell were doing blow at Studio 54. A special prosecutor was appointed, based on nothing. His name was Arthur Christy. The grand jury voted 24-0 that this was bullshit and Christy confided, off the record, it was a scam pulled off by Cohn and a few friends.

A week later a guy called and said he was a chauffeur with Fugazy Continental, the top limousine company in N.Y.C.. He said that while Ham Jordan was in the club an associate of his was getting a blow job in the back of his limo.

"So what?" I asked.

"Go with it."

I ignored it but this absurd story that, even if true, meant nothing, still ran on Page Six when another woman on the paper wrote the story. Why an unnamed associate having oral sex mattered was beyond me.

When he ran for Congress in Texas back in the 1940s Lyndon Johnson reportedly told his campaign manager his opponent fucked pigs.

"Lyndon, Joe Bob doesn't fuck pigs."

"Oh, I know that, just wanted to see the son of a bitch get up and deny it."

Cohn died a lonely man in Acapulco, consumed by AIDS and his hatred. It took till recently for Murdoch and his corrupt brand of journalism to be exposed. I just wonder how many lives were trampled in the process.

By the way, Rubell and Schrager were indicted for tax evasion, conspiracy and obstruction of justice.

It was sometime in 1980 and I was sick of Page Six.

I did an interview with Tom Wicker, a respected newsman, about a documentary film about Attica he had been connected with. He was gracious and forthcoming. The next day my story recounted his first response not as "Tim Wicker said," but "Tom Wicker admitted." It changed the whole context. Bullshit.

When I had been on the city side I had reported on two kids found dead in a park. At the end of my story an editor had added," Police are investigating the possibility they were drug dealers." When I pointed out to my editor no one said that, "Hey, they look into every possibility," he replied. "Why not add that the police were looking into the possibility they were aliens. They each have families," I pointed out. He shrugged. But that was the Post.

So it is 1980 and three people are vying to unseat the Republican senator from New York State, Alfonse D' Amato: John Lindsey, the former N.Y.C. mayor, Elizabeth Holtzman, the Brooklyn D.A., and Bess Myerson, N.Y.C. Consumer Affairs Commissioner, Ed Koch confidant, and former Miss America.

My assignment seemed simple enough. Bess's parents were in an assisted living facility. I was to do a fluff piece on how Bess was carrying on her campaign while caring for her aged parents. Bess could only look good so she would give the interview. Here she was, running for Senator, and caring for her parents. Believe or not I had her home phone number, and in those days I could call her there and she would pick up. She had no handlers.

She explained her mom was totally out of it, on a different floor than her dad, who was still compos mentis. She said if her dad read a story that suggested her campaign was in any way impeded by their conditions it would crush him.
"Please don't write anything that will heurt my dad,” she implored..”

I promised I would not. The next day I explained this to Claudia. By now she knew I had no respect for her and was moving on.

"Woodward and Bernstein would write it, " she shrieked at me so the whole room could hear.

"No, they wouldn't. You write it."

And then I walked out. It was the last and best day at Page Six. She never wrote the story.

Anthony Scotto was a mobster and a union racketeer in the Anastasio and then Gambino crime families and for awhile he ruled the Brooklyn waterfront. In many ways he was Don Corleone, polished, discreet, and friends with many prominent politicians.

Before his world collapsed on him he had influence with several New York City mayors and a New York governor and was under consideration by President Carter to become the Secretary of Labor. He befriended mafia antagonist U.S. Attorney General Robert Kennedy. He got his lawyer appointed special counsel to Police Commissioner Patrick Murphy.

He was a delegate to the 1972 Democratic National Convention but he turned it down, though both he was his wife were delegates to the 1976 Democratic Convention. He claimed to have raised millions for New York Governor Hugh Carey's 1974 campaign. He dealt with Carey on numerous occasions over political appointments and labor issues, then donated $50,000 to his successor, Mario Cuomo's, campaign.

He was, almost unbelievably, also a top Mob guy.

In 1957 he married Marion Anastasio, whose father was a member of one of New York City’s five families of the same name. His pop-in-law made Anthony an officer of the International Longshoreman's Association.

Anastasio was assassinated and Carlo Gambino took over his crime family, the name of which became his own. Gambino and Scotto clicked and soon Anthony was general organizer of the I.L.A., one of the three highest positions in the 100,000-man union.

In 1969 a guy named Joseph Velachi outed the Mafia in hearings before the U.S. Senate. Scotto denied the charges Velachi made, claiming it was part of a U.S. Department of Justice vendetta against him. Remarkably, this was coincidental with the blossoming of his political connections.

On January 17, 1979, 33 federal bribery and racketeering charges were handed down by the Department of Justice. Scotto was accused of accepting $300,000 from two dockside businessmen who employed his union workers, and of evading income taxes. He was convicted on all counts and faced 20 years in prison. Former N.Y.C. mayors Robert Wagner and John Lindsey were among many petitioners requesting leniency. He got five years and served 39 months.

He is 84 now. I wish I could tell you what I asked, what he answered, and what I wrote when I interviewed him before he went to jail, but it's 35 years ago and beyond a dumb question about his prison diet I do not remember. To my knowledge I was the only one who got an interview. It was 1980 and Scott was awaiting sentencing.

This was the John Gotti of his day and he was giving no interviews. Claudia Cohen of Page Six at the Post asked me to get one. I rented the Brando movie “On The Waterfront,” looking for a clue. There was Karl Malden playing the parish priest. I had an idea. I did my research and found the parish Scotto had grown up in. I called and got the pastor on the phone. His name was Father Delvecchio. I explained I wanted to meet Anthony (using his first name, not Scotto) and give his side of things. The priest described all the wonderful things Anthony had done for the parish and the poor. I threw in I had been an altar boy. Father Delvecchio had known Anthony for a long time.

A week later I was told to be on the docks on the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge at 7 a.m. I was there. So were a hundred longshoremen and six guys in trench coats with their hands in their pockets. One was a Joe Pesci double, though at the time I had no idea what Joe Pesci looked like. There was a large statue of the Virgin Mary and a number of tables with shot glasses and booze. There was also a trailer.

No one looked happy to see me. I got in the trailer. Scotto was dressed impeccably. I was not. I sat across from him and asked a series of really dumb questions Claudia had given me. In fairness to her they had to be dumb. The only one I remember is asking him about his diet in prison. I felt nauseous. But I got the story, and I went outside and did a couple of shots with Anthony and the boys under the Brooklyn Bridge.

But 35 years ago that chieftain facing jail took the time to sit with me in a trailer and talk, then drink a shot on a cold winter morning in 1980 in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary on the Brooklyn waterfront. I guess ‘cause a priest from his parish asked, but also because he knew I had no agenda, or Joe Pesci would've chucked me from that trailer. Go figure.

I was a newspaper reporter for the New York Post. It was around 1979. I was, though I dreaded it, assigned to work Page Six, the new gossip column written by Claudia Cohen.

Al Pacino had starred in a movie called “Cruising” about the S&M gay scene in New York. Some gays found their portrayal offensive and were protesting the movie at theaters around the city. Claudia had written extensively about the movie and the protests.

I had just started at Page Six, formerly being a citywide crime reporter. It was about 11 at night when the night editor, Alan Whitney, came in and said he was pulling the lead story on the movie. This was long before cell phones and Claudia had left for Studio 54 an hour before. There was no way to reach her and the deadline for the morning edition was an hour away.

"Alan, I don't have anything to put in its place."

"Then we leave it blank."

Leaving it blank would humiliate her. Putting anything else in would infuriate her. I was caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

My contacts for stories then consisted of press flacks or PR men for the police and transit unions. I had the home phone number of the transit flack. I woke him up.

"I got cop stories, nothing for Page Six."

"Give me anything."

Long pause.

"I was on a flight from L.A. today with Muhammad Ali. It was very bumpy. Ask him if he was scared."

Click.

I called back.

"Where do I find him?"

"He usually stays at the Waldorf. Do not call me again."

I called the Waldorf and asked for Muhammad Ali.

A garbled voice answered.

"Is Muhammad Ali there?"

"That's me. I've got a mouth full of fried chicken. Give me a second."

I didn't know where to begin. But I did. I told him I was 25, scared, needed a story, and heard he had a bumpy flight. He told me to relax and that he'd stay on the line till I had enough for my story.

He told me he was going to try and help the world by going on a goodwill tour of Africa, and meeting with Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev.

"What else am I going do, go fishing with Howard Cosell?" Cosell was the sports announcer who had befriended Ali. At that time Ali was retired and Larry Homes was champ.

The piece on Page Six was headlined "Muhammad Ali's Plan to Save the World.” The front desk tried to call him back to see if that meant he was coming out of retirement. He didn't answer.

Claudia wasn't mad at me. I had a great story. The most famous man in the world took a half hour to help a kid he didn't know. All he asked was I send him a picture of myself, which I did.

Ali fought Holmes, an unprecedented fourth attempt to regain the championship. He lost a lopsided fight by a TKO after 10 rounds in October of 1980.

I first went to Cuba in the fall of 1998 to set up a series of goodwill softball games between my team, the Maidstoners, and some Cuban teams.

The Maidstoners were a bunch of beer-guzzling lunatics ranging in age from 21 to 71. It took a lot of legwork and a lot of convincing but in March of 1999 33 of us played five games with the Cubans, each side singing our national anthems while our team held up a banner that proclaimed in Spanish and English "The 40 Year Rain Delay is Over."

We beat the Baltimore Orioles’ visit by a few weeks and our trip was covered by Sports Illustrated, NBC, the New York Times and the East Hampton Star. Though our visit was illegal there were no repercussions. Over the next eight years I visited Cuba 30 times, lugging in humanitarian aid, bringing the musician Taj Mahal to the Havana Jazz Fest, signing a sister city agreement between East Hampton and the Havana suburb of Playa..

I was working with my friend the actor Harris Yulin to bring the Broadway cast of the Arthur Miller play “The Price” to Cuba and Arthur Miller was contemplating joining us. But that plan fell apart when 9/11 happened.

After helping two friends come to America and publishing some anti-Castro articles the FBI warned me I could be imprisoned by the Cubans so I closed that chapter of my life.

Around 2000 on one of those trips I visited Cojimar, a small fishing village east of Havana. Our guide brought us to the home of Raul Corrales, one of the most prominent photographers of the Cuban Revolution. In his 20s he began traveling to remote parts of Cuba to photograph the lives of poor peasants and workers. After the Revolution of 1959 against the Batista government he joined the Communist Party and was one of Fidel Castro's official photographers for many years.

He was around 75 and lived in a modest house with his wife. Our group was shown his photographs, copies of which were for sale. I bought one with my then girlfriend for $400. It captured dozens of armed peasants on horseback waving Cuban flags.

The next stop on the tour was the home of 103-year-old Gregorio Fuentes. He had been a fisherman and the first mate on the Pilar, Ernest Hemingway's boat. Hemingway had lived on and off in Cuba, initially at the hotel Ambos Mundos (where I always stayed in a room next to his) and then in a large house outside of Havana.

Hemingway wrote “The Old Man and the Sea” in 1951 and it was made into a movie starring Spencer Tracy in 1958. Hemingway had said he based the character "on no one in particular."

The first captain of the Pilar was Carlos Gutierrez. Hemingway once wrote his editor that Carlos was taking him out on his skiff so he could get this story about an old man fighting a marlin for four days in solitude that could maybe be a book. So if anyone could lay claim to being the person the book was based on it was him.

Nonetheless, Gregorio had been his captain and it seems he purposefully grew into the role of the Old Man, who was named Santiago. His grandson escorted us into the house and charged us $10 to shake the hand of Gregorio, who he assured us was the actual person on whom Hemingway had based The Old Man and the Sea.” Gregorio died in 2002 at the age of 104. He never read “The Old Man and The Sea.”

I returned to Cojimar in 2006 with two friends. I decided to visit Corrales again. But the purpose of our visit got obscured in the translation with a local. Instead of thinking we were there for a quick look at his work, Corrales thought I was doing an interview of him for the New York Times.

"So, start asking your questions," he demanded.

He was not in a good mood. I had been a news reporter so I decided it was better to fake it till we could make our escape.

"Tell us about your life after the Revolution ended," I offered.

Bad idea.

He rose to his feet.

"The Revolution will never end," he thundered, shaking visibly.

I apologized. The rest went well. He spoke of his first loves, his visit to Manhattan, his work, the day he met Fidel and was inspired by him and more. He also mentioned his frustration that the government was monitoring his emails and that they had no right to.

Interview concluded; we were shown his work. The photograph I had paid $400 for was now $600. The woman I was with wanted to buy one, but the visit was a spur of the moment idea and together we did not have enough cash to purchase one. Cuba did not take American credit cards. We told him we would be back tomorrow, not sure if we would.

As we got into our car outside he ran onto his lawn. "You are fools. You should buy my work now. It will be very valuable when I die."

A few hours later Cuban radio and television announced the death of Raul Corrales of a heart attack.

I took the year after my senior year at college off. The “On The Road” Jack Kerouac thing. See where the next day takes you, a 21-year-old male in search of adventure, romance, or at least sex, and something new every day. I wound up in Denver first.

I lived with a buddy and his wife. A guy I knew from childhood. I was the best man at their wedding.

I wound up getting a job for the minimum wage in nearby Broomfield, stuffing camping gear for a company called Frostline Kits. I was a long-haired hippie leftist with decadent tendencies when the Mormons who worked there surrounded me in the cafeteria and tried to convert me. I read the Book of Mormon and told them why I thought it was balderdash. They brought the top Elders in to convert me. I was smart and had read the book. I was a trophy to be captured. I was not merely uninterested. I found it nonsensical, an interesting moment when I morphed from uninitiated to infidel.

So I moved to Los Angeles and stayed with a friend’s brother, who I barely knew. When his girlfriend crept into my bed and grabbed my cock the second day I was there I knew it was time to leave. So I visited a college buddy in San Francisco. He kept “War and Peace” and a bottle of scotch in the window to impress the girl in the apartment across the street.

It grew tired. It was time to head East, to Miami. I found the Muellers Brothers who barely spoke English. I needed company on my ride to Miami and companions to share the expenses. I got their number off a community center bulletin board. We headed South to LA where I had left some luggage at my friend’s brother’s house. Their only request was that they could smoke a joint every 100 miles.

My friend’s brother had bad taste in people, and he had three guests -- two guys and a girl. The girl was zonked on some drug. The guys were wired on another. I knew the guys peripherally from a park back in Bayside, Queens, where we used to hang out. They were just mean toughs. I had not seen them in two years. I vaguely remembered they had to leave town to avoid the police. I strained to remember why.

Then it came to me. They had raped a girl. The taller one said my name but made no effort to shake my hand. They glared at me. The air felt heavy and electric -- think of Al Pacino in “Godfather” when he comes out of the bathroom to shoot Sollozzo and Sterling Hayden, the police captain.

The Muellers stood, awkwardly smiling. My friend’s brother stared at the ground. The girl, whacked on something, stared dumbly into space. I looked back at the guys and I knew they knew I knew. I viscerally felt they literally could kill the Muellers and me.

“When was the last time you got laid?” the taller guy, the one calling the shots, asked me.

“Awhile back.”

“Go pork her,” he said, pointing at the girl and inclining his head toward the bedroom. He stared back at me, waiting for me to make a wrong move.

"What's wrong, our bitch ain't good enough for you?"

"She’s beautiful, thanks, but we gotta go.”

I motioned for the Mueller brothers to follow, grabbed the bag I came for and headed through the door. I kept checking the rearview mirror for 10 miles.

Six months later these guys went back to the old Queens neighborhood. When they hit on a girl in a bar her boyfriend told them to back off. They followed the couple in their car, cut them off, raped the girl and murdered the guy by bashing his head in with a tire iron. They got life.

I got the Muellers brothers smoking a joint every hundred miles, counting down the last five miles every time, all the way to Florida.

I got a job as a dishwasher in a Lum's in Boca Raton. I lived with two strippers. One particularly hungover morning there was a too-early knock at the door. I opened it on two young guys in suits holding a book. They tried to pretend not to be looking around me at the two nude women sunbathing in my backyard as they launched into their pitch. They were Mormon missionaries. I explained I knew the pitch well and there was no point. One asked where.

"Broomfield, Colorado, Frostline Kits,” I responded.

"I'm from Broomfield and my brother works at Frostline. He's an Elder in our church. What is your name?”

"Peter Honerkamp.”

He looked at the other kid.

"Let's get out of here. He's hopeless."

So a few months passed and I drove back home to Queens just as the Son of Sam story was engulfing the city. By the time I got home in early June of 1977 the city was gripped with fear. There had been six attacks on couples parked in cars. All the women were young brunettes with long hair. Five were with men while one was a female friend. There were five fatalities and six wounded by a crazed gunman known as the .44 Caliber Killer or the Son of Sam.

I had been set up by friends on a blind date. She was a chick who rode a motorcycle and I was a long-haired hippie. I'm not sure why I thought my hometown of Douglaston was safe when some of the attacks were only 10 miles away. But we went out drinking, then I brought her to a secluded beach and we made love. I drove her back to her row house in Bayside, a few blocks from the Elephas disco. We were making out in front of her house when I saw a figure moving under a streetlight 25 yards or so back. He was there, then he was gone. I told the girl what I saw and she was out of the car and into her house in an instant.

A few nights later he shot 20-year-old Sal Lupo and 17-year-old Judy Placido in front of that discotheque. They both survived. I contacted the head of the investigation, a man named Dowd. I had gone to grammar school with his son. I gave him my description, which wasn't much. But when David Berkowitz was arrested I knew it had been him.

According to the cops who interviewed him after his arrest he was heading out to the Hamptons to shoot up a nightclub and go out in a blaze of glory. But it rained so he drove out to Brooklyn and killed his first blonde, Stacy Moskowitz, and blinded a boy, Robert Violente, and was caught. A man claiming to be his lawyer told people at my bar years back he was heading to The Stephen Talkhouse. That happens to be my bar.

I run a bar called the Stephen Talkhouse. Back in the late 1970s, before I owned it, I happened to walk into it. It was just an old house built in 1832. Rustic is putting it politely. From the instant I went inside I thought it was the coolest bar in the world. Everything about the staff, the customers and the place was laid back and unpretentious. Everyone was treated the same. I felt safe there.

In July 1987 it was closed and up for sale. I had just finished spending seven years writing a pretty bad novel. I needed another quest. A friend asked me was there anything else I had ever dreamt of doing. I told him I always wanted to own a bar. "Buy the Talkhouse." And with the help of several partners I did.

We kept the vibe the same and hired as many of the old-time staff as we could. But I made two changes -- I added live music and a bar on the back patio. Now, 29 years later, this dive bar is undeniably the smallest bar on the planet hosting the talent we offer. Over 50 members of the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame have played there. Mega-stars like Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Jimmy Buffett, Roger Waters, Chad Smith, Sting, and Bon Jovi have played for charity or fun.

Everyone in the Hamptons knows the Talkhouse, but it has an international reputation too. The place is a sanctuary that manufactures memories. The Hamptons in the summer is inundated with people who were born on third base and think they hit a triple. But not at my joint. There is a sign over the front bar that reads "Customers come and go. Here at the Talkhouse the employee is always right." Seven of us have worked here for 29 years and there are over 20 of us here for over 10 years. Hundreds of people have worked here in that time. People move on, but no one ever quit on me.

Along with the attitude and the music it is the staff that defines this place. Their reassuring presence slows down time. They are friends to the regulars. And the Talkhouse affords them a unique stage to display their personalities. They do not have a boss telling them how to do their job. They know whatever call they make we all back them. They are the bosses of their reality. They can drink on the job, buy anyone a buy-back, and they are trusted. You make people trustworthy by trusting them.

Alas, we cannot, however, stop time. I am right now sitting midway down the front bar. It was right here, 37 years ago, that I sat gazing at the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I could not help staring at her. I thought she looked straight through me, like I was part of the furniture. Over the next few hours I watched a dozen guys hit on her. I did not even consider assailing that fortress.

When I left she followed me outside and took my arm. She laughed a beautiful laugh. "I want you to take me home." I was stunned. When we got in my car she added, "But I am not going to have sex with you tonight." We both stripped and got into bed. She let me hold her. I did not push. In the morning I watched her in the outdoor shower. She dried herself off and came into the bedroom. "You were a gentleman so I'll make love to you now." Her name was Mia and I can still hear her laugh.

I got to know the bartenders quick enough, as well as the regulars. Looking to my right now I see where a customer with a stutter named Fudge complained to the bartender, Kevin Finnigan, that his drink didn't taste right. Kevin whipped out his dick and stirred the drink with it. When he handed it to Fudge he drank it, then added "Tasted perfect."

In front of me there used to be a trap door and the deal was that every time a bartender went downstairs to do a line he'd return with a bottle so any undercover cops wouldn't notice anything was amiss. Over the course of three hours I saw Michael Farrell go downstairs nine times. Finnigan pulled him aside in front of me. "Bring up a different bottle next time,” he advised, pointing to the nine bottles of Kahlua.

I was around when the former owner, whacked on coke, came in on a packed Saturday night in August and threw everyone out at 10:30 because he had his watch on upside down and thought the joint was open too late.

In those early days I was young, awkward, and vulnerable. I was smart, funny, and I could drink, but without a secure path to access your audience you are a blind sniper. But when I got to be the manager in 1987 my platform was instantaneously secured. I brought Finnigan and Farrell back as well as the doorman, soon-to-be bartender, Larry Wagner. I hired Michael Gochenour, interviewing him from across the bar. He was standing in Mia's spot. When I tried to explain his shifts he kept telling me everything was fine. He looked really nervous and when I walked over to see if he was alright I saw he was getting a blow job from his girlfriend.

Now it was the regulars’ turn to get to know me, and the music added more cache to the place. I had two great artists as friends, Dan Christensen and Billy Hofmann, and it made me feel secure to know two heavy drinkers 15 years my senior were still drinking steady.

Finnigan moved to Spain, Farrell retired, Gochenour died, and Larry is one of the few, like me, there from the first day I bought it. Now they share the space with their younger incarnations or, in Larry's case, his younger self, lighter and with better hearing. The party follows the same script, but with a slowly changing cast of characters.

I turn now to look at Loudon Wainwright III perform, thinking back to February 2nd, 1988, when he sang here for the first time while Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley watched him. I see Rick Danko playing acoustic guitar when the power went out as the audience sang along to “The Weight.”

I see a younger version of me up there, looking thinner, less worn out, and with a lot more hair. I am standing next to Toy Caldwell and we're singing “Can't You See” on my birthday. I see Nicolette Larson, Laura Nyro, Luther Allison, Albert Collins, Richie Havens and so many more who have passed and the crowds they entertained;Dan Christensen laughing, Billy Hofmann sketching them, only they are gone as well, other artists playing over them, readying themselves to be replaced, along with me, by the next generation of actors, to fill that stage, sit on that empty stool. Yet so many performers, employees, and customers are still here, united in some subliminal quest to slow the intractable passage of time.

And why not? It's as good as one can give. So I stand at the urinal, looking into the mirror over the sink as I have in this saloon for 40 years. I walk around and see my son and daughter cavorting with their friends where so many have done the same. It is hard to know when to hand off the baton when you do not want to let it go, when you want the movie to rewind endlessly back to the beginning then play forward to now, your sense of self oblivious to the repetition.

I can see myself opening the door again in 1994 to the building inspectors to find Larry in a dress and his girlfriend in his clothes. Or Phil, another bartender from 1987, up there on the stage dressed as Cher trying to read the lyrics for “I Got You Babe,” to my Sonny as the sweat obliterated the lyrics I had written on his arm.

I know I will be the next ghost in this play, in this temple, in this sanctuary where people can be happy and safe while they can. I am here watching the next generation as they watch the generation to follow. There are concentrated places of evil in this world like Auschwitz and the Roman Coliseum but the Talkhouse is hallowed ground.

I have the best job in the world. I get to make people happy for a living. I hope I die here so my spirit does not have to drift so far to get back here. So now I look back at Mia where she still stands. As beautiful as she was I think of her laugh.

I loved it. It never changed

I was at a cocktail party in the Hamptons in 1984 or thereabouts. I was one of the youngest there. My hosts were in their seventies. In the corner I spotted a woman in her mid-eighties. She looked lost. I approached and asked if she needed anything.

"A stiff drink and a light." She held up her cigarette. Thus began my four-year friendship with Hannah Tillich, the wife of Paul Tillich, one of the most influential theologians of the 20th century.

I was struggling with my book. She advised,"Make it scandalous. It will be published and it will sell."

Hannah and her husband had lived in Germany in the wild sexually adventurous 1920s and 1930s. He was famous for his writings but also for standing up to the Nazis when he was a professor in Frankfurt, speaking out after a group of brownshirts had beat up some leftist students. For that action he became one of the first non- Jewish professors to be dismissed from his position. Hannah and Paul eventually relocated to the United States as things deteriorated in Germany. He taught at Harvard and the University of Chicago and was widely mourned when he died in 1965.

But there was another side to their life and Hannah wrote about it in "From Time to Time," her memoir that was published shortly after his death. In it she recounted many of her husband's numerous sexual liaisons and the pain they caused her. She also matter-of-factly discussed her own affairs, with both men and women. The book caused many of her friends and relatives to ostracize her. As they aged the couple had grown closer and closer and I know she was surprised and disturbed at the adverse reaction.

She started to invite me to her house for dinners with a half dozen guests, the septuagenarian-plus elite of the Hamptons. I navigated smoothly the first few dinners, drinking champagne with dinner. served by a maid in a uniform merely 40 years older than me, who was summoned by a small bell. Then I slipped. I brought a six pack with me and asked Hannah if I could pour myself one as I preferred beer to champagne. She slammed her 88-year-old fist into the table. "A guest should be pleased with what the host has to offer."

I was mortified. Thirty minutes later she put her fist down again and announced to her guests. " I am rude and a fool. If a guest prefers a different drink have the grace to allow him to consume it. " She told her guests to wait till I went to my car and got my beer. Which I did.

Her guests that night included Isabel Johnson and her husband Alger Hiss. Hiss was a famous and notorious American who spent nearly four years in prison for lying about being a spy.

Hiss had been a top State Department official involved in the establishment of the United Nations. He was arrested for being a Communist Party spy after being accused by former Communist Party member Whittaker Chambers.

In 1950 he was convicted of perjury, the statute of limitations having expired on the treason charge. Along with the conviction and execution of the Rosenbergs, his prosecution was the most sensational treason trial of the decade.
Herbert Hoover helped launch the political career of Congressman Richard Nixon by providing him documents as Nixon pursued the charges against Hiss.

He maintained his innocence till his death. There is no definitive proof of either his innocence or guilt. I became friendly with both Alger and Isabel. We met at Hannah's frequently. Alger was going blind and he asked me to read to him.

As a young page in the United States Supreme Court in the 1920s he had read to Associate Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes. Holmes had served in the Union Army in the Civil War. And so there I was reading to one of the most controversial persons in American history who had shook the hand of one of the most famous jurists in our history, who had fought in a war over 120 years ago. I read mostly from obscure novels from the past and I guessed they were favorites from his youth. Isabel always had a can of beer for me as I sat in their living room at 74 Cooper Lane in East Hampton.

We never discussed his case though he gave me a book, “Remembrance of a Life,” that he dedicated to my young son, Max. He maintained his innocence and made no secret of his disgust with Hoover, Chambers, and Nixon. He was a gentle and sweet soul. I gaze at that house whenever I visit the grave of my friend across the street. I choose to believe he was innocent. If I am ever proved wrong I choose to forgive him.

I first met Harvey Naranjo in 2004. He was an occupational therapy assistant and adaptive sports specialist at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C. I was there to meet with American soldiers who were traumatically injured serving our country. I was trying to help an organization called the Wounded Warrior Project. But that is another story.

Harvey Naranjo is the person I most admire in my life.

From the moment the wounded started coming back to the States it was, and still is, Harvey Naranjo who meets them. He literally nurses them back to health, walking alongside their physical recovery and being there 24/7 for their psychological recovery. He absorbs their pain and the pain their pain inflicts on their loved ones.

He never stops. He never breaks down. Except once. A few friends did a film about two cross-country rides we did to help launch the Wounded Warrior Project. When they interviewed Harvey he later confided he broke down when he contemplated the burden he carried and the agony he witnessed.

A few years back he gave a kidney to his sister. As I write this I am on my 11th bicycling trip with Harvey and wounded soldiers from Walter Reed in Key West, Florida. I am literally looking at Harvey walking with a young man, maybe 22, who is missing both arms. When I patted the guy on his shoulders earlier today I realized he had no shoulder either.

Harvey does this every day of his life. Mother Teresa has nothing on him.

Clifford Irving is a celebrated American investigative reporter and novelist. He is best known for publishing a fictional autobiography of Howard Hughes. Irving and a friend concocted the idea on Majorca. They figured the reclusive Hughes would never draw attention to himself by denouncing the book or filing a lawsuit. They meticulously researched everything about Hughes.

Clifford got some friends on the island of Ibiza to imitate Hughes's handwriting from samples that had appeared in Newsweek so he could produce letters from Hughes. He invented exotic locations where he had supposedly interviewed Hughes. He signed a contract with McGraw Hill for $765,000 and had his wife open a Swiss bank account in the name of Helga Hughes. Look Magazine was on board to print excerpts. Clifford got his advance, then had his wife deposit the check for Hughes in her H. Hughes account. Doubts arose, but Clifford passed a lie detector test and handwriting experts confirmed it was Hughes's handwriting.

Then it all went south. Hughes denied everything. The Swiss bank caved on who H. Hughes was. The Irvings pleaded guilty in 1972. He served 17 months in prison. McGraw Hill got the $765,000 advance back from him.

Fast forward. A friend of mine, the photographer Georgeanne Roberts, knew Clifford from Ibiza. I went to Ibiza at Georgie's suggestion in the 80s and got to know folks that knew some of the players in that escapade.

Then in 1987 she introduced me to Clifford and his then wife, Maureen Earl. They came to my wedding in June of that year. I had just finished my novel; it sucked.

It was about growing up in my hometown. My working title was "Self Sabotage." That at least was apt.
I had dreaded going back to where I grew up because I knew my friends were rooting for me, and looking forward to whatever cameo appearance they might garner. I went into the neighborhood bar and everyone asked how it was going.

"It's finished."

"Great."

"No one will publish it."

"Why?" they asked.

"It's not very good. I wouldn't publish it."

There was a brief pause, then someone asked, "What time are the Yankees on tonight?"

That helped.

If I had died everyone would still have to figure out what to eat for dinner.

So I became friendly with Clifford and Maureen. One night Clifford and I had a few and for reasons that now elude me we were sitting in his car across from the Talkhouse. I think because we had come from a bar called Bonaparte's, which was then on the site of the current Meeting House.

He knew I was depressed. I hated my job, which I only justified to myself because it was flexible and gave me time to write.

"Was there anything else you ever wanted to do?" he asked.

I thought of teaching, but I was 33 and I had lost my desire to go back to Columbia and get my PhD, a quest I had abandoned 10 years before. Nor did acting interest me any longer. If someone would pay me to drink and talk about myself I would work for free. Nothing beckoned me.

Then something.

"I always thought about owning a bar -- my buddy Chris Stynes and I always fantasized about it."

The Talkhouse was closed then. Partners were fighting. It was my favorite bar. I wasn't alone.

He pointed at the Talkhouse.

"Buy that bar."

It took me 72 hours to raise the money.

But I did.

Thanks Clifford.

So the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, maybe 1992, started simply enough. We often do not see the tsunami till it engulfs us. The first clue was the dead fish.

Those days I was at the bar till 3 a.m. and in again at 9 a.m. Oh, glorious youth. I loved Sundays. It meant Saturday night was over, no fights, no disasters, no staff internecine imbroglios, just another day to pay the bills, to be, as Anthony Quinn so eloquently put it in Lawrence of Arabia, “A river to my people.”

I counted the money, ate a bagel and longed for the softball field at 1.

But the fish were dead.

I had a fish tank at the bar in those days. There were lots of exotic fish that sometimes consumed each other. Just like life, or marriage. As I loaded up my bucket of beer for the Sunday game that was my psychological release, the four hours where the males of that time, aged 25 to 75, were safe between the lines, I saw that all the fish were dead.

A loaf of bread floated alongside the carcasses of my fish. WHY?

Why dead? Why bread?

Dead was simple enough. There was no air. A bartender had knocked out the plug for the air filter by accident. They suffocated.

Why the bread?

The new porter had come in, seen the dying fish and concluded they were sucking at the surface because they were hungry, not suffocating. So he went to the deli and got a loaf of bread to feed them.

Oh well.

I scooped the dead fish out and played softball.

I came back around 5 and a woman jumped up at me by my fish graveyard. Her boyfriend worked at the bar and she was convinced he was cheating on her. She demanded I tell her who he was with. A long day got worse.

I explained there were no women at the ballfield.

She decided to steal his car. So she drove to his house, then drove his car five miles to town. Then she walked back and got her car. She was endeavoring to drive both cars 40 miles to her house when he caught up to her 10 miles away that evening.

As she left on this questionable mission the phone rang. It was Ron Delsener, a major concert promoter who booked all the concerts at Jones Beach. He told me that after the Van Morrison show that evening he was going to bring Van Morrison and Billy Joel to play some songs at the Talkhouse.
“That ok?” he asked.
“Sure.”

I told a few people -- a few people too many. By 11 p.m. we were already packed. It was the final night of the summer. Van Morrison arrived. He was in a sour mood. He didn’t want to be there, let alone perform. Billy Joel and a British artist by the name of Georgie Fame were trying to persuade him to sing.

Delsener pulled me aside.

“Get some chicks up here. Chicks cheer him up.”
I pretended I didn’t hear him.
The band that was performing was called Steppin Out. The drummer told the crowd Van Morrison was going to play. The place went nuts. Van Morrison was now mad as he had not agreed to perform. He was mainly mad at Delsener, but I didn’t detect the trace of a smile when he looked at me.

I went downstairs. People were trying to sneak in. There were door guys everywhere. I saw a woman on the roof of an adjoining building. She climbed down onto our fence and caught her dress on it. She was stuck six feet off the ground with her dress yanked over her head. I got on a bouncer’s shoulders and tried to lift her up so we could disentangle her dress. There were dozens of people staring at this ridiculous spectacle. She screamed, “Don’t look at my panties.” Like I had a choice.

Meanwhile back inside a woman kept bothering Larry the bartender (who was swamped making drinks) about what happened to the fish. He didn’t know she was an animal rights fanatic. Finally, Larry told her I killed them once a week as I liked to torture fish.

She believed him.

Van Morrison and Billy and Georgie walked on stage and sang a song I can’t remember. The animal rights activist located me and stormed down the alley. “Are you the manager?,” she demanded. It’s never a good question. I nodded. As I tottered around lifting the women who didn’t want me to look at her panties the fanatic slapped me. She screamed, “Fish Murderer.”
And the day had started out so swimmingly.

Ext. Stephen Talkhouse Bar Amagansett, NY Night 1999 June

We see a quaint historic house that looks like it could use some renovations. There is a sign with the words "Stephen Talkhouse." The outside lights are on. There is a doorman. There is a muffled hum.

cut to:

int. Talkhouse office

MICHAEL ROBERTS (42) and a pretty young woman are having sex. Michael is classically handsome. There is a dull hum of music and voices.

WOMAN

(screaming)

Oh my God, don't stop!!

There is a knock on the door.

Michael

Use another room! Don't...

The door BURSTS OPEN WITH A BANG. TOM "WALLY" O'NEIL (38) comes through smoking a cigarette. He is a bigger man, still attached to his glory days. He looks at the couple.

Michael

The fuck, Wally!?

Wally

I didn't say stop.

Wally reaches towards the drop ceiling. He lifts up a tile. While searching...

Wally

(to himself)

Come to Papa.

He smiles, he's found it. There is a small bag of cocaine. He kisses it. He looks back at the couple.

Wally

Hey Michael, you know I'm not gonna say anything to...

MICHAEL

Just get the fuck outta here.

Wally turns.

MICHAEL

Wait, what's the score?

Wally

We're down by two, late in the fourth.

(pause, to girl)

Hey Ally, nice tits.

Woman

You're an asshole.

Wally laughs and leaves the room. Michael shrugs and then they go back at it.

int. Hallway

Wally flicks his cigarette in a garbage can. He keeps walking. The can begins to smoke.

INT. Talkhouse Main room

We look into this Old West saloon; it's packed with life. The air is so hot and sticky we can see the haze. There is a strong smell of booze and sweat. A band is on stage.

We move to a group of middle-aged men. They sit and stand at the bar. Photographs of famous musicians line the walls. The men are watching a basketball game.

OTIS RODRIGUEZ (33), Puerto Rican Homer Simpson in real life, is chugging a beer. Wally comes into view smiling. ALEX ROBERTS (7) sits wide-eyed with a Yoo-Hoo in front of him. MATT ROBERTS (12) and LEE CLEARY (12) sit next to him.

Sportscaster

The Knicks and Pacers are locked in a close one here at the Garden. We are in the closing minutes of what is a pivotal game three of the Eastern Conference Finals....

Guy

What's the difference between your job and your wife?

(pauses)

After five years, your job still sucks.

The crowd laughs.

Otis

So you wanna know the difference between...

Wally

Hey! The game's back on.

The crowd turns their attention to the TV. We move in on Alex.

Narrator (V.O.)

It was the Larry Johnson four-point play that helped the Knicks make it to the finals. I was at my dad's bar watching with the guys. This was my living room. I will always remember this night for a few reasons, the first being as a Knicks fan born in the 90s, you only have a few great memories. This was one of them.

Alex drinks from his Yoo-Hoo.

Narrator (V.O)

The other reason is that this was the night I started to lose that innocence you have as a child. Life starts to hit you and you realize the world's not the safe place you thought it was. It wasn't necessarily from this night alone, but everything that happened after.

(pause)

Anyway, you're probably asking yourself, what the fuck is a kid doing here? Don't worry, I turned out okay. I gotta give my parents credit; they were always honest with me. Well, most of the time.

Matt

Does anyone know where my dad is?

Wally

He'll be down in a minute. Come on little man, get your head in the game, we need to win this one.

Wally smiles. We move back to Alex. A patron next to Alex stands up and walks out of the shot.

Our Narrator is ALEX ROBERTS (23), he sits down next to his younger self. He is an attractive young man with a beard. The crowd is UNAWARE of his presence.

Alex reaches over the bar, grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels and pours himself a shot.

ALEX (older) (to camera)

It looks crazy, but I loved it.

(looks around)

You know how people grow up with that guy in their life they call uncle, even though they aren't actually related.

(pause)

I have a whole goddamn family of those people.

Older Alex looks at the TV along with everyone else. On the TV, Larry Johnson makes a three point shot and is fouled. The crowd at the game erupts. The bar crowd does the same.

Otis

(yelling)

LJ! Eat it Reggie! Ya bum!

Wally turns away from the crowd to do a small bump of cocaine. Otis tackles him, which launches cocaine powder into the air.

Alex (older)

(referencing Wally and Otis)

They are all beautiful.

Recognizes the absurdity of the situation and adds-

ALEX (older)

In their own way.

The older Alex does the shot of Jack Daniels and chases it with the Yoo-Hoo.

Lee pats young Alex on the shoulder and grabs someone's drink off the bar and downs it.

ALEX (older)

That's Lee, he grew up with us. He was dealt a rough hand, but he found us. Or maybe we found him.

Matt walks by and musses up young Alex's hair.

Alex (older)

That's my brother Matt.

The FIRE ALARM GOES OFF, the band stops. Michael and Ally run across the stage, confused and still naked. THE CROWD BEGINS TO PANIC AND MOVES TO THE VARIOUS EXITS.

Back to Alex and company. One person is in a panic and runs to a door, and in the process KNOCKS YOUNG ALEX OFF his bar stool. Matt is there to grab him before he falls. He holds him as he moves to the door.

Older Alex looks at Matt.

Alex (older)

He was my hero.

Matt looks at older Alex.

Matt

Hey chief, you with me?

Fade to white:

INT. Manhattan office building Morning May present day

Alex is clean-shaven with combed hair. He wears a suit. His tie is poorly tied and his shirt is somewhat wrinkled. He sits at a desk across from a man in a suit. In the background is a billboard for the New York Knicks.

Man

Hello? You with me?

ALEX

Yes uh, sorry sir. Is that all?

Man

Yeah, that's pretty much it. Your resume looks good, and you seem eager to work. You should hear from us early next week. Now although this internship is unpaid, most applicants are hired after the summer.

ALEX

That sounds great, I'm your guy.

The man looks at Alex questioningly.

Man

Right, anyway, I've got more interviews, so you'll hear from us soon.

The man motions for the door. Alex looks flustered.

ALEX

Thank you.

Alex shakes his hand and walks out of the room carrying a messenger bag.

int. Hallway

ALEX

(to himself)

I'm your guy?

Alex shakes his head. He walks past a group of young people waiting nervously with resumes in hand. He makes his way to the elevator. He hits the down button.

cut to:

Ext. Talkhouse Front day

A quick shot of the bar. A black car pulls up front.

ext. Talkhouse parking lot rear of building

Michael, now in his late fifties, gets out of a beat-up sedan. He is still attractive, but looks worn out. He juggles a coffee, phone, and papers.

Int. Michael's office

Cramped and disorganized. It's decorated with pictures of people, his friends and family.

On the wall is the quote from "It's a Wonderful Life" which reads, "No man is a failure who has friends." Michael walks in, sits down at his desk, and sips his coffee. There is a light blinking on the answering machine. He hits play.

VOICE

Hey Michael, it's Debra from Chase, just wanted to remind you....

Michael turns off the message.

Michael

Shit.

Footsteps are heard. SEAN FINNEGAN (36) walks in smiling.

Sean

I thought I heard someone walk in. What're you doing here? Didn't you have an appointment this morning?

MICHAEL

I did, but I had to reschedule. I just have too much going on today.

Sean

I hear ya, I've been playing catch up all week. And did you see the traffic today? It's insane.

MICHAEL

Yeah insane. This time of year though, I'm more than happy for it. It means money.

Sean

Good point. Well, I'll be downstairs. I'm still waiting on some deliveries, but let me know if you need anything.

MICHAEL

Actually, do you mind calling Chase for me? It's nothing major.

Sean

Yeah no problem.

Sean leaves. Michael looks at a picture of Alex on the shoulders of both Lee and Matt. He shakes himself out of it. He picks up the phone and dials.

cut to:

int. Lee's house Living room

Lee, all grown up, is passed out in his underwear on a couch. He's sociable, everyone's friend. The room is messy, a surfer/stoner's oasis. We can see a tattoo on his arm of a surfboard with the name "Matt" on it. There are two dates under it in a banner.

Travis (34) turns on a blender. He has southern charm and an alpha male presence. Lee wakes, confused and aggravated.

Lee

Travis, what the fuck?

Travis turns towards Lee and waves. He stops the blender.

Travis

What?

LEE

What the fuck, you didn't see me sleeping here or what? Now that I think of it what the fuck are you even doing here, dude?

Travis

What do you mean? Don't you remember last night? You said I could crash here with that Irish chick.

Lee thinks this over for a second.

Lee

What? Well I guess I was pretty lit up last night. But why didn't you just take her back to your shit hole?

Travis

Because it's a shit hole.

Lee nods. A phone rings. Lee looks around for it. He investigates the table. He picks up a bag of Cheetos and realizes that it is oddly heavy. He looks in the bag and finds his phone. He shakes his head and answers.

Lee

Hey, what's up?

Lee waits for a response and eats a Cheeto. At the same time a young sexy girl walks out of a room wearing a skimpy dress. She approaches Travis and gives him a kiss on the lips. Lee stares at them.

Lee (Cont'd)

Yeah, I'm here. No it's fine, I mean I was just gonna go surfing and I haven't gone in a while, but I can do it another time no problem. I'll be there soon.

(pauses)

Bye.

Lee hangs up the phone. He gets up.

Travis

So you down to check out Montauk? Dave just hit me up, the waves are head high bro.

LEE

Really?! Fuck! I wish, but I gotta go help them set up for Alex's party.

Travis

Don't get me wrong, I like Alex, but it's head high bro. You gotta come.

LEE

I already told Michael I would help. That means I'm doing it.

(to girl)

So you are?

Girl

Shannon.

LEE

Shannon, it's nice meeting you or seeing you again or whatever. And I hope you guys enjoyed my bed and all, but I gotta get ready.

Lee stops and stares at them. They go back to kissing.

Lee

Listen I'm really not trying to be a dick, but it might be time to start thinking about getting out of here. Just a thought.

Lee turns. Travis shrugs and starts the blender again. Lee flips him off and goes into his room.

cut to:

ext. Manhattan sidewalk Bus Stop

Alex waits in line for the bus. He makes eye contact with PRESTON WESTCOTT (29). He's the perfect bad guy sidekick in a cheesy '80s movie. He is with AUSTIN (29) who looks like he should be in GQ. Alex quickly turns and looks away.

Preston

Alex?

ALEX

(to himself)

Shit.

Alex turns towards Preston and forces a smile.

Preston

Long time no see little buddy. Look at you all suited up. What are you coming from, court?

Preston gives Alex a friendly nudge.

ALEX

Nah man, I just had an interview.

Preston

Cool, very cool. Oh, by the way, this is Austin.

Alex and Austin shake hands. A bus pulls up to the curb. It reads, "Hampton Jitney."

Preston

So you gonna be at Talkhouse tonight?

ALEX

Yeah, uh, I think so, but I'm having...

Preston

Bro you have to hook it up.

ALEX

Yeah, um, sure. I can get you in.

Preston

And the rest of the dream team, right?

ALEX

Uh..

Preston

Ahh, c'mon you got us.

Alex

Um, sure I guess.

Preston points at Alex. He puts on an obnoxious smile.

Preston

You da man.

Alex nods his head and forces a smile. Alex's cell phone rings. He answers it.

Alex

Hey Chris, hold on.

Alex turns towards Preston and Austin.

ALEX

I'll see you guys toni....

They have already walked on the bus. Alex shakes his head.

ALEX

Hey Chris what's up?

Alex walks on the bus.

cut to:

int. Christina's car

CHRISTINA LAWLER (24) is driving with one hand and her phone on speaker in the other. Christina is naturally beautiful, but has an edge to her.

Christina

Hey, um, so what bus are you taking again?

Alex

I'm getting on now. Should be there around two thirty. Can you still pick me up?

Christina

Uh, I can't. I got a um, doctor's appointment at uh two. I completely spaced, I'm sorry. Is there any way you can find someone else to get you?

Alex

I thought you already got treated for your Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Christina laughs.

Christina

You know what, go fuck yourself. No, these allergies have been killing me. Everyone's been saying that it's the worst it's ever been. But, I'll catch you later; Lee and I are picking you up for dinner.

ALEX

Sounds good, later.

Christina

Bye.

She hangs up, smiles, and keeps driving. On her dashboard, there is a picture of her, Matt, Alex, and Lee at the beach.

cut to:

Int. Talkhouse Main Room Shortly After

Otis and Wally, fifteen years older and fifteen pounds heavier, are putting up a sign that reads "Congratulations Alex" over the back wall of the stage. Otis looks at the sign suspiciously.

Otis

You're sure it's a "t" not "d"?

Wally

I hope you're joking.

Christina walks through the back door holding a cake. She moves towards the front of the stage.

Christina

Hey guys, what's up?

Wally

I'm trying to teach Otis here how to spell.

Otis pushes Wally. There are footsteps. Michael emerges from the stairs. He looks at everyone as he walks to the door.

MICHAEL

So you guys got everything covered?

Christina

Yeah, I think so.

Christina looks around.

Christina

(to herself)

Shit. I forgot the balloons. I'll go get 'em now.

Michael

Okay just get it done, put it on our account. I'll be upstairs if anyone needs me.

Michael leaves the room. Lee walks in through the back door smoking a joint.

Christina

(without looking)

Hi Lee.

Lee

How'd you know it was me?

Christina

I could smell you from a mile away.

Lee

Well that's good. I pay enough for this stuff. How's it going?

Christina

We're getting there, but I just realized I forgot the balloons, so I gotta run out. What are you doing?

Lee

I figured it would be chaos with these two in charge, so I'm here to supervise.

Otis

Shut up white boy.

Lee salutes Otis.

Lee

(to Christina)

So Alex has no idea this is happening?

Christina

I talked to him before and he has no clue. He thinks we're just going to dinner. I think we pulled it off.

Lee

Awesome.

Christina

All right, see ya soon.

Christina walks out of the room. Lee approaches Otis and Wally. The sign is completely crooked.

Lee

Are you guys drunk?

They both smile. Lee tosses his joint in a nearby garbage can. Wally panics. He stumbles across the stage, dumps the garbage upside down, looks for the joint, and steps on it.

Wally

What's a matter with you? Don't fucking do that. Okay?

Lee is confused, but soon realizes his error. He smacks his head.

fade to white:

ext. Talkhouse Front Twilight Alex's dream

Alex looks up at the building. He is about to go into the bar. He hears a familiar voice coming from behind.

Matt

Alex, don't go in yet, they're not ready.

Alex turns to Matt in a truck.

Alex

(confused)

What are you doing here?

Matt

Let's go for a drive, I'll tell you all about it.

Alex looks at the car cautiously. Matt reaches over and opens the passenger door.

Matt

Get in little bro.

Alex moves towards the truck.

int. Matt's Truck

Matt looks at Alex inquisitively.

Matt

Messenger bag, really?

ALEX

What? It's uh....

MATT

Relax, I'm just busting your chops. So, how's school going? You slaying girls left and right?

ALEX

(awkwardly)

Yeah, um, for sure.

Matt

Cool. So now it's your time to start running the biz, huh?

Alex

I don't think so; I'm moving to the city.

Matt

You know, dad's gonna need some help.

Alex

Yeah, and why is that my responsibility? Besides Sean's still here. I gotta do this.

Matt

You got to or want to, that's what matters. You're a smart kid, you'll figure it out. Just keep your eyes on the road.

ALEX

What?

There is a big curve in the road ahead. Alex looks at Matt who is asleep at the wheel. ALEX LUNGES FOR THE WHEEL.

ALEX

Matt!!!

fade to white:

int. Bus (Reality) Early Afternoon

Alex wakes up startled. He looks around, then leans his head back into the seat. The bus stops.

Driver

Southampton.

People get off the bus. Austin and Preston walk by.

Preston

Staying in South tonight. But we'll still be gooning it up at Talkhouse later.

ALEX

Sounds good.

They walk by. Alex rolls his eyes. COURTNEY VAN PATTEN (22) sits across from Alex. She is beautiful and upper class.

COURTNEY

Did that guy just say "gooning it up?"

Alex turns flustered.

Alex

Uh yeah, I'm glad someone else heard that.

Courtney

Yeah, that was pretty bad. Please don't tell me he's your friend.

ALEX

I wouldn't say we're friends. I became friendly with him by accident a few years ago when I was bartending. He's a decent tipper, but he'll let you know it.

Courtney

Sounds about right. I'm Courtney.

ALEX

Alex.

Courtney

So I couldn't help but overhear him say something about The Talkhouse.

ALEX

Yeah, you know it?

Courtney

Who doesn't? That place is so fun. You go there too?

ALEX

It's actually my family's place, so I kinda work there.

Courtney

Oh my god, shut up! That's amazing!

ALEX

Yeah it is an interesting place.

Courtney

I bet. Are you working tonight?

ALEX

No, definitely not tonight, but I'll most likely be there.

Courtney

Cool. I have to help my parents get the house together for the season, but if I make it out maybe I'll see you later.

ALEX

Okay cool, sounds good.

Courtney smiles. Alex smiles. We hear a ring. Alex looks at his phone.

ON THE SCREEN

(Alex's text) Hey mom can you pick me up from the bus?

(from mother) Honey I'm at work, ask your father.

Alex sighs. He thinks.

ALEX

So if you do end up stopping by tonight, I'd like to buy you a...

He turns towards Courtney. She's gone. Alex looks around confused. He hits his head against the back of his seat.

cut to:

int. Michael's office

Michael stands. A young woman sits at his desk.

MICHAEL

Sorry, don't mind me, I'm a little all over the place today. So listen this is my idea, I'm gonna give you this shirt to wear.

(to himself)

Where'd I put that, oh here it is.

Michael holds up a maroon shirt with "Fordham" on it.

MICHAEL Cont'd.

So you just go up to the bar, next to my son, order a drink and just start talking. Shit, I just realized we need to figure out why you're here?

(pause)

Um how about this, we say you are Dane Dixon's niece. He's our tax accountant, and you're just visiting for the weekend.

woman

Okay, this is gonna be fun, it's kinda like acting.

Michael's phone vibrates.

ON THE SCREEN

(from Alex) Can you pick me up from the bus at two thirty?

Michael thinks.

MICHAEL

Hold on one second.

Michael picks up his phone and starts to dial. Footsteps are heard. Michael scrunches his face and covers his nose. The woman does the same.

MICHAEL

What's that smell?

Otis walks into the room. His hands are dirty.

Otis

We're one more flush away from the elevator scene in the Shining except with...

MICHAEL

(gagging)

Okay I get it.

Michael puts down his phone and runs out of the room. He walks back.

MICHAEL

Sorry I gotta handle this.

WOMAN

When do I get paid?

MICHAEL

I can do it now, how much?

woman

$300.

MICHAEL

$300? I thought it was $200.

(pauses)

That's fine.

Michael takes out his wallet and finds three hundreds.

MICHAEL

Here you go, we'll talk later.

EXT. Amagansett Bus Stop Twenty minutes later

Alex gets off the bus and looks around. He looks at his phone and shakes his head. He hails a local taxi.

ext. Alex's Mothers house driveway

A decent cottage. The cab pulls in.

Alex

Thanks for the lift.

Alex hands over money. He gets out of the car, and walks towards the house. The car pulls away. An expensive convertible pulls in the driveway. SOPHIE ROBERTS (19) runs out of the house.

ALEX

Hey Soph, where you running off to?

Sophie

Hey Alex. Going to a friend's house.

She walks by. Alex grabs her and gives her a hug. She gives him a quick one and tries to escape. After a moment she obliges and gives him a big hug. The car honks. Alex turns.

ALEX

Really?

SOPHIE

Okay, okay. I gotta go, I'll see you later.

Sophie runs to the car. Alex shakes his head and walks towards the house.

int. Alex's room

Alex enters. He puts down his bag. He starts to unbutton his shirt. He looks out a window at a bike.

ext. Amagansett street fifteen minutes later

Alex, in casual clothes, is riding the bike. It's quiet.

Ext. Beach parking lot

He stops at the edge of the parking lot. There is a food truck and a bunch of parked cars. Alex approaches the counter. CARL GUST (70) smiles behind the counter.

Carl

Hey kiddo, good to see ya.

They shake hands.

ALEX

Good to see you too, can I get a large coffee?

Carl

Sure thing.

Carl looks at a couple of girls in bathing suits walk by. Alex turns and sees what he is looking at. Alex turns back and nods in agreement.

Carl

It's that time of year again. You know I was actually going to go on a date the other night.

ALEX

Oh yeah?

Carl

She told me she'd like to go out with me to dinner but no sex. So I said I'll take you to a nice restaurant but no food.

Alex laughs.

Carl

How's the family?

Alex

Uh, the girls are good. My mom's got an art show coming up and Sophie had a good freshman year. And uh my dad, is I guess busy. I haven't really talked to him that much recently.

Carl

Oh okay well send them my best.

(pause)

You know summertime's not the same without your brother. I think about him a lot. You know I watched him, you, and your sister all grow up. It was a shame what happened to him. He was a special guy and I don't know why we had to lose him so young.

ALEX

Yeah I know.

Carl

I gotta say you're handling it a lot better than most people would.

ALEX

Well, he wouldn't want us moping around over him.

Carl shrugs and hands a cup of coffee to Alex. Alex reaches for his wallet.

Carl

Put your money away kid.

ALEX

You sure?

Carl

I would've had to close up shop if it wasn't for your old man. So yeah, I'm sure.

ALEX

Thanks Carl. Take it easy.

Carl smiles and turns away. Alex puts a few dollars in Carl's tip cup. Alex walks up to a mural. It is a colorful painting of a young man surfing. There is a bench in front of the mural. It has a gold plaque.

Alex looks towards the ocean. He gathers himself and sits down on the bench.

A truck pulls up behind him. Alex turns towards the truck. Christina waves and turns off the engine. She approaches Alex and gives him a strong hug. She then sits on the back of the bench. She is wearing running gear.

Christina

Figured I'd find you here.

ALEX

I gotta say, outside of friends and family, this place is what I miss the most about out here.

Christina

Amen.

They look off at the ocean.

CHRISTINA

I still can't believe you're not gonna be out here this summer.

ALEX

It'll definitely be weird, but it is what it is.

Christina

You know people work their asses off their whole life so they can have this view. Why trade it in for a computer screen?

Alex thinks, then points at a large house to the left.

ALEX

Because I want to have the view from that house.

Christina

I mean it's nice, but it's just a house.

(pause)

I have to be honest and don't take this the wrong way, but where did this whole sell your soul to Wall Street come from?

Alex looks at her with a half smile, then back at the ocean.

Alex

Chris look, I know you know my family has had money problems. But I really don't think you know how bad it was. Right after that fire we had at the bar, my dad was in so much debt, it was crazy. When my parents split up and he had to move out of our house, he had no money to even rent a bedroom. For like a month he was sleeping on a pile of t-shirts in his office.

Christina

Jeez, I had no idea. Why was he in so much debt?

Alex

The short answer, he's not good with money. The long answer, I don't even know if I know the whole story.

(pause)

The Talkhouse for better or worse is my family's life and we almost lost it. My dad felt like he failed us, failed everyone. I mean he somehow was able to get himself out of it, but I never want to cut it that close. I don't want my family to ever go through that again.

Christina

Alex, it's your call and I'm here for you no matter what. I just want you to make sure your not running away from something.

Alex thinks this over. He passes a quick glance over his shoulder. His phone rings. He answers it.

Alex (Cont'd)

Hey Sean, yeah I'm out here...

(pause)

No one else can?

Alex pauses and rolls his eyes.

Alex (cont'd)

Alright, sure thing.

Alex hangs up.

ALEX (CONT'D)

Well that sucks. I guess a delivery truck broke down. I gotta go pick up some liquor.

Christina

Why'd they call you?

Alex

Because I'll say yes. I'll just do it before we go to dinner. I'm gonna go hide before anything else happens.

Alex throws out his coffee and moves towards his bike.

CHRISTINA

You want a ride?

ALEX

Thanks, but all I did was drink and eat my weight in pizza for senior week, so I need the exercise.

Alex looks at the mural behind Christina.

Alex

That really came out great.

Christina turns towards the mural.

CHRISTINA

Thanks.

Alex bikes away. Christina walks to the mural. She brushes off some sand and looks towards the ocean. After a moment, she puts the earbuds in and begins to run. We can now read the plaque. It reads "In Loving Memory, Matt Roberts."

cut to:

int. Michael's office

Michael is on the phone in an agitated state. Tonight's performer, JIMMY IRIE, (70) walks into the room. He has dreadlocks. Michael turns and smiles. He puts his hand on the receiver.

MICHAEL

Hey, good to see ya, I'll be out in a minute.

We follow Jimmy as he leaves.

int. band green room

Jimmy looks out the window at a large tour bus. Michael walks into view.

MICHAEL

Sorry Jimmy, twenty things just happened that I have to deal with. And on top of that we are trying to squeeze in my son's graduation party before you guys go on. But I won't bore you with my problems. It's great to have you guys back. How was the drive?

Jimmy

We left early so we didn't hit any traffic.

Michael

Great, is there anything else I can get you?

Jimmy goes over to a table. There is a pile of food and beverages. He inspects the table.

Jimmy

I think you are missing someting.

Michael

Really? Christina's really good at making sure we get everything on the rider.

Jimmy

It's not someting that we put on the rider.

MICHAEL

Oh that, hold on.

Michael walks out of the room. After a moment he returns with a large bag of marijuana. He hands it to Jimmy.

Jimmy

Thanks mon. Oh Michael, I heard about your son, that was terrible. I'm so sorry.

The phone rings.

Michael

Thank you it's been a rough year, I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for my other two kids. Anyway, I'm glad you guys made it here safe. If you need anything I'll be in my office.

Michael smiles and leaves the room.

cut to:

Ext. Talkhouse Parking Lot Early afternoon

Time speeds up. Cars begin to pull into view.

cut to:

int. Alex's room Late Afternoon

Alex lies on his bed reading a book. Alex is startled by the sound of a door opening. Christina and Lee walk in.

Lee

Stop jerking off.

Alex puts the book down and gets up.

ALEX

You guys are ten minutes too late.

CHRISTINA

Aw man, just my luck.

They all smile. Alex hugs Lee.

ALEX

Man it's been awhile. I was actually thinking about it on my way out here, I don't think I've seen you since your birthday.

Lee

Shit. Has it really been that long? I guess you're right.

Christina

Before you guys start blowing each other, let's get going. Your family's waiting and we still need to stop at the liquor store.

Ext. Michael's house

A beater sits in the driveway with the lights on. Lee gets in the driver's seat, Christina, the passenger seat, and Alex in the back.

ext. Road

Various shots of large country houses. The car moves through town, there are small shops, post office, gas station, etc. People are walking the streets.

int. Liquor Store

It's a large showroom of wine and spirits. Alex is standing at the counter. Christina and Lee are looking around. A man approaches the counter from a back room.

Clerk

All set. Everything's in the back.

ALEX

Thanks, can you put it on the Talkhouse account?

Clerk

Uh, sorry, but that account's actually at its limit. Normally I would for Michael, but we've already extended him twice.

ALEX

Oh, wow.

(flustered)

Um, he must be waiting for the weekend to cash in. Should be taken care of by Monday. I'll just uh, put it on my card for now.

Alex struggles to take his credit card out of his wallet. He hands over the card. He looks at Christina and Lee. They haven't noticed the situation. Christina smiles at Alex. Alex forces one in return.

ALEX

(to himself)

What the fuck, dad?

Cut To:

ext. Talkhouse parking lot

Alex, Lee, and Christina get out of the car.

ALEX

Damn, there's a lot of cars here.

Alex carries a case of vodka into a shed. He walks out.

ALEX

Alright, let's get outta here.

Alex turns and notices Sean talking to a plumber outside the building. They move towards Sean.

Plumber

You're all set Sean.

Sean

Thanks for coming on such short notice. You're a lifesaver.

Plumber

Don't sweat it, man.

The plumber leaves.

Sean

Hey look who it is, the college graduate. Congratulations Alex.

He hugs Alex and waves to the other two.

ALEX

Thanks, man. What happened? The cesspool overflowed?

Sean

Almost. It would've been really nasty. We're lucky we could get Pete, he used to date my sister back in high school. With the holiday weekend, I couldn't even get through to anyone else.

ALEX

Thank God for Pete.

SEAN

More like thank God for my sister. Okay kid, I'll see ya inside.

ALEX

Inside?

Sean smiles, making Alex suspicious. Lee and Christina lead Alex inside.

INT. Talkhouse MAIN ROOM

Alex walks in and sees that the bar is packed with people.

Crowd

Surprise!

Alex is smiling. There is a band performing. Behind the bar, Otis is putting candles on a cake. Otis pours himself a shot of tequila and slams it.

Alex begins walking through the crowd shaking hands. Alex finds JANE ROBERTS (48) and Sophie at the middle of the bar. He looks shocked. He gives them each a hug.

ALEX

Talk about surprises, what are you doing here?

Jane

I'm here for you honey. I wanted to do something small at the house, but we all know your father.

Alex shrugs, he notices Sophie is texting on her phone.

ALEX

And I guess Sophie came for the WiFi?

She looks up.

Sophie

Shut up, leave me alone. I'm always happy to see my broski.

They hug. Alex looks around.

Alex

Say what you want about dad but I gotta give him credit, he does know how to throw a party. Where is Pops anyway?

Jane

Well, I don't see him at the bar, so there's only one other place I can think of.

She looks towards the stage. The band stops playing. Alex looks towards the stage and sees Sean with a microphone.

SEAN

Hey everyone, can I have your attention?

The crowd quiets.

SEAN

Thanks everyone for coming out to celebrate Alex's graduation. Man, time does really fly. I remember just the other day I was hitting on your nanny.

The crowd laughs.

SEAN

When you were little you were always quiet. We all thought you were shy, but I realized that you were just observing the world, taking it all in. Which is something we should all do a little bit more of. Anyway, I know you're gonna be great---congratulations Alex. Okay, Michael you're up.

Sean hands Michael the microphone.

Michael

I can't believe that Alex has graduated? I mean, how did we get so fucking old?

The crowd laughs.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

Now obviously this night is meant to celebrate Alex's achievements. But, since I'm his dad, I get to embarrass him. I am proud to say that I changed your first diaper. It was my first and last diaper. After that first one, I paid your mother to take care of it - I couldn't deal with it. Look at him now, a Fordham graduate.

The crowd claps.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

I guess I didn't do so bad.

Wally

You mean Jane didn't do so bad.

The crowd laughs.

Michael

That too.

(gathers)

You know, life, life is very episodic. You get people for different periods of time. It's not in our control. But, the unique thing about this bar is, in a changing world, this place hasn't changed much. I mean this place has survived a lot. We've managed to overcome a major fire and even worse, Wally and Otis behind the bar.

The crowd laughs.

Michael

Now all kidding aside, take a moment and look around. It's the same people, same staff, same customers, and same musicians. I think that is why people stay here. It's a place where you feel safe because you see familiar faces. I love our community, our family, it's the best in the world.

(pause)

Anyway, to Alex.

Michael raises his drink the crowd does the same.

Crowd

To Alex!

The crowd applauds. Alex smiles and takes a sip from a beer. The young woman who was in Michael's office appears next to Alex. She is now wearing the "Fordham" shirt. Alex turns and smiles. He does a double take.

ALEX

Hey, did you go to Fordham?

woman

Uh huh.

ALEX

That's weird, I did too. This is actually my graduation party. I'm Alex.

woman

Jade. This is a fun party.

Alex

I'm just curious, what brings you here? You know I recognize almost everyone else here, but not you.

woman

I'm just visiting for the weekend. I'm Dane Dickens's niece.

ALEX

Who? You mean Dane Dixon?

woman

Yeah him. Anyway, so what did you, like, do at school?

ALEX

Um, well I was in the Business school if that's what you're asking. How about you, what was your major?

woman

English.

Alex

Huh. English Literature?

woman

No English, like the language.

Alex

(to himself)

Like the language? Who are you again?

The woman looks confused for a moment, then lifts up her shirt, exposing her tits. She grabs Alex and gives him a kiss on the cheek. The men in the crowd cheer. Otis brings the cake. Alex blows out the candles and the crowd cheers.

Michael finds Alex at the bar. Michael pats Alex on the shoulder. Alex turns and they hug.

ALEX

Always one for the theatrics, huh Dad?

Michael smiles.

Michael

You know how proud I am of you. It's going to be a great night, we're gonna have fun.

(pauses)

Hey, I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up. Did you get in alright?

ALEX

Yeah all good, no worries. So what was the deal with the English major? Please don't tell me that's your new girlfriend.

Michael

Nope. I wish. She's a little dumb though.

Alex

A little?

Michael

I did meet a really nice girl at that spinning place a few months ago.

Alex almost spits out what he is drinking.

ALEX

No way you took a spinning class!

MICHAEL

Is it really that obvious? Well I met her out front and lucky for me she's a bisexual. You know what the best thing about dating a bisexual is?

ALEX

What?

Michael

You want her to cheat on you.

Alex shakes his head. Michael smiles.

Michael

Listen, I need to ask you a favor.

Alex hesitates.

ALEX

Okay?

Michael

James just made it to the finals of his poker tournament and can't work tonight. I need someone to tend bar. Can you fill in?

ALEX

C'mon Dad, are you serious?

Michael

Believe me, I hate asking you, especially when it's your party. But there is no one else I can get on short notice that I can trust. It's just one night.

Alex looks up and exhales. He looks at Michael.

ALEX

Ugh, what if I said no?

MICHAEL

Well, we would be one guy short on one of the busiest nights of the year.

Alex

Okay okay. I'll do it tonight, but just tonight.

Alex walks out the front door.

ext. Talkhouse Front

Alex sees Sophie leaving with some teenagers.

ALEX

Bye Sophie.

Sophie turns and waves and gets in the car. Alex turns and sees Jane.

Jane

Alright honey, I'm getting out of here. This place gives me the creeps after the sun goes down.

ALEX

I think it's creepier when the sun comes up.

Jane

Good point. How long are you staying?

ALEX

Uh, shit.

Jane

What?

ALEX

Don't be mad, but I kinda told Dad I would...

Jane

Don't tell me you're working. Are you kidding me? I thought we talked about this? We said, once you graduate college you're done with the bar. I get that it's been a good summer job, but you're smarter than this Alex.

ALEX

Mom, I know. I want to get away, but I'm already out here and Dad needs me.

Jane

Anybody can tend bar. And just so you know, you're allowed to say no to your father.

Alex thinks this over. Lee walks out of the bar with a large shot, a small shot, and two beers. Billy Joel's "Captain Jack" plays from the bar.

Jane

Alex if this is what you want to do, I'm not going to stop you. Let me just say this---it's fun to be young and stupid in there. Party, meet girls, whatever. But then you get caught and time goes by and you're not young, but you're still here.

Alex thinks about this.

Lee

(singing)

And I guess you won't be going back to school, anymore.

Jane

Lee, you're in charge. Make sure Alex gets home safe.

Lee

Of course Jane. You still need me to help hang your show?

Jane

That would be great Lee.

Jane hugs Alex and Lee, she leaves. Lee hands Alex a beer and the large shot. Alex notices the size of the shot.

Alex

Jesus, what are you, tryin' to kill me?

Alex tries to pour some into Lee's glass. Lee stops Alex and shakes his head.

Alex

Okay Captain Jack, get me high tonight.

Alex smirks and downs it. He scrunches his face.

Lee

Guns!

Lee flexes and Alex flexes a second later. Lee punches Alex in the arm. Alex winces and rubs his arm. Otis wobbles out the door while eating part of the cake with his hands.

Otis

(singing out of sync)

Cap'n Crunch will get you high tonight.

Alex and Lee laugh and then walk inside.

cut to:

int. tour bus

The bus is filled with smoke. The driver sits behind the wheel. We go to the next section of the bus. There is a small kitchen with a table. DARREN (33) and WINSTON (27) sit at the table watching TV. Winston spins drumsticks in his hand. An episode of "Sex in the City" is playing.

Darren

Turn this shit off. This show sucked the first time we saw it.

Winston

It's my turn to have da remote.

Darren grabs the remote and changes the channel. Winston gets angry and TACKLES Darren. Winston is accidentally HIT in the face with the Remote. Winston gets up and GRABS A KNIFE. Darren back up and drops the remote.

Darren

What chu gonna do wit dat mon? Didn't yo momma tell you not to play with knives?

Winston quickly jerks forward but goes nowhere near Darren. Winston starts laughing, Darren joins. They are hysterical. Winston moves towards Darren to hug him, but still has the knife in hand.

Winston TRIPS on the remote and accidentally STABS DARREN IN THE STOMACH. Blood forms at the wound. They are horrified.

Darren

What the fuck you do that for?!

Winston

I'm sorry mon! It was an accident!

cut to:

Ext. Talkhouse Front

Michael is on his cell phone. A black town car is parked in front.

MICHAEL

You don't need to tell me how long it's been. Listen I know you don't know me that well, but I'm not some deadbeat.

(pause)

I understand and I'm working my ass off. I will have it for you after the weekend.

Darren walks up to Michael, covering the wound with a white t-shirt that is turning red.

Darren

Hey mon, you got a Band-Aid?

Michael quickly looks confused and holds up a finger.

Michael

(on phone)

Look it will all be fine I prom..

Michael looks back and notices the bloody t-shirt.

Michael

I gotta call you back.

Michael hangs up.

MICHAEL

What happened?

Darren

(referring to the TV show)

Why the white lady always need to buy the shoes! That's all she does is buy the shoes!

Michael is confused, but sees that the blood is spreading.

Michael

And you think you need a Band-Aid? We need to get you to the hospital.

Darren

No it's just a scratch.

Darren briefly loses his footing. Michael sits him down.

Darren

Maybe you're right mon, but no ambulance.

Michael looks and sees Sean walk out the front door.

MICHAEL

Hey, Sean have you been drinking?

SEAN

I had one beer, why, what's up?

Michael has his arm around Darren.

MICHAEL

Can you drive him to the hospital? I've had a few.

Sean

Now? Yeah of course, what happened?

MICHAEL

I'm not really sure, but he needs to go now.

SEAN

You got it. I'll pull around front.

cut to:

Int. Talkhouse Main Room An hour Later that Night

Lee, Wally, and Travis sit at the bar eating cake.

LEE

Anyone hear from Sean?

Travis

Not yet.

LEE

Man there's something about Memorial Day weekend that brings the crazy out of everyone.

Wally

Oh I know, but I've been here over twenty years and I've never even heard of anything like this.

Alex walks into view. Lee offers a piece of cake to Alex. He takes it.

LEE

Hey man sorry, this really sucks.

ALEX

Yeah what can you do? On the bright side I don't have to talk to another one of my parent's friends about what my post graduation plans are. I must've had the same exact conversation with thirty people. Next time I'm going to have pamphlets printed, and save myself the time.

LEE

That's funny man. So what are your plans?

ALEX

Uh, well, I guess....

Lee starts laughing.

ALEX

Fuck you.

Otis walks into view. He looks at Travis' cake.

Otis

That was some good shit. What are you guys doin? We still gotta work tonight, remember? Doors open in ten minutes.

Travis

Who woulda thought you would be telling someone else to work.

OTIS

Shut up white boy.

They all laugh and get up.

Otis

Oh Matt, I mean Alex. Your dad wants you.

Alex nods.

cut to:

Ext. Talkhouse night

Outside, Michael is standing in a circle with Jimmy Irie, the chief of police, and two other police officers.

Chief of Police

I know that the stabbing was an accident, but that guy is in bad shape. If he dies, we're dealing with involuntary manslaughter. I'm gonna have to make an arrest.

Jimmy

That's messed up mon. How long 'till we know?

CHIEF OF POLICE

I'm not a doctor, but I know he's lost a lot of blood.

Jimmy

I don't think we can play with dis shit going on.

Michael

I understand, you guys do what is best for the band.

CHIEF OF POLICE

Michael, we're going to try and keep the press out of this, but we have to stay on the premises, until the situation plays out.

Michael nods as he, Alex, and Jimmy walk inside.

int. Talkhouse Main Room

Jimmy goes upstairs. Alex sees Michael sitting down with his hands covering his face.

ALEX

Dad, is there anything I can do?

Michael

I wish.

Looks away and then back to Alex.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

I just hope that Darren is alright.

ALEX

What happens to all the people that bought tickets?

MICHAEL

That's not really where my mind's at, but I guess we'll probably have to tell 150 people there will be no show tonight, and we'll refund their money.

ALEX

Wow, great way to start the season.

(digests)

I'm here for you, dad. Oh and just so you know I put the liquor in the staff room. Is there something I should know about?

MICHAEL

Why did they say something?

ALEX

Uh, yeah, they wouldn't let me put it on our account. I had to pay with my credit card.

Michael

Alex you shouldn't have done that. How much was it? I'll give it to you now.

Michael looks into his wallet.

MICHAEL

Shit, I left my cash at home.

ALEX

Dad, don't worry about that right now. You just need to tell me if something's up.

MICHAEL

No, no. I had to help out some friends this winter, so the money's spread out. We'll be fine after the weekend, don't worry about it.

ALEX

Dad....

Footsteps can be heard from the staircase. Michael and Alex look on in anticipation. Jimmy emerges and crosses the stage.

Michael

Jimmy I'm sorry about everything.

Jimmy

Let's just hope Darren's gonna be okay. I talked to the band and we are going to play tonight. We need a bassist though.

Michael

Uh, no problem, I know someone. Thanks Jimmy.

Jimmy shakes Michael's hand. Jimmy and Alex nod at each other. Jimmy leaves and walks back upstairs.

ALEX

Well, that's a relief.

Michael

Hey, it's not over yet. Darren's still in the hospital and Winston might get arrested, maybe even during the show. I know your shift doesn't start for two hours, but can you stick around? Please?

ALEX

Yeah, you got it.

MICHAEL

We'll talk later.

cut to:

ext. Talkhouse front night

Customers are lined up to the front door. Traffic has begun to slow down. Groups of people spill out of double-parked cabs, shouting and laughing as they cross the street, some with red Solo cups. Suddenly, a truck AGGRESSIVELY PASSES a car NARROWLY missing a pedestrian.

cut to:

int. Talkhouse Main room an hour later

The bar is crowded. The band has yet to take the stage. Alex and Michael stand on one side of the stage.

VOICE

(over the speakers)

Welcome to The Stephen Talkhouse. And now we present the Grammy Award winning reggae artist, Jimmy Irie!

The crowd applauds. The band takes the stage. Jimmy Irie approaches the microphone. The stage door BANGS OPEN, the band looks in that direction. The chief of police stands in the doorway. Alex, Michael, and the band stare at him.

The chief of police smiles and steps aside. Darren is seen behind him. He gets on stage and grabs his bass from his replacement, an older white hippie. He moves towards Winston and gives him a fist bump. They turn and start playing.

Jimmy

(singing)

I can see clearly now the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way.

Alex pats Michael's shoulder and walks away. He goes behind the bar, while bobbing his head to the music. Christina is behind the bar listening to the set.

ALEX

I thought you worked the outside bar?

CHRISTINA

I do, but Wally can handle it for now. I came inside to bug you.

Alex looks at Christina's outfit. She is wearing a bandanna for a top.

ALEX

What the fuck are you wearing?

Christina looks down.

CHRISTINA

You should see the tips I get. Plus I love teasing these stupid frat boys.

ALEX

Just don't start dancing on the bar.

CHRISTINA

Aw, you almost sound jealous.

ALEX

Shut up.

She smiles.

CHRISTINA

Alright, see ya after the blur.

She walks away. Alex watches her as she leaves.

CHRISTINA

(without looking)

Stop staring at my ass.

Alex turns away, embarrassed, and mouths "fuck."

Sped up scene of bartenders making drinks. People are dancing and the band is playing. We slow down to---

Jimmy

(singing)

Cause, as sure as the sun will shine I'm gonna get my share now what's mine. And then the harder they come,

Michael is still on the side of the stage. DARREN FALLS TO ONE KNEE. MICHAEL JUMPS ON STAGE. Darren gets up, Winston notices.

Winston

You okay?

Darren

All good, just tripped on a wire.

Michael exhales and steps down.

Jimmy

(shouting over band)

Thank you all for coming out tonight. Much peace, love, and respect. I also want to thank Michael for having us back. We've played at a lot of places, but this place really is our second home.

The band finishes and Jimmy walks off the stage.

ext. Talkhouse front

A long line of well-dressed, beautiful young people has formed at the entrance. More are getting out of cabs in front of the bar. Travis checks IDs and takes money.

An intoxicated man in his 30s approaches Travis. The camera moves down the line towards Michael. He looks at the line, relieved.

MICHAEL

(to himself)

Thank God.

Sean approaches and shakes Michael's hand.

Sean

We made it. Now the fun starts.

MICHAEL

For you. I'm going to have a drink, and head home. You're in charge.

Sean nods. They walk down the line towards where Travis is.

Travis

Dude, I said no.

Sean

Is there a problem?

Travis

Michael, can you deal with this guy? He won't leave.

(to drunk guy)

This is the owner.

Drunk Guy

I not drunk man. I just wanna party.

Michael

You are welcome to come back tomorrow, but not tonight buddy.

Drunk guy

C'mon. I wanna fun man, and you do daba do.

Michael

We're done. Let me get you a cab.

The man flips them off.

Michael

Just go then.

Drunk GUY

Fuck you, grandpa!

The guy turns and staggers down the sidewalk. Michael shakes his head, and walks into the bar.

cut to:

INT. Talkhouse Main room

Otis is comically dancing behind the bar. Alex walks to the beer tap near Otis. He laughs while pouring draft beers. Courtney arrives at the bar with two very well dressed beautiful girls.

Courtney

Alex!

He sees her. He smiles and puts up one finger. Alex finishes serving the customer. He walks toward Courtney.

ALEX

Hey you made it. You guys ready to goon it up?

The two friends look at each other. Courtney smiles.

Courtney

These are my friends, Jennifer and Jessica.

ALEX

Oh nice to meet you both.

Courtney's friends give short smiles. One goes back to texting. The other looks over her shoulder.

Courtney

I thought you weren't working tonight?

ALEX

I know, it's a long story. I'm pretty upset about it.

Courtney

Well that sucks. It would've been nice to hang out.

Alex

Yeah, um, would've been, nice. So um, what can I get you girls to drink?

Courtney

Um yeah, three vodka sodas.

Alex makes the drinks. Jennifer looks up from her phone.

Jennifer

Oh my god, this guy like won't stop texting me. He's such an L.E.S guy.

ALEX

(mouthing to himself)

L.E.S guy?

Alex passes them their drinks. Courtney smiles and reaches into her purse.

ALEX

They're on me.

Courtney

You don't have to do that.

ALEX

Don't worry about it.

Courtney

Thanks, that's so nice.

An explosion of beer comes from the left. Most of it goes all over Alex's face. He turns towards the explosion.

Otis

Hey, Alex can you go in the basement and change the keg of Sierra.

Alex now in a soaked t-shirt sighs and nods. Alex grabs a rag to dry his face. Courtney smiles, then turns away from the bar with her friends.

JENNIFER

Yikes.

They walk away.

Otis

Your girl has some nice titays.

Alex turns to him and shakes his head.

cut to:

EXT. Talkhouse BAR At same time

Wally is behind the bar. Michael sips a cocktail and looks exhausted. He is talking with Wally as a beautiful woman in her late 30s approaches. She looks at Wally.

Woman

Chardonnay, please.

She makes eye contact with Michael and smiles.

Michael

That's a great dress, you look beautiful.

Woman

(flattered)

Thanks.

Michael

I'm Michael.

They shake hands.

Woman

Emily.

Michael

How's your night going?

Emily

It's great. I'm so happy it's finally summer and that I'm here. I love this place.

Her drink arrives. She reaches for her purse. Michael motions to Wally that he wants to buy the drink. Wally points at Michael.

Wally

It's on the owner.

Emily

(to Michael)

Oh really, you own this place?

Michael

I do. Cheers.

They clink glasses and she eyes up Michael.

Michael

I love that sound. Do you know why people clink glasses?

Emily

It's like a medieval thing right, to see if you were poisoned?

Michael

That's true, but there's another reason. The reason why people cheers, the reason why people clink glasses is because, when you are by yourself you can see your drink in your hand.

Raises his glass and looks at it.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

Feel it in your hand, you can smell it.

Brings the glass to his face and smells it.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

And taste it.

Takes a sip.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

But you need a beautiful woman to hear it.

They clink glasses again and she smiles flirtatiously.

cut to:

EXT. Talkhouse Front thirty minutes later

Michael opens a cab door and helps Emily into the car. Michael calls to Sean.

Michael

It's been a long day, I need to get home and get some rest.

Sean

Doesn't look like your gonna get much rest with her.

Michael

(jokingly)

What can I say, grandpa Michael's still got it.

They laugh.

Michael

Give me a call if any major problems come up. Oh and listen, I know we always give breaks to regulars and locals, but this weekend we need to make money, so everyone pays.

SEAN

You got it.

Michael turns, pauses, and then turns back to Sean.

MICHAEL (CONT’D)

You know Sean, you're the unsung hero of this bar. Thanks for taking care of this place and making me look like I still know what I'm doing.

Sean

I learned from the best. Now get home and enjoy, I got this.

Sean waves to the girl. Michael gets in the cab and it leaves. The engine of the black town car starts, it's lights turn on, and it follows the cab. Sean walks to Travis.

Preston, Austin, and a group of preppy and enthusiastic guys walk to the front of the line.

SEAN

Can I help you gentlemen?

Preston

Yeah uh, we should be on the list under Preston.

Travis

List?

(pause)

Preston?

Sean laughs.

SEAN

I don't know if you know where you are, but this place doesn't have a list. You can take your buddies and go to the back of the line and wait like everyone else.

Preston

Whoa man, I know the owners son, and I'm his guest.

SEAN

Well that's news to me, and everyone's paying tonight guys.

Preston looks shocked. At that moment Alex walks out.

ALEX

Hey Sean, what's the name of the lead singer, again? I don't want to be an asshole.

Preston

Dude, Alex these guys won't let me in, what's the deal?

ALEX

(to Sean)

Shit, I completely spaced I told him I would let him and his friends in tonight.

SEAN

Well this guy's got the wrong attitude.

Alex pulls Sean aside.

ALEX

I know, but he works in finance and I think he can help me network. I really need to get this job.

SEAN

You're dad wants everyone to pay tonight. We need the money.

ALEX

I don't really care what my dad has to say about money. I told this guy I could get him in and I gotta follow through.

Sean mulls this over for a moment.

SEAN

Okay fellas, you're on Alex tonight.

(pause)

Make sure you thank him.

There is an enthusiastic cheer from the group. They all walk past Alex and pat him on the shoulder. Sean looks at Alex and then goes back to work. Alex walks back in.

ext. Talkhouse bar

Preston, Austin, and the rest walk through the patio. On the way, they wave to and high five people they recognize. Austin leads the group inside.

int. Talkhouse main room

They walk to an opening at the main bar. Austin orders drinks from Lee. The people in the group talk to each other. Lee arrives with seven beers, a bottle of tequila, and seven shot glasses. Lee pours the shots and Preston passes them out. His friends grab them. He motions for a toast.

Preston

Summer Twenty Fifteen awoooooooo!

Group

Woooooo!

They take the shots.

An 80's cover band gets on stage and begins covering a popular song. Montage style, the scene is then sped up as people are talking, dancing, and drinking. Couples are making out on the dance floor.

It begins to speed up faster. There is a fight that is broken up by two large bouncers. We go down a hallway and follow a guy through a doorway.

int. men's room

An aerial view of the stalls shows two guys are doing lines of cocaine. In the next stall a couple is having sex.

cut to:

int. Talkhouse main room a few hours later

Alex is making drinks.

Preston

Alex!

Alex forces a smile, and walks towards him. Preston is wearing neon sunglasses and his shirt is halfway unbuttoned.

Preston

What up A-bomb? Two bud heavies, got the tab open.

ALEX

Sure thing.

Alex rolls his eyes. He gets the beers for Preston.

Preston

P-money's gonna hook tonight. Lot of potench in this motherfucker.

ALEX

Double fisting?

Preston

Nah man this one's for Austin. He's over there talking to some chick.

Preston turns. Alex sees Austin talking to a girl. It's Courtney. Her friend Jessica is stumbling near by, clearly intoxicated. Alex sighs.

ALEX

So I was wondering, if, um, you knew anyone that works at uh Imperial?

Preston

Yeah man. I'll put in a good word. Anyway, who's the chick bartender? You gotta hook me up.

ALEX

Oh, Christina? Yeah, she's cool.

Preston

Nice. Very nice.

Preston walks away. Alex goes to a register. He looks for Preston's name. He can't find it. Lee walks by and sees Alex frustrated.

LEE

Who you looking for?

ALEX

Westcott. I've looked twice, but it's not there. Asshole.

LEE

(referencing Poltergeist)

They're here.

Alex sighs and walks towards a customer.

cut to:

Int. Michael's house

Michael and Emily finish having sex. They lie there panting.

Emily

That was great.

Michael nods and reaches for his cell phone. He looks at it and gets out of bed. He puts on some underwear and walks towards a door to a balcony.

Emily

What are you doing?

MICHAEL

What? Oh sorry I just need to check on the bar. Don't look at me like that. It'll only be a minute, I promise. There's a nice bottle of wine on that dresser. Help yourself.

Emily turns, grabs it, and reads the label.

Emily

This is nice.

MICHAEL

Pour me a glass, I'll be right back.

ext. Michael's Balcony

Michael takes out his phone and dials Sean. He waits.

MICHAEL

Sean, how's it going?

(pause)

I know, I know. So is it busy?

Int. town car

There is a man, his face is disguised by a shadow. He smokes a cigarette. He is looking at Michael talk on the phone. After a moment Michael hangs up the phone. He looks around, but does not notice the car. He walks back inside. The driver puts the car in gear and moves away.

cut to:

INT. Talkhouse MAIN ROOM

Lee pours two shots. He hands one to the stripper. Further down the bar, Alex is serving drinks. Courtney pushes her way to the bar and yells for him. He goes to her.

ALEX

Hey what's up?

Courtney

Nothing, I'm just waiting for my Uber, I'm exhausted. You wanna come with?

ALEX

Me? Um I can't right now. We're in the weeds.

Courtney

Just leave. You own the place.

ALEX

I can't leave. Believe me I really want to, but it's not that easy. These guys need me. Give me an hour?

Courtney

It's now or nothing, dude. But here take this and let's grab a drink this weekend.

Courtney hands him a piece of paper.

ALEX

That sounds great.

The stripper appears, a piece of cake in hand.

STRIPPER

(to Alex)

Happy Birthday!!

She jams the cake into Alex's face, then grabs Alex's neck and puts his face in her tits.

Alex frees himself, his face covered in icing. Lee is laughing in the background. Courtney laughs.

Courtney

Some bar you've got here?

ALEX

You don't even know.

Courtney

You know, you could text me later. I might be up.

Icing drips off his face. Courtney bites her lip and leaves.

Cut to:

EXT. Talkhouse Bar

Christina moves through the crowd with a bucket of ice. She goes behind the bar and dumps it into a sink. She joins Wally in making drinks. Preston reaches the front of the bar with Austin. Preston waves at Christina. She smiles and walks over.

CHRISTINA

What can I get you two?

Preston

How about your number, Beautiful?

CHRISTINA

Really? You're that guy?

Austin

Two Goose and Redbulls.

Christina turns to make the drinks. Austin elbows Preston.

Austin

Smooth, Westcott.

Preston

Whatever. She's a skank.

Christina finishes making the drinks.

CHRISTINA

It's twenty-two.

Preston

C'mon, I know Alex.

Christina

Poor Alex. It's twenty-two.

Preston goes into his wallet and pulls out a twenty and two singles and puts it on the bar. Both guys turn around and lean against the bar, with their backs to Christina.

Christina takes the money and puts it in the register. She turns around and sees them still at the bar, preventing other customers from ordering.

CHRISTINA

I hate that.

Wally

What?

Christina

It's one thing if you don't tip. But, these assholes don't tip, and then turn and post up on my bar. Now I have to look at these assholes. And on top of that, other people can't get drinks.

Wally

Preaching to the choir. Want me to do something?

Christina

I got it.

She taps Preston on the shoulder. Wally watches her.

CHRISTINA

Hey, if you're not going to tip me, then at least walk away from my bar.

Preston

I think I'll stay.

Preston turns away. She smiles and grabs his shoulder.

CHRISTINA

Last time. Get away from my bar.

Preston

Jeez. Fucking cunt.

They turn around and begin to walk away. Christina gets ready to go after them. Wally stops her.

Wally

I got this.

Wally hops over the bar in one motion. Christina is in awe. He grabs Preston by the back of his shirt. Preston turns towards him in fear. Wally is much bigger than him.

Wally

You shouldn't have said that.

Austin gets in Wally's face. Otis appears through the crowd like a wild boar. He grabs Austin.

Otis

Now you've entered the Thunderdome! Two men enter,

(pause)

Um, two men

(pause)

Now get the fuck outta here!

Wally and Otis throw both guys out of the bar.

cut to:

INT. Talkhouse MAIN ROOM

The bar crowd has started to thin out. Lee pours two shots of tequila. He motions for Alex.

LEE

Cheers brother. The night's almost over and I'm still standing. Who would have thought?

ALEX

I know, right. I forgot how quick it goes.

LEE

Man I gotta say, Matt really put it perfectly, it's a fucking blur. You got your eyes on any of the stragglers?

Alex

You know what, I think I should call that girl.

Lee looks confused.

ALEX

The girl I was talking to earlier. The blonde girl.

Lee shakes his head and points to the crowd. There are twenty blond girls.

ALEX

Otis kept talking about her tits.

LEE

Oh the Chimi Chongas? You got her number?

Alex

Yeah, do you mind watching the bar?

Lee

The only thing I mind is that you haven't already called her. Now go, I got this.

ALEX

Thanks.

Alex walks away from the bar. Lee looks down at his two shots. He shrugs and downs both of them. Lee sees the stripper.

LEE

Hey do you wanna help me make drinks?

The stripper smiles and walks behind the bar.

EXT. Talkhouse Front

Otis walks inside the bar. Alex walks outside. Alex sees Wally arguing with Preston.

ALEX

Whoa. What's the problem?

Preston

There he is! Alex, this asshole threw me out.

Wally

This douchebag called Christina a cunt.

ALEX

Wait, what? Let's just..

Preston

Fuck that bitch too.

Alex has had enough. He grabs Preston by his lapels.

Alex

You called a girl a cunt let alone my friend? Are you out of your fucking mind? I don't give a fuck who you are, Trust-fund, get the fuck outta here.

Alex pushes Preston away. Preston begins to walk off while pointing at Alex. Courtney's friend Jessica is stumbling behind Preston.

Preston

You sure you wanna do this? Not smart dude, not smar...

Before Preston can finish, Jessica vomits all over him. He looks at her in horror. Wally and Alex start laughing. We see Christina looking at Alex and smile. Alex doesn't see her. Sean walks up to them.

Sean

Everything alright?

ALEX

Yeah, well actually maybe not. I think that girl needs a cab home.

Sean goes to Jessica. Alex takes out his phone and calls Courtney. He is still laughing to himself. Courtney's voicemail message plays. Alex waits and hangs up the phone. Alex leans against the fence. Matt appears next to him.

Matt

Where the fuck did that come from? The only time I ever saw you that mad, was when Sophie broke your Playstation. She was a six-year-old girl.

ALEX

Hey man, you don't call a girl a cunt. And Christina? She's family.

Matt

You don't have to tell me that. I'm proud of you bro.

ALEX

Thanks. I just hope he doesn't say anything to Imperial.

Matt

That guy? Fuck that guy. Alex that guy is going to wake up more concerned with what girl he can trick into fucking him tomorrow night. Just forget about it and enjoy the fact that you stood up for yourself. That took guts.

Alex smiles and turns towards Matt. He is gone. Travis approaches.

Travis

What are you thinking about kid?

ALEX

I don't know. Did you feel weird tonight?

Travis

How so?

ALEX

Well, I don't know. I mean I've gotten used to the fact that Matt's not here, or at least as much as I can be, but tonight I felt like he shoulda been here, like we needed him here. I can't really describe it, it was just weird.

Travis

Yeah, I hear ya. It's the first time we're starting a season without him. One things for sure, you can't replace a guy like Matt. The whole thing's still crazy to me.

(trailing off)

I coulda been right there...

ALEX

(distracted)

Huh?

Travis

(screaming)

Oh shit! Sean look out!

THERE IS A SCREECH OF TIRES. SEAN IS HIT BY A PICK-UP TRUCK. Everything seems to stop in time, it's silent. A woman's scream brings the scene back to life.

WOMAN

Oh my God!!

Horror stricken, Alex and Travis push past a group of onlookers. They make their way to Sean, WHO IS UNCONSCIOUS AND BLEEDING FROM HIS HEAD. The smell of burnt rubber and blood is intense. A crowd begins to gather around the scene.

ALEX

(frantically)

Sean, are you okay?

No response. Horns from cars behind the scene blare, unaware of what happened.

The driver side door to the truck opens. After a moment we see the culprit. It's the drunk Sean didn't allow into the bar.

Alex takes his shirt off to put on Sean's head wound. He looks at the group of people ogling and doing nothing.

ALEX

(yelling)

Someone call 911!

cut to:

Fifteen minutes later. There are flashing lights from an ambulance and some police cars. Groups of people look onto the scene. Sean is on a stretcher, now conscious, but in obvious pain. He is put in the ambulance. Travis gets in.

ALEX

Travis, I'll go.

Travis

No way kid. You called your dad right?

ALEX

Yeah.

Travis

You stay and wait for him then.

Alex looks worried. He nods. The door is closed and the ambulance pulls away. A car pulls up and parks in front of the bar. Michael emerges, wearing what he was sleeping in.

Michael

How is he?

Alex

It's not life threatening, but I don't know the details. I'd guess a concussion and a broken leg.

Michael

Fuck!

Michael looks at Alex. Alex returns the eye contact: then looks off in the distance. Michael thinks and shakes his head. He exhales.

ALEX

Dad, I can help. If you need me, I'll come out on weekends. We'll make it work.

MICHAEL

I don't want you to have to do that.

ALEX

I don't want to do it, but we don't have another choice right now.

MICHAEL

You're right. We don't. Not until I find someone else.

(pause)

How's everything inside?

Alex looks startled and darts his head towards the bar.

Michael

C'mon let's call last call and get everybody out of here.

They walk towards the door.

INT. Talkhouse MAIN ROOM

They stand in the doorway. There are about thirty customers remaining. Otis is on the stage dancing with his shirt off.

Lee is instructing the stripper on how to shake a drink. He is motioning for her to shake it harder. Lee notices Michael and Alex. He looks confused.

A customer stumbles around with a bottle of booze. Michael and Alex look at each other.

Fade to black

Sharpsburg
By
Peter Honerkamp and Mark Benck

INT LAST CHANCE BAR NIGHT
ELLA LARKIN, a woman in her mid-50s, wipes down the bar.
It’s a dark, wooden, rustic bar. Two dozen patrons sit
around a circular bar. A large map of the Antietam
battlefield adorns one wall.
Photographs of Confederate and Union generals line the other
walls along with weapons and other Civil War memorabilia in
glass cases. There are a dozen tables set back from the
bar. The clock reads midnight.
DANNY SAYERS, a cop in uniform in his early 30s, sits at the
bar with PATSI CARNEY, also in a police uniform but unarmed,
also in her early 30s. They drink cokes. LISA SAYERS, early
20s, and BILLY KEMP, early 20s, sit across from them. Billy
downs a shot. He is drunk. He waves the shot glass at
Ella.
BILLY
One more.
LISA
(to Ella)
No more. Unlike some people I have
to get up in the morning.
BILLY
Great, shoot me when I’m
down. You’re killing me here.
Billy holds his hands up in prayer.
LISA
(to Ella)
One more. And a check.
Ella pours a shot. Billy grabs it. She sees Danny staring
at a local newspaper. The headline reads "LOCAL YOUTHS
DISAPPEARED ONE YEAR AGO TODAY." There is a photo of a
young couple holding hands.
ELLA
It’s been a year since those kids
took off.
DANNY
Year ago tomorrow.
ELLA
So odd there’s no trace of them.
2.
PATSI
We looked everywhere.
ELLA
Doesn’t make sense.
DANNY
No it doesn’t. It’s still an open
case. We’ll find out what happened
someday.
PATSI
As I know you know, Danny still
isn’t convinced they ran away.
DANNY
It would explain Kim not calling
her grandmother. Even if she ran
off with Carter she would’ve done
that.
(to Lisa)
Hey Lisa, don’t you have to be at
work in the morning?
LISA
I’m twenty-two. I don’t need my
big brother telling me when I have
to get up.
DANNY
I’m just reminding you the first
wave of tourists hits
tomorrow. You want to be fresh.
LISA
I will be.
DANNY
You alright to drive?
LISA
I had one beer an hour ago.
(to Patsi)
Tell Danny that just because your
dad is the sheriff he has to be on
time tomorrow.
PATSI
(to Danny)
Leave her be.
(to Lisa)
We just got off duty. Your brother
had a long day. We only stopped in
here cause we saw your car.
3.
DANNY
Can’t help it. She’ll always be my
little sister.
Ella gives Lisa her change. Lisa leaves a tip, then kisses
Danny and Patsi good night. Billy holds up his glass. Lisa
snatches it, and places it on the bar and leads him out.
EXT. BAR
Lisa emerges from the bar, followed by Billy who walks
unsteadily. She moves purposely to a car parked next to the
bar. A string of darkened stores highlighted by a few
streetlights bracket the bar. He catches up to her and pulls
her close to him, trying to kiss her.
LISA
Not here.
BILLY
OK, where? Wait, let’s go to your
house.
LISA
My brother will kill you.
BILLY
Ok, let’s go to my house.
LISA
Then your mother will kill me.
BILLY
How about Reno’s Grove?
LISA
Billy, I have to be at work by 7.
I’m not going to your house and
it’s too late for a hotel. Now get
in.
She gently pushes him away. He stumbles. She goes to him,
leads him to the passenger side and opens the door. He
grabs her. She pushes him into the seat.
She waits for him to get his feet inside, then slams his
door. She gets behind the wheel and the starts the car. He
kisses her ear.
LISA
Don’t you ever give up?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 4.
BILLY
Let’s go to the battlefield.
LISA
Are you crazy? It’s locked up.
BILLY
I know a way in. C’mon, it’s on the
way. Please, throw me one.
She hesitates, then sighs. The car pulls away. A moment
later the headlights go on in a car parked on a side
street. It slowly pulls out and follows.
EXT. BATTLEFIELD ENTRANCE
A sign reads: ANTIETAM NATIONAL BATTLEFIELD---NO ADMITTANCE
AFTER DUSK. A thick chain is strung across the
entrance. In the distance a few campfires dot a hill filled
with tents.
Two men dressed as Union soldiers stumble down the
road. One blocks their path. The other, BO BALLARD, a kid
in his early twenties, goes to the driver’s side window,
pulls a pistol from his belt, and motions for Lisa to roll
down the window.
BO
Hey Lisa.
LISA
Hey Bo. You shouldn’t be pulling
that gun out.
BO
C’mon, it’s fake.
LISA
I know that. Someone else might
not. Now get on your way.
BO
Ah Lisa, I knew it was you.
Billy gropes at Lisa who pushes him away. As they turn a
corner Billy points down an incline by the road. He motions
to the left. Lisa steers the car that way. Bo turns and
watches them.
BILLY
Go down there. Just go, turn your
lights off. We’re safe.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 5.
LISA
I’m going to kill you if we get
caught.
She dims the headlights. The car, with only its’ parking
lights on, moves slowly down the hill. He motions to a
cornfield to the left. The car slowly comes to a
stop. Statues of generals, plaques, and cannon lining the
road can be seen in silhouette from a streetlight. They
start kissing.
EXT INSIDE THE CORNFIELD
A person moves slowly through the cornfield. He reaches the
edge of the cornfield. Billy and Lisa’s car is 100 yards
away. The person steps deeper into the cornfield and moves
slowly towards the car.
Billy and Lisa make out. Their shirts come off. A
crunching noise is heard.
LISA
What’s that?
BILLY
Nothing.
The person peers out from the edge of the cornfield. The
car is ten yards away. The figure steps back into the
cornfield and moves toward the car.
The sound of the car seat sliding back. They fumble with
each others’ clothes. Lisa moves onto Billy in his
seat. Another noise, this time closer, the sound of corn
stalks being broken. Lisa gets off Billy and moves back
into the driver’s seat.
LISA
What was that?
Billy looks out her window, then both of them stare out the
windshield. Billy rolls down his window and looks out. At
A PISTOL WITH A SILENCER. It fires. It fires again. Billy
slumps back onto Lisa. She screams.
She pushes him off her. Her door jerks open. She gets out,
sobbing and screaming, and starts running, but her pants are
down by her knees so she is only able to take jerky
steps. As she reaches the cornfield a shot rings out. She
falls, crawling now through the corn, clutching her right
leg.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 6.
LISA
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,
No!
She drags herself deeper and deeper into the cornfield. She
stops, panting, listening. There is no sound of the
attacker following. Weeping, she drags herself deeper into
the corn. She bumps into two legs. She looks up,
screams. A shot is fired.
Her body is dragged from the cornfield, across a path and
into the woods. Her limbs are carefully positioned onto her
body. The killer walks out of the woods, back through the
cornfield.
He reaches the other side and looks out on their car. He
goes to it. He opens the door and pulls Billy from the
car. The body is dragged past a simple white building,
across a road and into the far woods.
SUPER: THREE MONTHS LATER
EXT CABIN IN WOODS MORNING
Several cars pull over about 100 yards from a cabin in the
woods. Men in jackets emblazoned with FBI exit the
cars. Guns drawn, they encircle the house. Four agents
position themselves outside the front door. One holds a
device to smash down the door.
AGENT
FBI. Open up. Open up now.
VOICE INSIDE
What?
The LEAD AGENT nods and the man with the device smashes down
the door. The agents burst in, head through an empty living
room littered with fast food wrappers and beer cans and into
the bedroom where they come upon TOM HASKINS, 55. He is
under the covers, just waking up. He is unshaven, bleary
eyed, and still in his clothes.
HASKINS
What the fuck?
LEAD AGENT
Shut up. Thomas Haskins, you’re
under arrest for the murder of Lisa
Sayers and Billy Kemp.
(to another agent)
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 7.
LEAD AGENT (cont’d)
Read him his rights.
Haskins is yanked out of bed, cursing. He is
handcuffed. As he is read his rights, the lead agent exits
the room and enters an adjoining room. ALL FOUR WALLS ARE
COVERED WITH PHOTOS OF KIDS MAKING LOVE. Transfixed, the
agent moves slowly along the wall till he stops, staring at
a photo of Lisa Sayers and Billy Kemp in her car making out.
SUPER: NEXT DAY
INT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE AFTERNOON
Danny Sayers, the cop we met in the opening scene in the
bar, leans over a desk. His police uniform is
wrinkled. His shirt hangs over the back of his pants.
MACK CARNEY, the sheriff, a man in his early fifties, stares
back at him. BUCK LANDWELL, a man in his early sixties and
wearing a suit, stands behind Mack. Buck adjusts his tie in
a mirror.
DANNY
Tom Haskins is a low life who has
abused women his whole life, but he
ain’t up to this.
Mack reads from a paper. The headline reads LOCAL DERELICT
ARRESTED IN LOVERS MURDER. Below it there is a mug shot
photo of Haskins. Buck eyes himself in profile in the
mirror.
MACK
Burglary, assault, soliciting, two
assaults on prostitutes...
DANNY
The guy we want murdered Billy and
my sister.
Buck leans over and points at the paper Mack is holding.
BUCK
Not to mention attempted rape.
Sayers, Haskins killed
them. That’s the conclusion of the
FBI. The crime happened on Federal
property. It’s their jurisdiction.
Mack can get in trouble for having
let you work this unofficially.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 8.
DANNY
(to Mack)
That’s not enough. Why did he
separate the bodies and position
them the way he did?
BUCK
Cause he’s sick. You can’t make
sense of what sick people
do. Besides, there’s more.
MACK
When they arrested him they found
these taped to the walls in one
room.
Mack pulls several copies of photos from a folder and
spreads them out on his desk. The photos show lovers in
parked cars.
MACK
He’s been stalking kids fooling
around. Spying on them, taking
pictures when they’re, you know.
BUCK
When they’re screwing.
MACK
Seems like killing them is a
reasonable next step. He’s got no
alibi. Look Danny, if I thought
there was any chance the killer was
out.....
DANNY
Mack, you got nothing linking him
to the crime.
MACK
Got this.
He hands Danny a photo.
MACK
I didn’t want to have to show this
to you. That’s Billy and Lisa up
at South Mountain a week before
they were killed.
Danny stares at the photo. They are making love.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 9.
BUCK:
Even if it was our case, leaving a
closed case open is a waste of
time.
DANNY
You’re just worried the tourists
will get scared off.
BUCK
That happens to be my job.
DANNY
Kim and Carter’s disappearance is
still our jurisdiction.
BUCK
Not this again.
DANNY
Another two young lovers vanish one
year to the day before my sister
and Billy were slaughtered.
MACK
FBI looked at that too.
DANNY
I’ll work this on my own time.
BUCK
(pointing to Mack)
You’ll do what he says.
MACK
Look what it’s doing to you. And
my daughter.
DANNY
Leave her out of this.
MACK
You’re ruining both your lives.
Danny looks at Mack who looks away. Danny walks up to Buck.
DANNY
I don’t know how a newcomer like
you got elected mayor, but you
don’t call the shots.
(to Mack)
If my father was still sheriff...
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 10.
BUCK
From what I hear, if your father
was alive he would be out at The
Last Chance crying in his beer
about Vietnam.
DANNY DECKS BUCK. Mack grabs him. Buck wipes the blood from
his lip.
MACK
Now you’ve done it.
Danny storms out walking through an office where Patsi sits
at a desk. The sign on her deak says DISPATCHER. She rises
and runs after him.
SUPER: NINE MONTHS LATER
INT VISITOR’S CENTER MOVIE ROOM AFTERNOON
Danny stands inside a small circular theater with elevated
seating. A MINIATURE DIORAMA of the battlefield fronts the
seats. He wears a wrinkled green uniform and a brown hat
with a Park Service insignia. The uniform is too small. His
shirt is hanging out. His gun has been replaced by a beeper.
A dozen tourists wearing cameras and binoculars face him.
DANNY
(gesturing at the diorama)
Now this Panorama.
TOURIST
It’s called a diorama.
Danny glares at him, mad at the tourist and mad at his
situation.
EXT. DUNKER CHURCH
A group of tourists cluster around MORGAN BLAKE, an African
American Park Ranger in his early 60’s. He stands in front
of a small white church and gestures.
MORGAN
General Lee has an army with no
shoes, about half the size of the
Union army, but he believes the
South can win. On paper it doesn’t
seem possible. The North’s got the
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 11.
MORGAN (cont’d)
money, the men, the weapons, but by
September of 1862 Lee has an army
that believes it can whip the
North.
He turns and gestures toward a small white church.
MORGAN
The sad irony is that in one day
23,000 Americans were killed or
wounded around this church where
the pacifist Dunkers worshipped.
INT.VISITOR’S CENTER/ RECEPTION
ZEKE OTTO, a frail looking young man in his early twenties
snaps a picture for a couple standing under a photograph of
Robert E. Lee. Zeke wears an ironed Park Service Uniform and
tips his hat to the lady. They thank him and take back their
camera. He seats himself at a reception desk.
Patsi walks up, dressed in her police uniform. He smiles at
her. His fingers play in front of his face.
PATSI
I know your sister Kim been gone
two years and I know you miss her.
Patsi places her hand on Zeke’s face, then leans over and
hugs him. He hugs her back. She steps back, smiles. He
signs.
PATSI
Yes, well, it’s going to get even
busier.
She gestures toward TUCKER GEHRING, a young man in a Union
uniform who is staring at a row of rifles in a display case
just inside a nearby doorway. Zeke looks disgusted. He
signs.
PATSI
Oh yes, that’s the one they had a
problem with last year. I’m
surprised he came back.
(looking around)
Where’s my Danny?
Zeke signs again and points at a door. He starts to get up.
She presses down on his shoulder, then lifts his head and
rumples his hair. She mouths, "Thanks, I’m sure I’ll find
him."
12.
INT. VISITORS CENTER/ MOVIE ROOM
Danny munches on a candy bar as he closes the door. He walks
through rooms filled with mannequins dressed in Civil War
uniforms, a box of a surgeon’s tools, various rifles, and
battlefield maps.
On the walls there are several photographs depicting the
bloated bodies of the Union and Confederate soldiers as they
lay on the battlefield. Under each photograph it reads
MATTHEW BRADY/PHOTOGRAPHER.
Through a large window Danny sees Morgan by the church and
smiles. He reenters the diorama room where the miniature
battlefield is laid out. He shuts out the light, presses a
button, then follows the shifting flicker of lights that
illuminate the action.
AUDIO
In 1862 a Confederate Army under
Robert E. Lee invaded Maryland and
brought the Civil War to Northern
soil. On these hallowed grounds two
great armies fought a decisive
battle. Known as Antietam in the
North and Sharpsburg in the South,
it remains the bloodiest day in our
history.
Patsi enters. She turns on the light. She goes up to Danny
and kisses him on the lips, then looks into his eyes. Danny
flips a switch and the diorama goes dark.
PATSI
What are you thinking about?
DANNY
If anything is going to happen. One
year anniversary tomorrow. Two
years for Kim and Carter.
PATSI
Are you ever going to be able to
let this go?
DANNY
I don’t know. I do know the
killing was on the battlefield for
a reason. This is the battle’s
anniversary. If he’s going to kill
again, it could be now. Haskins is
innocent.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 13.
PATSI
You can’t be certain. Either way
he deserves to be in jail. Billy
and Lisa’s death are not your
fault.
DANNY
It was on my watch.
PATSI
Our watch. I work for the
department and my father is the
sheriff. Besides, even if Haskins
isn’t the killer the real one could
be a thousand miles away...or dead.
Danny looks down. Patsi turns her back on him. He turns her
around.
DANNY
I think I can handle failing as
long as I know I tried
everything. If I give up and he
kills someone, it might be I
could’ve stopped him. I might be
able to live with what happened,
but I couldn’t live with that.
PATSI
Lisa would want you to get on with
your life. You go like this we’ll
lose each other.
DANNY
I’m damaged goods.
She forces him to look at her.
PATSI
Everybody is. Let it go.
DANNY
Afraid I’m going to screw up your
career in law enforcement?
PATSI
Are you gonna be disappointed if
there’s no murder tomorrow?
He doesn’t flinch. She leaves, slamming the door.
14.
EXT. DUNKER CHURCH CONTINUOUS
Morgan looks out over the intent gazes of the tourists. By
the Visitor’s Center Bo and a group of soldiers practice
with their rifles. Several hundred men dressed as soldiers
practice mock charges into the nearby cornfield. Morgan
gestures towards them.
MORGAN
Couple of days, hundreds of men are
gonna do their best to make this
carnage seem real. Lucky for us
it’s only a reenactment. But 150
years ago one hundred thirty five
thousand men sat facing each other
knowing many would die. Think about
those men.
Morgan sees Zeke exit the Visitor’s Center and come running
towards him.
INT VISITORS CENTER
Danny flips the switch and the diorama lights up. As the
audio plays Danny mouths the words. In the background there
are canned sound effects of bullets, a cannonade, and the
screams and terrified laughter of the combatants.
AUDIO
At dawn Union forces struck the
Rebel left flank in the cornfield.
The battle raged until the crush of
bodies and blaze of bullets left
hardly a stalk of corn standing.
Four hours later, 13,000 men lay
dead or wounded and the battle
shifted to the center. There, in
the stifling heat of the late
summer sun, the two great armies
confronted each other on a sunken
county road that forevermore would
be known as Bloody Lane. Later,
Union forces under General Burnside
charged over a stone bridge,
collapsing the Confederate flank
until rebel reinforcements arrived
and drove them back, leaving the
armies where they were that
morning.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 15.
Danny stares at a figure of a Confederate soldier in a glass
case. He turns away, then wheels and crouches, drawing an
imaginary gun. He slaps off six shots with his free hand.
He straightens, blowing smoke from his index finger and
shaking his head.
He shuts of his lights, standing there in darkness except
for the small lights illuminating the battlefield. As taps
play he flips a switch, killing the audio. He walks to the
front door and stops. Under a sign announcing, "No
Smoking", Danny lights up.
EXT DUNKER CHURCH
The group of tourists break apart as Zeke rushes towards
them. He goes to Morgan and signs. Morgan nods patiently,
then shrugs to indicate he doesn’t understand. Zeke points
frantically towards the Visitor’s Center.
MORGAN
Folks, you have to excuse me. You
enjoy yourselves these next few
days.
Zeke runs toward the Visitor Center. Morgan follows,
walking slowly. Zeke goes inside and runs past Danny without
seeing him.
As Morgan enters Tucker, the one Patsi had noticed with
unease earlier, is taunting Zeke, mimicking sign
language. Morgan steps between them.
MORGAN
Got a problem son?
Tucker shakes his head. Zeke signs to Morgan who struggles
to follow. Danny walks up. Zeke signs to Danny. Danny turns
to Tucker.
DANNY
Listen you created enough problems
last year. Don’t go riding Zeke.
Wrong guy to bother...got it?
TUCKER
Is it my fault I can’t understand
what the crazy mute kid says?
Zeke tries to get at Tucker. Morgan restrains him. Tucker
dares him to come on with his eyes. Tucker then looks
innocently at Morgan and Danny.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 16.
MORGAN
Move on son.
Tucker walks away slowly, looking back at Zeke.
DANNY
You bother him again I’ll take you
down.
TUCKER
You ain’t no cop no more.
Danny starts to go after him but Morgan stops him.
MORGAN
I’m too old to be breaking up
fights. ’Sides, we’ve only been
partners a week.
DANNY
Yes sir.
MORGAN
Don’t call me sir. What’s the
story with that boy?
DANNY
Mother died in childbirth. Raised
by his dad who physically abused
him, maybe more. Something
happened when he was in his early
teens. He stopped talking. Father
got drunk one night and drove into
a tree. Dead. His grandmother,
Mrs. Otto, raised him and his
younger sister, Kim, the girl who
disappeared two years ago. This
battlefield is all he has in life.
MORGAN
That explains why Patsi and you
look after him. You both lost your
sisters.
Morgan walks away past a grandstand and several booths under
construction, waving to and shaking the hands of various
towns people completing their day’s work. Near the
grandstand, Civil War commemorative flags frame a banner
that reads:"150th ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF
ANTIETAM/SHARPSBURG----AMERICA’S BLOODIEST DAY."
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 17.
Zeke signs to Danny. Danny nods. Zeke hops into a van with
several other soldiers. Bayonets stick out the van’s windows
as it drives off. Tucker stands by a cannon, glaring at
Zeke.
Ella, the bartender in the opening scene, walks up and
engages Morgan. She hands him a cell phone, then explains
something about it. He holds his hat in his hand, bows
slightly. She gives him a bag of donuts. She motions
towards Danny.
ELLA
Thanks for getting him the
job. How’s he doing?
MORGAN
Not bad for his first week---he
hasn’t quit or been fired.
ELLA
Patsi isn’t helping him and the
whole town thinks Haskins did
it. Except...
MORGAN
Except what?
ELLA
Except Danny doesn’t buy it. Maybe
if you revisit it with him he can
let it go. He loved Lisa. Their
mother died young. Danny mostly
raised her while their dad drank
himself to death.
MORGAN
And if he’s right?
ELLA
Then you find the scum who murdered
Billy and Lisa.
(pauses)
Stop by after work. I’ll buy you a
drink.
Morgan nods. Morgan reaches car with a U.S. Park Service
insignia on the door and a lightbar. He leans against the
passenger door. He watches as Danny saunters past the same
townspeople, some of whom move to avoid him.
18.
EXT BATTLEFIELD 4PM
Morgan and Danny drive through the park. Danny munching on a
donut. He has unbuttoned his uniform shirt, revealing a
Baltimore Colts t-shirt.
MORGAN
Looking out for that boy.
Commendable, very commendable.
DANNY
That Tucker kid creeps me
out. Something wrong there...very
wrong.
Danny stares into space. They drive along a narrow two lane
road through the battlefield. Groups of tourists line the
road on both sides, reading plaques.
DANNY
It says a lot when you realize the
most exciting thing that happens in
this burg all year is a Halloween
party over some 140 year old
battle.
MORGAN
150 years. Haven’t you lived here
your whole life?
DANNY
Don’t remind me.
They drive past a cemetery.
MORGAN
(continuing)
For one day this town was the most
important place in the world. How
many places can you say that about?
DANNY
Hell of a lot of them visitors
loved it so much they
stayed...permanent. Course the rest
got out as quick as they could.
MORGAN
I think this was the most important
battle of the war. It kept Britain
from recognizing the
Confederacy. This victory allowed
Lincoln to issue The Emancipation
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 19.
MORGAN (cont’d)
Proclamation. It was now more than
a battle about saving the
Union. It was a war to end
slavery, a war about freedom.
Hundreds of soldiers in uniform charge at each other across
an open field and collide, pretending to kill each
other. Soldiers set off fake charges from cannons.
DANNY
What do these buffs get out of it,
some dopey death high? There’s no
sense in honoring war.
MORGAN
That’s not it. It’s about honoring
the men who fought here. There’s a
certain beauty...in the clarity.
DANNY
Clarity?
MORGAN
A lot of them boys thought they
were dying for something
meaningful.
DANNY
How many you think felt that way
after the war? How’d their families
feel? How many would’ve wished
they were the ones who turned and
ran, or ducked out on the whole
thing to begin with?
Morgan stops the car and looks at the men pretending to
shoot each other. As one group fires men on the other side
fall down. The process is then reversed.
MORGAN
Sometimes you’re stuck with what
you believe in the moment you’re
in. ’Sides, for some of them
might’ve been easier to die than to
desert the man next to him and live
knowing they were cowards.
Danny starts to speak, then stops. He lights a smoke. They
pass workmen repositioning cannon on the battlefield. They
pass another cemetery.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 20.
MORGAN
We lost 700,000 American men in
this war, more than in all our
other wars put together. Brother
versus brother, killing each other
for what each thought was their
country. It’s hard to explain. You
either get it or you don’t. We’re
on hallowed ground.
DANNY
You talk of the Rebs the same way
as the Yanks. They were fighting
to keep you in chains.
MORGAN
There were racists in the North
too. I admire things in Washington
and Jefferson and they owned
slaves. Got pictures of them on
some bills in my wallet. Sometimes
you have to separate a man from his
sins.
DANNY
I don’t get you.
MORGAN
What nationality are you?
DANNY
Welsh.
MORGAN
Do you think of yourself as Welsh?
DANNY
No.
MORGAN
Then why am I obligated to think of
myself as black? I’m not
exonerating them for their
sins. Maybe because I am black I
can identify with the
underdog. Look, people are just
people who get delivered different
parts. We’re not always to blame
if we act them too well.
Danny looks down on the compact houses of Sharpsburg.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 21.
DANNY
Hardly anyone lives here, but they
got to live right on top of each
other.
Morgan looks at Danny, waits. Danny stops the car, letting
a dozen soldiers cross to the other side. Several of the
soldiers jokingly salute them.
MORGAN
I grew up in a big city. You meet
all sorts people you never know at
all. In a small town people notice
you.
DANNY
Sure, look at me. I’m loved. You’ll
see, in Sharpsburg, everything just
repeats itself and it wasn’t any
good the first time.
Morgan waits. In the distance a line of traffic approaches
town.
MORGAN
The enemy approaches.
Danny stares intently at the horizon. They pull over,
looking down on a stone bridge. Dozens of men and boys in
Civil War garb stand on the far side.
EXT BURNSIDE’S BRIDGE
FINN TAYLOR, 40, dressed as an officer, charges across the
bridge. A whistle blows. The battle stops. Finn dismounts
and slaps his saber on the rock. He calls across the bridge
to several men crouched behind rocks and trees on the
opposite side of the bridge.
FINN
I want every defender giving the
Rebel yell.
Zeke stands up.
FINN
Exceptin’ you.
22.
INT PARK RANGER CAR
On the other side of the car several men with shovels look
out on a field. One waves his hat at a cluster of men a
hundred yards in the distance. One man pushes down on a
detonator box. Puffs of smoke explode in sequence on the
ground. Finn walks up to the car.
MORGAN
Finn.
FINN
Morgan. Danny. You think those
Rebs got a chance this weekend?
MORGAN
Don’t bet on it.
Morgan slaps the side of the car and they drive on.
EXT. HILL OVERLOOKING BLOODY LANE
Tucker looks under his coat. He walks ten feet forward then
turns, walks a few feet to his right, then turns around and
walks ten feet back.
EXT. HILL OVERLOOKING BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE
Two teenager kids with spiked haircuts and Megadeath
t-shirts watch the Park Ranger car approach. They run
down the hill, one of them carrying what appears to be an
infant wrapped in a blanket. One checks both ways as he
reaches the road, placing the infant on the road. They run
back up the hill.
INT. MAYOR’S OFFICE CONTINUOUS
Buck sits at his desk opposite Mack. The walls of the office
are covered with pictures of himself. He slides a newspaper
across his desk. The heading on an inside page entitled
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR reads, "KILLER AT LARGE?" Mack reads
letter as Buck speaks.
BUCK
Jim Folsom said he had to print
it. It’s a Letter to the
Editor. Danny says Haskins is
innocent and demands we reopen the
Parker/Otto disappearance.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 23.
MACK
We’ll be ok. There’s nowhere to go
with it. No major paper will touch
this---it’ll blow over.
BUCK
We had runaways, then a double
homicide. We can’t let him screw
this year up. You talk to him.
MACK
He won’t listen. Maybe Morgan can
get through to him.
Mack picks up phone.
EXT BATTLEFIELD PARK
The Park Ranger car screeches to a halt. Danny jumps out and
runs to the bundled baby and turns it over, It is a dead
raccoon. Laughter can be heard from atop the hill. He bolts
up the hill. He runs twenty yards, then sees the kids
disappear over the hill.
FIRST KID
The killer lives.
Morgan watches Danny come over the hill panting.
MORGAN
If your gonna track the young ones
you should stick to flat running.
(pauses)
It’s just kids.
Danny gets behind the wheel. Morgan answers his cell phone,
then listens.
MORGAN
Danny and I will be there....
He stops, listens, then closes the phone.
MORGAN
(turns to Danny)
Buck and Mack want to see
me. Alone.
DANNY
That means they published my
letter. Patsi is gonna kill me.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 24.
MORGAN
What letter?
EXT MAYORS OFFICE DUSK
Morgan gets out and walks around to Danny’s window. He
stares at a small brick building. A large sign reads "The
Honorable Buck Reginald Dent/Mayor of Sharpsburg."
MORGAN
I get it, it’s your sister. I
didn’t think it was my place to
bring it up. But do you have
anything?
DANNY
Nothing. I’ve checked every
institution within 200 miles, every
similar killing in the past three
years in the nearest six
states. Even contacted every other
National Park Service site to see
if they ever had anything like this
anywhere near them.
MORGAN
What about the guy they convicted?
DANNY
He won’t talk to anyone. He didn’t
even testify at his trial. Not
that anybody would believe anything
he said.
MORGAN
How come Haskins got convicted if
it was so damn obvious he was
innocent?
DANNY
Never said it was obvious. He’s a
creep who beats up women. He tried
to rape one. And he was a peeping
Tom---had photos of Billy and Lisa
having sex---along with half the
kids in town.
MORGAN
No alibi?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 25.
DANNY
Home alone. Haskins was most
always home alone.
MORGAN
You should try talking to him.
DANNY
He’ll never....
Morgan gets out and walks towards the Mayor’s office. He
speaks over his shoulder.
MORGAN
You’re probably right. ’Sides,
it’s all of a twenty minute drive.
Morgan takes a few steps, then turns back.
MORGAN
You think the runaways the year
before....
DANNY
My sister and Billy are murdered
one year to the day
later. They’re dead. Same
killer.
MORGAN
How about the girl’s grandmother?
DANNY
She’s a shut-in. She won’t talk to
anybody since we never found her
granddaughter. Both Zeke and her
swear Kim would’ve called if she
was alive.
Morgan stares at him, then walks away, shaking his head.
INT. LAST CHANCE BAR EVENING
Ella wipes down the bar. She is dressed in jeans and a
corduroy shirt. She wears no makeup. The bar is packed with
regulars and tourists. Some of the men are dressed as
Confederates and Yankees. A neon clock over the bar reads
8pm. J.J. Cale’s "After Midnight" plays.
She lifts a bus tray full of bottles over the worn wooden
bar. Danny sits at the end of the bar, a shot of Bourbon and
two empty Buds in front of him.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 26.
He stares at a map marked with two red and two green stars
and clippings from a manila file marked BILLY KEMP AND LISA
SAYERS. Another File is marked CARTER PARKER AND KIM OTTO.
Danny looks up. Ella inclines her head. He nods. With a
practiced motion she reaches into the cooler and extracts a
Bud. Two YOUNG MEN, both dressed as soldiers, finish their
Buds. Ella smiles at them, cocks her head, but they wave
her off.
SOLDIER #1
I’m in enough hot water as it is.
SOLDIER#2
When Martha calls tell her I left
an hour ago.
SOLDIER #1
I was never here.
ELLA
Could be your epitaph.
(smiles)
Boys you’re on your own. They
stopped believing me years ago.
Where you fighting tomorrow?
SOLDIER #2
We’re still not sure.
SOLDIER #1
(rolling eyes)
Ours not to reason why....
The soldiers depart. Ella moseys over to Danny with a beer.
Patsi walks in and sits down next to Danny. She stares at
the files.
PATSI
I’m real sorry about what I said
today.
She takes his head and forces him to look at her.
DANNY
I don’t blame you.
PATSI
You should. It was a terrible
thing to say.
Patsi puts the newspaper Buck showed Mack on the bar.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 27.
PATSI
You’re not exactly popular in town
right now.
Ella glances at the files spread on the bar right now.
ELLA
Mack know about this?
PATSI
What do you think?
DANNY
These are my files, not Mack’s.
ELLA
I was referring to the fact that
you agreed not to work on the case
as part of the deal that kept you
from being charged with felony
assault for popping our Mayor.
Danny shrugs. Ella pops open a beer and places it before
him.
ELLA
On the house.
EXT PICKUP TRUCK
Tucker sits in his truck. He looks down from the road and
sees the Park Ranger car in front of the bar with a wood-cut
sign that reads, "LAST CHANCE." Trucks line the street in
front of the bar. Some have rifles hung in their rear
windows. He takes a slug of whiskey.
EXT. BATTLEFIELD.
Bo sits by a campfire, staring intently at the flames.
INT LAST CHANCE
Ella leans over the bar facing Danny.
ELLA
You’ve had a few.
DANNY
No more than usual.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 28.
ELLA
I’m not talking about how much
you’re drinking, but how you’re
drinking.
PATSI
My father has gone out on a limb
for you.
Danny slams his fist on the bar.
DANNY
I don’t need you to tell me that.
The bar falls silent. Danny stares back at the people
staring at him.
PATSI
Let’s go home.
Danny gets up and walks with her out the door.
EXT LAST CHANCE
Morgan pulls up. He gets out and tips his hat to Patsi.
DANNY
So?
MORGAN
They asked me to rein you in. Said
you were trying to screw up the
reenactment just to get your name
in the papers.
DANNY
And you said?
MORGAN
I said I thought the bigger risk
was you might be right and either
way there’d be no harm in adding on
some cops and rangers and maybe I
could just informally revisit the
investigation. I brought up looking
into the runaways again.
(pauses)
Buck didn’t think much of
that. What’s your next play?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 29.
DANNY
Heading over to Mrs. Otto’s in the
morning. You’re right, can’t hurt
to try.
MORGAN
Mind if I tag along?
DANNY
Tomorrow’s a big day.
MORGAN
Gonna be tough on the others both
of us calling in sick in the
morning.
DANNY
Thanks for backing my play.
MORGAN
How about Carter’s folks?
DANNY
Dead. No relatives. He was a
drifter.
MORGAN
Billy’s?
DANNY
Dad’s dead. Mom moved to
California after Billy was
killed. No one has heard from her
since.
Morgan nods. Patsi looks at Morgan in resignation. When
Morgan reaches the door of the bar he turns.
MORGAN
I know you think the same guy
killed Carter and Kim, but is there
anything that makes you think the
killings we’re sure of were
connected to the battle?
DANNY
He positioned the bodies, then
dragged them to two different
places AFTER he killed them. And
he did it on a battlefield. Who
does that? There has to be a
connection.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 30.
MORGAN
Where were they...killed and where
were they found?
DANNY
Billy was shot in the car, by the
Dunker Church, then dragged to the
West Woods. That’s a long haul.
Lisa tried to run away after Billy
was killed. She was shot in the
leg at the edge of the cornfield,
then murdered 15 yards into the
cornfield, then dragged to the
woods on the other side. Why do
that?
Morgan nods and heads into the bar.
INT LAST CHANCE
Morgan enters and sits on a stool. A few locals shout
greetings. Ella puts a bourbon in front of Morgan before he
sits down at the bar.
ELLA
You going to help Danny?
MORGAN
Yes I am.
ELLA
Your rising popularity might
suffer.
MORGAN
I guess I gotta take that chance.
Ella wipes down the bar. She pours herself a bourbon.
ELLA
It’ll keep rising with me.
She waits. Morgan doesn’t know how to answer.
ELLA
What do I have to do here? Ask you
out?
Morgan takes that in. He shuffles his feet, then points out
the window at Patsi and Danny getting into their car. Patsi
is driving.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 31.
MORGAN
How they doing?
ELLA
About the same...not good.
MORGAN
He thinks she’s too good for him.
ELLA
I’m so sick of men who think
they’re doing us a favor saving us
from them. You tell that boy he’s
gonna lose her.
MORGAN
I just met him. What makes you
think I can get him to do something
she can’t?
The door slams open and Tucker enters. He’s agitated.
ELLA
Your trade ain’t welcome here.
Morgan gets off his stool.
MORGAN
You heard the lady.
TUCKER
(to Morgan)
Got a woman doing your talking.
(to Ella)
I’ll have a beer and a shot of
Cuervo.
Morgan turns to Tucker.
MORGAN
What didn’t you hear?
TUCKER
I ain’t talking to you.
MORGAN
But I am talking to you.
Tucker motions for Morgan to come at him with both hands.
TUCKER
I got nothing to lose.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 32.
Morgan slowly rises. He motions for Ella to give him a
glass.
MORGAN
Me either. I’m just another guy
who’s gonna die someday.
He reaches into his mouth, pulls out a full set of false
teeth and places them in the glass. Tucker walks up to
Morgan, leaning his face close to him. Morgan grabs his arm
and twists it behind Tucker’s back till he cries out in
pain. He relaxes his grip then twists it again.
TUCKER
Okay, okay, I’m going.
Morgan twists harder, then shoves him out the door.
INT SHERIFF’S OFFICE EVENING
Mack studies several sheets of paper on his desk. He
collects them, puts them in a file. The file is marked
BILLY KEMP AND LISA SAYERS. He puts the file in a filing
cabinet. He removes a file and puts it on his desk. It’s
heading is "CARTER PARKER AND KIM OTTO." His cell phone
rings.
INT BEDROOM NIGHT
Patsi and Danny make love. The phone rings. Patsi
answers. She sits up, hands the phone to Danny and turns on
the lamp on an end table.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
From a distance we see TWO BODIES from the back. A MALE
BODY lies with his arms and legs positioned. ITS’ PANTS
HAVE BEEN PULLED DOWN. A FEMALE lies nearby, HER ARMS
CONTORTED. She is wearing a red dress and black shirt. A
figure moves deeper into the woods.
EXT DANNY’S HOUSE NIGHT
Danny bolts out the door and runs to the driver’s side of a
Park Ranger car. He motions to Morgan to move.
DANNY
I’m driving. Give it to me again.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 33.
MORGAN
Something up on the
battlefield---by where your sister
was found. Finn called. I’m not
supposed to know.
DANNY
How come he called you?
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
A person looks through the corn stalks at the pulsing light
of a police car. Two more cars with sirens blaring can be
seen approaching in the distance.
EXT BATTLEFIELD WOODS
Danny and Morgan drive past the Visitor Center, the Dunker
Church, then along the periphery of the cornfield, pulling
over by several police and park ranger cars with lightbars
pulsing at the edge of the woods.
Danny drives past the cars, then jerks to a halt by a group
of rangers and cops. Danny leaps out and rushes up to
them. Morgan follows slowly.
They come upon Finn, leaning against the statue of an upside
down cannon, deliberately looking away from what another cop
has shined a flashlight on. It is shining on two bodies
just inside the woods. As they get closer they can see they
are clothed mannequins. Danny stares, frozen.
MORGAN
(to Finn)
What’ve we got?
FINN
Something real sick. I thought
they were real at first so I called
the cops.
Morgan walks up to Finn and places his hand on his shoulder.
FINN
I wasn’t even supposed to be
here. Just cut across here to save
a few minutes...then this...
He points to the bodies. Danny and Morgan walk over to the
cops standing by the figures of a man and a woman.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 34.
DANNY
Just how Lisa and Billy looked.
MORGAN
How so?
DANNY
It’s exactly how they were
positioned. This is also where
they found Lisa.
Finn steps up.
FINN
I’m sorry you had to see this.
DANNY
Billy had his pants pulled
down---just like that. Dressed
exactly like they were.
MORGAN
You never told me his pants were
pulled down.
DANNY
I just...
MORGAN
How many people knew that?
BILLY
A dozen maybe.
MORGAN
And was there...
DANNY
No evidence of sexual assault, no
mutilation, we left it out of the
papers for Billy’s mom’s sake.
EXT BATTLEFIELD WOODS
Buck and Mack walk toward Finn. They pass the Park Ranger
car.
BUCK
How the hell are they here before
us?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 35.
MACK
Small town.
Two police officers come up and confer with Buck and Mack.
MACK
Yeah.
Morgan comes up.
BUCK
(to Mack)
So it’s some kind of sick kid’s
trick.
MORGAN
This ain’t the work of kids.
BUCK
Sheriff agrees with me.
Mack looks at Morgan helplessly. Danny arrives in time to
hear this. He pushes past Buck and Mack. He looks at
Morgan.
DANNY
This is our turf.
BUCK
One week on the job and this
jackass thinks he has a turf.
MORGAN
One week, one decade. This is
Federal Property.
(looking at Danny)
My partner and I have jurisdiction
here unless it’s a felony.
Danny steps forward and smiles at Buck.
BUCK
Hoping you’ll get to do another
interview?
DANNY
Why don’t you get ready for your
costume ball war?
(to Mack)
Exactly like we found Billy and
Lisa.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 36.
MACK
I don’t know that it’s exactly...
DANNY
I do.
MORGAN
The male figure’s pants were pulled
down. How many people knew that?
MACK
Not many, but it only takes one
person to talk.
Morgan stares intently at the dummy. Something has caught
his attention, but he can’t quite get at it.
BUCK
Morgan, you have to understand any
kinda...scandal can be very costly
to the people in our town.
MORGAN
A year ago was a pretty costly day
for Billy and Lisa.
BUCK
I know that. So do the vandals who
did this.
DANNY
This is a warning. Only the killer
could know this. He’s going to kill
again. First Carter and Kim....
BUCK
Jesus, you’re not gonna try again
to drag a couple runaways....
MACK
You know damn well Carter Parker
was a drifter who told everyone
who’d listen he was getting outta
here and never coming back.
DANNY
And you know Kim would have called
her grandmother to tell her she was
ok. If she was ok.
MORGAN
I’ll make you a deal.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 37.
DANNY
No fucking deals.
MORGAN
(ignoring him)
Cordon this area and the one in the
West Woods off. Make it look like
it has something to do with the
reenactment. Get these dummies
photographed and brought down to
the police station for prints. And
station men where Billy was
found---just in case whoever did
this goes there.
MACK
You got it.
Danny and Morgan walk away. Buck turns to Mack and pulls
out his cell.
BUCK
I’m calling Jim Chandler. Here’s
what I want you to do.
INT. PARK RANGER CAR CONTINUOUS.
Morgan is driving.
DANNY
Listen, something could go down
tonight. Can we drive past a few
of the lover’s lane places? I
looked earlier, but it can’t hurt
to doublecheck.
MORGAN
Do you really think....
DANNY
It can’t hurt. The killer did
this.
MORGAN
Someone who had access to the
photos of Billy and Lisa could do
this, whether he was the killer or
not.
Danny starts to object, then lets it go.
38.
EXT LAKE
THE SAME CAR that followed Billy and Lisa from The Last
Chance pulls to a stop. In the distance another car is
parked by a lake. A door opens and shuts. A figure moves
through the woods.
EXT. CUL DE SAC BY LAKE
A car is parked in front of the lake. A teenage couple is
in the back seat making love.
A person eyes them from behind a tree 50 yards away. As
they continue their love-making, the figure moves from tree
to tree, getting closer. The figure is now 10 yards
away. The couple fall silent. There is the sound of a gun
being cocked.
Headlights flash on the car and a horn honks. Danny gets out
of the car and speaks through a bullhorn.
DANNY
Jimmy Spooner---you get on outta
here.
JIMMY SPOONER, a teenager, pokes his head through a rear
window.
JIMMY
Jesus, Danny, you scared the shit
outta me. What are we doing wrong?
Danny looks at Morgan who shrugs. He struggles for an
answer.
DANNY
Look, for the next few days just do
yourself a favor and get a hotel
room.
JIMMY
I’m 18 years old. I can’t afford
one.
Danny walks over. He holds out some money. The girl
quickly pulls on her clothes. The kid gets out, pulling up
his pants.
The figure behind the tree recedes into the woods. Jimmy
takes the money.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 39.
JIMMY
Thanks a lot. Thanks fucking a
lot.
Danny returns to the car. He gets in. The kids drive off.
MORGAN
You continue to work on being the
most unpopular man in town.
DANNY
That was the last spot.
They drive away.
INT. MORGAN’S HOUSE
Morgan sits at a computer, reading news accounts of the
murders of Billy and Lisa and the disappearance of Kim and
Carter. The walls are filled with photographs of Civil War
generals.
On the bedstand is a photo of several young men kneeling
before a much younger Morgan. They are in uniform. Next to
it is a photo of Morgan with his arms around a woman
standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Roy Orbison’s
"Only The Lonely" plays.
EXT SHARPSBURG MORNING
Lines of cars snake through mountain passes towards the
town. Troops parade on the battlefield. Townspeople open
shops. Women dressed as Civil War nurses set up booths by
the Visitor’s Center. There is the overall bustle of a
small town on the verge of making money.
Zeke unlocks the Visitor’s Center. Tucker watches him from
a cannon near the entrance. Buck exits the Visitor’s Center
followed by Mack. Finn stands at an intersection, directing
traffic.
EXT MORGAN’S HOUSE
Danny pounds on the door. He pounds again. A chorus of
whistles fills the air. Danny wheels. A pick-up truck full
of teenage girls dressed as Civil war nurses drives
past. They wave. He crouches and reaches for his gun, then
pulls up the beeper on his belt.
40.
EXT. MORGAN’S HOUSE
Morgan opens the door, coffee cup in hand.
DANNY
We got a problem.
MORGAN
That being.
DANNY
Nothing is cordoned off. I just
drove through.
MORGAN
Did Mack...
DANNY
I came here first. I told you it
was a bad deal.
Danny turns and jogs back to the car. Morgan walks,
stopping by a flagpole on his front lawn. He raises the
Union and Confederate flags, Union flag on top. He is deep
in thought.
DANNY
Come on.
Morgan walks slowly to the car and gets in. He picks up the
phone.
MORGAN
(into phone)
Mack, why isn’t the...
(he listens)
Yeah I’ll hold. Jim, why...
(he listens)
And that’s final? Are you aware
these dummies exactly mimicked the
position...
(stops, listens)
I disagree. I’ll be there in ten
minutes.
He hangs up. He sees photos of the mannequins on the dash.
MORGAN
Jim Chandler, the head of the
Eastern Park Service District, was
called by Buck last
night. He countermanded my
order. He’s here now.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 41.
Danny speeds through town. Tourists crowd the streets.
Several people call out greetings to Morgan, a few to
Danny,though most ignore him.
DANNY
You ought to lay into this
Chandler.
MORGAN
No. It’s done. I know Jim
Chandler. He’s reasonable so when
we go you show respect or I go
alone.
DANNY
Pulling rank on me.
MORGAN
I don’t want to alienate someone
whose help we might need just to
please you.
Danny pounds the dash.
MORGAN
Listen, I don’t know what to make
of last night, and either do
you. What I do know is that
whoever did it, went to the trouble
of doing it down to the positioning
of the bodies. It scares me. Now
let’s go do something we can do.
EXT SHARPSBURG
Morgan and Danny drive through the battlefield.
MORGAN
Is there anything that...that twigs
you about the case? Something that
doesn’t fit. Anything happen where
they were dragged to?
DANNY
Only that there was heavy action in
both places in the morning phase of
the battle.
MORGAN
So if he strikes this year, you’re
thinking it’ll be the second phase,
Bloody Lane?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 42.
DANNY
Maybe, but the Otto and Parker
kids, where would that put
them? There was no phase before
the morning phase.
MORGAN
Let’s go see Jim. It’s still our
watch and none of this...
(he gestures at the crowds)
is stopping for us.
INT. MAYOR’S OFFICE
Danny stands in the doorway. Buck and Mack stand behind a
desk at which Jim Chandler sits. Morgan faces Chandler.
MORGAN
Jim, that’s final.
CHANDLER
Morgan, I understand what happened
last night is strange. But I see
no reason to panic anyone over some
dummies. We’ll put some additional
personnel on the battlefield.
DANNY
The guy who murdered my sister is
out there.
CHANDLER
Sheriff tells me there were some
folks who knew how they were
positioned.
DANNY
Get the homicide scene photos.
You’ll see they were exact
duplications. Only the killer
could do that.
BUCK
You just stick with the tourists
and leave the criminals to us.
CHANDLER
(to Buck)
I’ll handle this.
(to Morgan)
You need to let this go. Right
now.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 43.
Morgan positions himself between Danny and Buck. Danny
storms out, slamming the door. Morgan slowly follows. In
the hallway, Danny wheels on him.
DANNY
What now?
MORGAN
(heatedly)
We get to work. We visit Mrs.
Otto, then I want to see exactly
where Billy and your sister were
killed and where he left Billy.
DANNY
Fucking bureaucrat.
MORGAN
We just need more proof. Oh, and
Danny, try and stay calm, maybe you
think I shouldn’t be thinking this,
but this job is all I got.
EXT. MRS. OTTO’S HOUSE. LATE MORNING.
Danny knocks on the door of a clapboard house on a country
lane. The paint is peeling. The floorboards on the porch
are partially rotted. The lawn is overgrown. The shades
are drawn. Danny knocks, waits, then knocks again.
DANNY
Mrs. Otto, it’s Danny Sayers of the
Sharpsburg PD....National Park
Service.
(pauses)
Please don’t leave me standing here
cause I ain’t going to leave till
you open up.
They wait. A bolt slides back. The door slowly is
opened. No one stands in the doorway. A disembodied voice
speaks from the blackness.
MRS. OTTO
Who’s that with you?
Morgan steps forward.
MORGAN
Morgan Blake. We were wondering if
we could have a word with you about
Kim.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 44.
MRS. OTTO
(to Danny)
This man didn’t know Kim.
MORGAN
No ma’am and I’m very sorry...
MRS. OTTO
Don’t go acting like you knew my
little girl.
MORGAN
I’m sorry.
MRS. OTTO
Cause you didn’t so don’t think
calling her by her name is gonna
fool me into thinking you care
about her. I may be old and as good
as dead but I’m no fool.
MORGAN
Ma’am, can we start over? We need
your help.
MRS. OTTO
My little girl ain’t never coming
back and none of them fools in your
police department did nothing about
it. Why’d you come out here
bothering me about it now?
DANNY
Mrs. Otto, there’s a chance the man
who killed my sister might be the
same person who killed Kim.
MORGAN
We’re trying to make sure no other
young person is hurt.
INT.MRS. OTTO’S HOUSE
Morgan and Danny sit on a faded embroidered couch opposite
Mrs. Otto, a woman in her late 70’s. She wears a black
dress and darkened glasses. Her hair is tightly pulled back
on her head.
MRS. OTTO
She loved that boy. Nothing for me
to say or do about that. Kids,
they never listen to anyone when
they think they’re in love.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 45.
DANNY
Would she have left with him?
MRS. OTTO
Yes. Nothing for her here
anyway. Always said she was going
to go someday, even before she met
that boy. Young ones always say
that. But...
MORGAN
Yes.
MRS. OTTO
She would’ve told me she was going.
Danny looks at Morgan, then nods.
MORGAN
So you’re sure?
MRS. OTTO
What does anybody know? Till
someone hurts you you never believe
they will. But she’s dead. That
girl would never leave me like
this.
MORGAN
Anything else you can tell us?
MRS. OTTO
That boy Carter, he’s dead too. He
didn’t kill her. He loved her as
much as she loved him.
MORGAN
And your grandson Zeke---can he
shed any light on this?
MRS. OTTO
My grandson is lucky he can tie his
shoes. Ask him---I haven’t spoken
to him since he moved out. My
son-in-law did something ugly to
him.
46.
EXT VISITOR’S CENTER CONTINUOUS
Ella and Patsi, dressed as Civil war nurses in enormous
gowns and hats, help organize a battlefield hospital. A
young couple, CHRIS MILLER and ELISSA HOOD, a couple in
their early twenties, walk up, hand in hand.
ELLA
Ah, the young soon-to-be newlyweds.
How was your first night in
Sharpsburg?
CHRIS
Thanks to that wine I slept like a
baby.
(hugging Elissa)
I’m the luckiest man alive
ELLA
Yes you are.
They hug and move on.
PATSI
Who are they?
ELLA
Graduate students from
Baltimore. He’s getting his PHD in
history at Johns Hopkins, hers in
psychology---met them at the bar
last night.
PATSI
That was Danny and me a year ago.
ELLA
Danny loves you.
PATSI
He is doing everything he can to
push me away.
ELLA
I know, only cause he loves you.
PATSI
That makes no sense.
ELLA
Honey, not much of anything makes
sense, especially with men. He
can’t leave you, yet he thinks he’s
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 47.
ELLA (cont’d)
ruining your life, so he’s got to
force you to leave him.
PATSI
He thinks he’s a loser and he’s
always gonna be one.
ELLA
And what do you think?
PATSI
I think he’s the best damn man I
ever met.
ELLA
You tell him that?
PATSI
Every day.
Ella sits down next to Patsi.
ELLA
Sometimes, we have to back them
up. You just gotta shut your eyes,
shut your mouth and stand behind
them for as long as it takes. I
think that’s what love is. Morgan
said as much.
PATSI
What does Morgan know about it?
ELLA
Fair point.
(pauses)
Is your dad pressing you about him?
PATSI
Mack knows I love him. He stays
out of it but I know Buck is
busting his balls about Danny.
EXT. CORNFIELD
Morgan and Danny walk from the Dunker Church toward the
cornfield. Busloads of tourists pull up to the Visitor’s
Center.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 48.
They cross a cul-de-sac where dozens of cars are
parked. Scores of tourists gather around plaques and maps
of the battlefield fronting the cornfield. The corn stalks
are higher than a man’s head. They come upon a plaque with a
map displaying the action in the field in front of them.
There is a photograph showing dozens of dead soldiers, their
bodies bloodied, blackened, bloated. Some are missing
limbs, others heads, others the trunks of their
bodies. They lie amidst the tramspled stalks of corn.
MORGAN
Matthew Brady. First time someone
photographed the battlefield dead,
brought the reality of the madness
back home.
DANNY
Let me show you the recent madness.
Danny moves into the cornfield. Morgan follows as they move
through a forest of corn. Danny moves from one point to the
next. He counts, then stops. He starts to lose it, then
collects himself.
DANNY
Round here, 83 paces. This is
where he killed Lisa. He dragged
her another 50 yards to where we
found the mannequins.
MORGAN
Why didn’t he put the male
mannequinn where Billy was
positioned?
DANNY
Maybe he didn’t have time.
MORGAN
He took a real risk moving their
bodies with reenactors all around.
DANNY
But they can’t be on the
battlefield at night. So he had
all the time he needed. But still,
he could’ve been spotted coming
onto or leaving the park so, yes,
there was a risk.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 49.
MORGAN
Did he take anything?
DANNY
What?
MORGAN
Killers sometimes....take
souvenirs. Especially serial
killers.
DANNY
Nothing we know of.
MORGAN
No, no body parts, clothing...
DANNY
(shaking his head)
Jesus, this was my kid sister.
Morgan places a hand on his shoulder.
MORGAN
Sorry. I want to see the photos
of...your sister and Billy and the
files, everything on the case.
DANNY
Mack had access to some of the FBI
files and the photos, but he won’t
give them to me. He’d lose his
job.
MORGAN
What about Patsi?
DANNY
She’s begging me to drop this. I
can’t ask her to do something that
would hurt her father. We have to
find another way.
MORGAN
We don’t have time. If we can get
the photos we can make Chandler see
they’ve been exactly mimicked. I
understand you don’t want to betray
her, but if it helps us catch the
killer....
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 50.
DANNY
(slowly nods)
I still have the keys to the front
door. I have an idea.
MORGAN
Let’s swing by the East Woods
first. Tell me your idea.
EXT WEST WOODS THURSDAY
Danny and Morgan stand by a statue of an upside down cannon.
Danny points at a spot on the ground.
DANNY
This is where they found Billy.
MORGAN
Helluva haul. You’re right, there
has to be a reason.
INT. MAYOR’S OFFICE AFTERNOON
Buck stares out the window.
BUCK:
He’s a loose cannon. I never
should’ve let you talk me into
dropping the assault charge.
MACK
It’s my kid’s boyfriend. You ended
his career. His kid sister was
murdered.
BUCK
He’s not going to let this go.
MACK
But he’s going nowhere. We have
the killer.
BUCK
He’s more resourceful than you
think. He’ll screw things up if he
can. Talk to your daughter.
MACK
What are you suggesting?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 51.
BUCK
You heard what I said.
EXT SHERIFF’S OFFICE AFTERNOON
Morgan exits the office. Patsi follows him out and locks
the front door. He gestures toward his Park Ranger car.
MORGAN
I appreciate the lift. Bum
alternator.
They get into a police car and drive off. Danny walks to
the front door of the sheriff’s office. He opens the door.
INT SHERIFF’S OFFICE
Danny goes to Patsi’s desk. He opens a file cabinet and
removes a file. He goes to the Sheriff’s door. He tries to
open it with another key. It won’t open. He curses under
his breath. He goes to the xerox machine.
EXT BATTLEFIELD BURNSIDES’ BRIDGELATE AFTERNOON
Morgan and Danny sit on a bench overlooking a stone bridge
that spans the narrow Antietam Creek. The photos of Billy
and Lisa’s akwardly positioned bodies are spread before
them.
MORGAN
You know she’s going to figure out
you did this?
Danny nods.
MORGAN
And?
DANNY
She’s had to put up with a lot
worse than this.
Morgan pulls one photo from the pile. Morgan’s cell phone
rings. He looks at it.
MORGAN
Chandler again. Where do I tell
him we’ve been?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 52.
DANNY
You’ll think of something.
Morgan picks up a photo.
MORGAN
God, I’m so sorry Danny.
(pauses)
Wait, I’ve seen this.
DANNY
Where?
MORGAN
This morning. Come on.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CORNFIELD
Morgan and Danny stand before the plaque depicting the
fighting in the cornfield. Morgan holds the photo of Lisa
alongside a Brady shot of the battlefield. One of the dead
soldier’s bodies mirrors the positioning of Lisa.
DANNY
My God, how did I miss it?
MORGAN
Why would you? The corn was here
the night he killed them, but it
was trampled or shot down the day
of the battle. Let’s go.
DANNY
Where?
MORGAN
The library.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
Tucker stands by a garage with a Park Service sign on
it. Several vehicles are there. He gets behind the wheel
of a truck. As Morgan and Danny approach he lies down on
the front seat in order not to be seen by them.
53.
INT. MAYOR’S OFFICE
Buck stares out his window at Bo as he marches by with other
soldiers.
INT PUBLIC LIBRARY
Morgan takes a book off a shelf and sits at a table with
Danny. The title is "The Photography of Matthew
Brady." They flip through page after page of photographs of
soldiers, many of them dead.
MORGAN
We need a photo in the West Woods.
Danny flattens his hand against a page.
DANNY
That one.
Danny points at a photograph of a dead soldier, his body
bloated with gas, his pants ripped open.
MORGAN
Of course, that’s why the pants
were down. When a guy was shot he
sometimes didn’t know where. He
pulled his pants down to see if he
took a gut or groin shot---if he
did he knew he was going to die.
Morgan puts the photo of Billy next to that of the
soldier. Their positions are identical.
DANNY
Only a buff would know that.
Haskins was no buff.
EXT BATTLEFIELD BLOODY LANE DUSK
Morgan, Chandler and Danny walk down Bloody Lane, a sunken
indentation in the ground bordered by a rail fence alongside
a rise in the ground.
CHANDLER
Could be coincidence. Besides, all
this proves is Haskins knew this
and someone who knew how they were
positioned copied it.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 54.
Danny grabs Chandler’s arm and holds the picture of Billy
and the one from the Brady book up and the photos of the
mannequins..
DANNY
The killer did this.
CHANDLER
You think you can prove that in a
court of law, from this?
DANNY
Screw the law---any idiot can see
this.
MORGAN
Take it down a notch Danny.
CHANDLER
It still doesn’t prove the killer
isn’t Haskins. Haskins could’ve
used Brady’s photos for whatever
twisted reason, then some crazy
person mimicked it. You don’t know
who might’ve seen these photos.
DANNY
Haskins doesn’t know Matthew Brady.
CHANDLER
You don’t know that.
(pauses, to Morgan)
I realize this is not your everyday
prank. I also know I don’t know
what I’m looking at anymore than I
know why some sick person would do
this. But there are thousands of
people coming here and thousands
already here. They’ll be gone in a
few days. I’ll get more Rangers on
the battlefield, but I’m not
starting a panic based on this. We
keep an eye out, then when this is
over, you get to the bottom of it.
Danny gets in Chandler’s face.
DANNY
What if that’s too late?
Morgan interposes his body between them. Chandler looks at
Morgan.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 55.
CHANDLER
I realize that girl was his sister,
but he does that again he’s
fired. Now get back to the
Visitor’s Center. And this time,
stay there.
Morgan pushes Danny back to the car.
MORGAN
You drive. If we book we can still
make the jail during visitor
hours. If we can prove Haskins
doesn’t know who Brady is we have
our proof.
EXT BATTLEFIELD
Tucker walks through the woods.
INT JAILHOUSE EVENING
Morgan sits in a cubicle across from Bob Haskins. Haskins
stares at him with contempt.
MORGAN
So you don’t want my help?
HASKINS
You’re a park boy cop. New to
town. Not one person in that town
didn’t say I was guilty, not one
doesn’t...
MORGAN
Danny Sayers.
HASKINS
Yeah, that asshole, and look what
happened to him. Breaks my heart.
MORGAN
Ever occur to you he was trying to
help you?
HASKINS
Yeah, I think about it every
minute. You can’t help me. Now
get the fuck outta here.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 56.
MORGAN
Can you think of anything that
might help us?
HASKINS
Not a goddamn thing.
Morgan walks to the door, stops and turns.
MORGAN
That was clever using Brady.
HASKINS
What the fuck you talking about?
MORGAN
You know, the reason you positioned
the bodies the way....
HASKINS
I don’t know what you’re talking
about.
MORGAN
Help us help you.
HASKINS
Fuck you and fuck Brady, whoever
the fuck he is.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
Chris and Elissa stand with another twenty odd people
listening to a speaker instruct them on their roles for the
reenactment. Zeke and Bo stand next to them.
Tucker looks out at them from just inside the treeline.
EXT VISITOR’S CENTER.
Patsi confronts Danny as Morgan and him exit their
car. Morgan continues on and waits by the front door.
PATSI
I know you took the pictures. You
had Morgan fake a bum alternator so
you could steal them from my
desk. Damn it Danny, you betrayed
me.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 57.
DANNY
I didn’t want to put you in a
position where you had to choose
between Mack and me. We had to get
the photos.
PATSI
Say what you want. You can’t
justify this.
She walks away. He runs after her.
DANNY
We had to have them. What was I
supposed to do?
She whirls on him.
PATSI
Ask.
She storms off. Danny walks to Morgan. They walk together
to the back of the Visitor Center, Morgan talking, Danny
digesting. Finn intercepts them, his eyes shifting to
Chandler, Mack and Buck as they stand on a dais that fronts
hundreds of chairs by the rear of the Visitor Center.
FINN
You go bother them, you’re cooked.
Morgan nods gratefully then walks up to Chandler.
MORGAN
Jim, a moment.
Chandler stops.
CHANDLER
Where have you two been? No one
can get a hold of you and...
MORGAN
Jim, it was important.
CHANDLER
I hope this concerns work.
DANNY
The real work.
MORGAN
I just came from visiting Bob
Haskins. He doesn’t know who
Matthew Brady is.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 58.
BUCK
So what?
MORGAN
It means he can’t be the
killer. The killer knew
Brady---that much we do know.
DANNY
Now you gonna do something?
CHANDLER
Morgan, I told you my position on
this. And on him...
Danny pushes Morgan aside and grabs Chandler. Morgan yanks
him back.
DANNY
What don’t you get? Haskins is
innocent.
Mack grabs Danny.
CHANDLER
This man is fired. If he
approaches me again he’s
arrested. Understand?
Danny throws his badge at Chandler’s feet. He glares at
Buck and walks away.
Morgan watches him, looks at Chandler, then hands him his
badge and follows Danny. Chandler eyes him, doubting
himself.
INT LAST CHANCE EVENING
Chris and Elissa, dressed in their reenactor garb, kiss at
the bar. Ella, dressed in an era dress, pours them a
shot.
ELLA
Get a room.
INT VISITOR’S CENTER EXT
MORGAN
Why do you think he’s back?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 59.
DANNY
What are you talking about? Because
a guy...
MORGAN
I know that. What if he never
left? What if he’s always been
here?
DANNY
What? Are you saying I missed
someone I know?
MORGAN
A local knows the grounds, the
victims, the people. There were no
other suspects?
DANNY
Hell Morgan, it’s Sharpsburg. Who
was there to check? It was the
first murder in 83 years.
MORGAN
That we know of. It’s just a
feeling, the care he took in
arranging the bodies. I got
a feeling he knew them.
DANNY
No other suspects.
MORGAN
We need to look at everything
again, find his agenda. Sometimes
you see something the second time
around. Just get those
files---including anything on
Carter and Kim.
DANNY
And where are you going?
MORGAN
I’m going to tell any Ranger who’ll
listen to keep an eye out.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
Bo and another soldier in Union uniform sit on blankets in
front of a fire. Tucker, dressed in his uniform with a
rifle at his side, stands a few yards away, intently
surveying the battlefield.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 60.
BO
He gives me the creeps.
REENACTOR #2
Yes he does Bo, yes he does.
INT LAST CHANCE CONTINUOUS
Patsi, in period dress, sits at the bar. The men in the bar
are mostly in uniform. The bar is packed.
PATSI
How are you doing with Morgan?
ELLA
Some days I think I make
progress. An inch or two. Other
days I think I lose a yard. Hell,
he knows I’m interested. I can
only go so far. I have my
pride...not a lot, but some.
PATSI
Was, or is, there another woman?
ELLA
Maybe once, but not now. But hell,
I’m no saint, I’d go after him
either way. Odd, Morgan won’t step
to the plate and Danny’s afraid he
already struck out. So what are
you going to do about what he did?
PATSI
I’m still chewing on that.
EXT SHERIFF’S OFFICE NIGHT
Danny watches as Mack puts an OFFICE CLOSED sign in the
front window and closes the door.
EXT BATTLEFIELD EAST WOODS CONTINUOUS
Zeke and several men plant charges. Zeke methodically digs
with a hoe while another man draws a chalk box around the
charge. Zeke steps back and photographs the men working.
Zeke sees Tucker at the edge of the woods. He has something
under his coat. Zeke snaps a picture of him and
approaches. He stops a few feet away and takes another
picture.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 61.
TUCKER
Stop that.
Zeke steps closer, takes another photo, then several
more. Tucker backs away. Zeke runs forward and yanks his
coat back, revealing a metal detector. Tucker shoves him
back.
TUCKER
Who the fuck do you think you are,
weirdo?
Zeke snaps a picture of the metal detector. He
smiles. Tucker grabs the camera. He rips out the film and
smashes the camera on the rocks. He pushes Zeke to the
ground and runs into the woods. Zeke looks at the men with
him in vain. They have not seen what happened. He starts
to cry out, then stops.
INT LAST CHANCE NIGHT
Ella closes her cell phone. Patsi waits.
ELLA
Danny got fired. Then Morgan
quit. Morgan says Danny is right
about the killer. Guess Jim
Chandler didn’t see it that way.
PATSI
What are they going to do?
INT VISITOR’S CENTER NIGHT
Morgan looks over Chandler’s shoulder as he examines the
photos of Billy and Lisa alongside those in the Brady book
which are spread out on a desk.
CHANDLER
But if someone did know how these
poor people were positioned....
MORGAN
Haskins had to know Brady to
position them in the first
place. Jim, I assure you, he knows
more about astrophysics than he
does about Matthew Brady.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 62.
CHANDLER
There could be another explanation.
Morgan pulls out a magnifying glass. He hands it to
Chandler.
MORGAN
Look at the detail. Only the
killer knew this.
Chandler looks through the magnifying glass. The fingers,
the feet of Billy and Lisa mirror those of the
soldiers. The flaps of Billy’s pants are parted just as
those of a soldier.
CHANDLER
Maybe Haskins pretended not to know
Brady but really did.
MORGAN
You’re saying he wants to be in
prison?
CHANDLER
Yes, to keep him from killing
again.
MORGAN
That’s a stretch, don’t you think?
CHANDLER
Even if the real killer is loose,
there’s no reason to believe
anything will happen this year.
MORGAN
Nor does it mean he won’t strike
again. And we still got those
missing kids. It’s possible the
killer used the dummies as a kind
of...warning.
CHANDLER
What do you want me to do?
MORGAN
Everything possible to make sure
this doesn’t happen again.
63.
INT LAST CHANCE NIGHT
Danny pushes through the crowd and finds Patsi at the
bar. Patsi goes to him and hugs him.
PATSI
I know. Danny, I’m sorry about
today. I was only mad because you
didn’t ask me.
DANNY
I know.
PATSI
I shouldn’t have tried to stop you.
DANNY
The only thing that might’ve made
me stop looking is if you actually
left me.
PATSI
What are you going to do?
DANNY
Get the son of a bitch.
PATSI
What can I do?
DANNY
I need your help...and I need it
now.
PATSI
Anything.
INT BEDROOM NIGHT
Chris and Elissa embrace in bed, giggling. A cell phone on
the bedstand beeps. Elissa grabs Chris’ arm as he reaches
for it.
ELISSA
Don’t you dare.
Chris starts kissing her. The phone beeps again. He picks
it up.
CHRIS
It’s a text.
(he reads)
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 64.
CHRIS (cont’d)
Ah, this is bullshit. It’s nearly
10PM---why do we need to do this
again?
ELISSA
You’re the one who wanted to do a
reenactment. I was happy staying
at school.
He texts back, waits, then reads when the phone beeps again.
CHRIS
Elissa, we both got to go to our
staging point. Now.
INT SHERIFF’S OFFICE CONTINUOUS
Patsi opens the door to the Sheriff’s office. She goes to a
filing cabinet, opens it with a key, then hands Danny the
file. Danny goes to the xerox machine. He starts copying.
Mack enters. He looks from Danny to Patsi.
PATSI
I’m sorry dad. I had to do this.
Danny waits. Mack considers.
MACK
Put everything back where it
was. And lock up when you’re done.
Mack leaves.
INT VISITOR CENTER CONTINUOUS
Chandler reads a faded newspaper entitled "SHARPSBURG
HERALD" with a headline that reads "SEARCH FOR RUNAWAYS
ENDS". Morgan waits as he reads. Through the window Morgan
watches Finn and other rangers talking.
EXT VISITOR CENTER
Mack stands by a dais and speaks to a group of police
officers, park rangers, and men dressed as soldiers. Buck
stands next to Mack.
MACK
Positions by 8:00 am latest. The
attack commences 9:30am sharp.
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 65.
MACK (cont’d)
Finn, your men are ready to ignite
the charges.
FINN
Good to go.
Buck gets in his car and drives away. Danny comes upon the
scene, files in hand. He sees Morgan and Chandler exiting
the Visitor’s Center. He starts toward them, but Zeke
intercepts him and signs frantically.
DANNY
Okay Zeke, just calm down. I’ll
take care of Tucker.
Zeke grabs him again, signs, then motions with his hands
like he’s vacuuming.
DANNY
Yes, stealing bullets from the
battlefield is a Federal crime. I
told you I’ll take care of
it. Just stay clear of him. I got
bigger fish to fry right now.
Danny reaches Morgan and Chandler, Zeke trailing.
DANNY
What’s this about?
Chandler looks to Morgan.
CHANDLER
(to Morgan)
You position our men anywhere you
want tonight. I’ll ask Mack to put
as many cops as he can in the park
tonight. I can’t see as how I can
do anymore anyway.
(turning to Danny)
It’s the best I can do.
DANNY
Cancel the reenactment. There’s a
killer out there.
CHANDLER
That remains to be seen.
Mack walks up. Chandler and Mack confer. They walk off onto
the battlefield. Zeke signs to Danny.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 66.
DANNY
(to Zeke)
I hear you. I know he broke your
camera. Now will you leave it.
(to Morgan)
How come you didn’t bring me in on
this?
MORGAN
This is NOT about you. It’s about
solving the case.
Morgan regrets the words immediately.
MORGAN
Did you know Kim and Carter were
also among the kids Haskins
photographed?
DANNY
Half the kids in town were.
MORGAN
Did you know they were photographed
in the exact same place as your
sister and Billy up on South
Mountain?
DANNY
No, I didn’t. But every kid in
town uses Reno’s Groove to fool
around.
MORGAN
It was in the evidence they
recovered from Haskins’
house. Mack remembered it. So
maybe that’s something that should
have been looked into.
DANNY
But Haskins isn’t involved.
MORGAN
I get that, but the fact both
couples frequented the same lover’s
lane isn’t a coincidence that can
be ignored. Maybe there’s a
connection that has nothing to do
with Haskins.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 67.
DANNY
So you’re saying I fucked it up.
MORGAN
Now we’re comparing fuck-ups. Ok,
you want the truth. If I brought
you into that meeting you would’ve
screwed it up. At least I got
Chandler to post more men.
DANNY
What’d you screw up? Something
with a woman or a kid---that why
you’re running from boneyard to
boneyard?
MORGAN
For a guy who can’t deal straight
with his own screw ups you’re a
helluva person to comment. You
can’t commit to the woman who loves
you because a maniac killed your
sister.
DANNY
Nice to hear it straight instead of
feeling it around the edges.
Danny squares off. Morgan steps back, ready, then relaxes.
MORGAN
This is plain stupid. Go ahead hit
me if it makes you feel better.
DANNY
Figures you don’t get it. You
never had anyone that you were
supposed to take care of die on
you.
Danny storms off. Zeke follows. Tucker sees them and darts
inside the Visitor’s Center. Chandler and Mack approach
Morgan. Mack calls to Danny but Danny ignores him.
CHANDLER
I briefed Mack on our
precautions. He agrees.
MACK
(to Morgan)
Let me guess. Danny blaming for
not bringing him in on talking to
us. He’s wrong.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 68.
MORGAN
I admire his conviction and his
persistence. He stuck to his guns
when most would’ve folded their
hand. And I’m convinced he’s
right.
MACK
Buck is not going to like
this. Just be aware if you tell
people the killer is out there
it’ll be all over town in an hour.
CHANDLER
We’re proceeding with the
reenactment. Just tell your men to
be... alert. I’ll worry about
Buck.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
Chris and Elissa walk into a cluster of trees. They come to
a clearing where rifles and knapsacks are stacked. Several
cannon lie in rows. A person peers out from the woods 100
yards away. He slowly approaches them, moving from tree to
tree
CHRIS
Where is everybody?
ELISSA
Why didn’t he say why we needed to
be here?
CHRIS
He just insisted we had to be here.
ELISSA
But there’s no one here.
CHRIS
I can see that. Might’ve as well
make the most of it.
He kisses her. She pushes him back. The person in the
woods looks out from 50 yards away. We see he has a gun
with a silencer on it. He moves closer to them.
ELISSA
This is creeping me out. Let’s get
outta here.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 69.
CHRIS
Relax.
They start kissing again. She relents. He unbottons her
shirt. They move to the ground.
The person in the woods looks out on them from a few yards
away.
Their pants come off.
ELISSA
This is crazy. What if someone
finds us.
CHRIS
No one will find us.
VOICE
But I have.
The person emerges from the trees a few feet from Chris and
Elissa. They both sit up.
CHRIS
Whoa, whoa, what is going on? This
isn’t funny. Okay, okay.
Chris lies flat on his face.
ELISSA
Please stop this. Please don’t
hurt us. Alright I’ll be quiet.
The sound of a revolver being cocked. Chris looks up. He
shields his face with his hand. Elissa screams. A shot is
fired with a silencer. She starts running. Another shot is
fired. She is shot in the leg She crawls and turns to face
her attacker.
ELISSA
No, please.
A shot is fired.
EXT TOWER SUNKEN LANE NIGHT
From atop a 75 foot tale tower, Danny surveys the
battlefield where it is lit by streetlights with binoculars.
In the distance he can see hundreds of tents and campfires.
The sound of men singing and guitars playing can be heard.
Under work lights he can see clusters of men working by the
Visitor Center.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 70.
He focuses on one cluster of men, then the next. He stiffens
as he sees one man bayoneting another. He leans forward,
then refocuses. The men embrace. Danny relaxes.
He hears footsteps on the metal stairs leading to the
platform he is on. He reaches for his gun, but comes up
empty. He pulls a flashlight from his pocket, moves to the
top of the stairwell, and waits. The figure makes the last
turn a few feet below him. He shines the flashlight.
DANNY
Don’t move.
It’s me.
DANNY
Jesus Patsi.
PATSI
I’m sorry. I just heard from Finn
you were here. Why didn’t you call?
Patsi goes to him and forces him to look at her.
PATSI
I’m in this already. And I want to
be.
EXT BATTLEFIELD CONTINUOUS
Chris and Elissa’s bodies are rolled into large black suit
bags. They are lifted into the back of a small Park Service
truck. A tarp is thrown over them. The truck drives off.
EXT BATTLEFIELD
Morgan walks down Bloody Lane with a flashlight. Ella is at
his side. He stops and talks to two Rangers. Danny sees
them. He turns to Patsi who is looking at Brady’s book under
a lantern.
PATSI
What does Brady have to do with it?
(Danny shrugs)
What does Brady do here?
DANNY
He took pictures, brought the
horror home to the people who
otherwise could ignore it.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 71.
PATSI
Like the killer.
(pauses)
Maybe it has something to do with
him. A photographer gets people to
pose.
DANNY
He positions them.
PATSI
I don’t know, but maybe...maybe it
has nothing to do with the phases
of the battle. Maybe it’s something
else. Maybe putting them where he
put them had to do with something
else that you haven’t thought of.
Danny ponders what she has said.
PATSI
I just meant you to to look at what
you’re looking at a different way.
DANNY
Such as?
As Patsi starts to answer, Morgan calls up.
MORGAN
Danny.
Danny peers over the tower railing.
DANNY
Yeah.
MORGAN
I think we got a better chance
working together. Whatever dumb
things I said, I take them back. I
just thought I could get more out
of Jim Chandler alone.
Danny leans over the platform.
DANNY
And you were right.
Morgan accepts this.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 72.
MORGAN
More important, you were right. The
real killer isn’t in jail. He’s out
there.
Explosions erupt in the distance in the cornfield. Dozens of
blasts. Danny and Patsi bolt down the stairs. The four of
them run towards the explosions.
When the Lane is empty, a golf cart slowly makes it’s way
down Bloody Lane. It drives into the cornfield. It stops, a
body is unloaded and dragged deeper into the high corn
behind the Lane. The suit holder is unzipped and Chris’ body
is removed.
The body is positioned. The bag is taken. The cart emerges,
then is driven onto a pathway into the woods. It stops in
sight of the tower. Another bag is removed and brought into
the woods.
EXT PARK
Morgan, Ella, Danny and Patsi run toward the Dunker Church.
EXT CORNFIELD
Tucker emerges from the woods, sweating, holding something
underneath his coat. He watches as police and rangers’
cars, lightbars flashing and sirens screaming, descend on
the area around the church. All around him charges continue
to explode.
Soldiers pour in from the campground just outside the
battlefield. Cars full of tourists and townspeople pull up.
Everyone stares at each other, looking for an explanation.
Tucker smiles. BO, relieving himself in the bushes, spots
him. Bo shines a flashlight in his face.
BO
You’re not supposed to be here.
You’re not in uniform.
TUCKER
It’s none of your business.
Tucker turns and quickly walks up toward the crowd gathering
at the Dunker Church.
73.
EXT BATTLEFIELD
Buck drives through the battlefield, visibly agitated.
EXT FIELD IN FRONT OF DUNKER CHURCH
Danny, Morgan, Ella and Patsi stand looking at the
explosions. The explosions stop. Smoke drifts over the
battlefield. Mack walks up.
MORGAN
What is going on?
MACK
Somebody rigged the charges to go
off. We got it stopped.
Tucker emerges from the woods. Danny stares at
him. Something clicks. He runs up to Tucker.
DANNY
You do this?
Tucker looks at him with scorn.
TUCKER
What are you talking about?
Danny grabs his arm.
DANNY
Where have you been tonight?
TUCKER
I don’t have to talk to you.
Mack, Morgan, Ella, and Patsi walk up to them.
DANNY
You were here last year. Did you
kill my sister?
TUCKER
Fuck you.
Danny grabs Tucker. Morgan restrains Danny. Mack pulls
Tucker away.
MACK
(to Tucker)
Stand over there.
(to Danny)
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 74.
MACK (cont’d)
He didn’t kill anybody.
MORGAN
Calm down.
DANNY
Mack, I’m asking a favor here, just
hold him until we get this cleared
up.
MACK
On what charge?
DANNY
Anything. Zeke caught him stealing
bullets off the battlefield
today. That’s a Federal offense.
Ella steps alongside Danny.
ELLA
Attempted assault at my saloon last
night. I’m a witness.
Danny looks at Mack.
DANNY
Just for a few hours, please.
Something is going on here.
Mack ponders, looks at the deputy.
MACK
Read him his rights and take him
in. Attempted assault.
Tucker steps forward.
TUCKER
This is bullshit!
MACK
One more word and I’ll throw in
resisting arrest.
DANNY
I’m not done with you.
Tucker gives him the finger and is led away.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 75.
DANNY
It could be him Morgan. He’s a
buff. I know he knows Brady and
this battle inside out. He was here
last year.
(to himself)
Was he here two years ago?
MACK
FBI cleared him.
DANNY
FBI also said Haskins did it.
A Park Ranger car pulls up. Chandler gets out and walks up.
CHANDLER
(To Morgan)
What is going on here?
DANNY
Tucker is a gun fanatic.
MACK
So is half the county.
CHANDLER
Who set these charges?
He’s ignored. He decides to listen.
ELLA
I think we’ve been asking the wrong
question.
They all look at her.
ELLA
I think we ought to be asking why
whoever did this, did this?
Morgan and Danny exchange looks.
MORGAN
To get us here.
DANNY
We’ve got to get back to where we
were.
(to Mack)
We need your help.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 76.
MACK
Tell me what you need.
MORGAN
As many men patrolling the
battlefield as possible. And not
tomorrow, right now. If they find
anyone on the battlefield detain
them....and call us.
Mack nods. Buck pulls up.
MACK
I’ll handle him. Get going.
EXT TOWER SUNKEN LANE
Morgan and Danny look up at Patsi and Ella in the tower.
PATSI
We should be going with you.
DANNY
No way. You stay up there.
(he points to a Ranger car at
the end of Bloody Lane)
You see anything you call Finn and
Jim.
ELLA
Stay safe.
PATSI
(to Ella)
They ought to let us...
ELLA
Forget it honey. Lucky we’re here
at all.
EXT BATTLEFIELD NIGHT
Morgan and Danny drive slowly around the battlefield. Cops
and Ranger cars are positioned at the intervals. Morgan and
Danny maneuver spotlights affixed to both of their windows
alongside the road on either side of their car.
MORGAN
We need a background check on
Tucker.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 77.
DANNY
How could I have missed him?
They pull up alongside a sheriff’s car. Mack is driving.
Chandler is in the front seat.
MORGAN
Anything?
MACK
No. Seems just like when we left.
Except....
DANNY
Except what?
MACK
We found one of your golf carts by
the Mumma Farm.
MORGAN
So?
MACK
It was stolen from the Visitor
Center in the last three hours.
Danny shines his light on the break in the cornfield from
the cart. Several stalks are pushed back. He gets out of the
car, flashlight in hand, walks to the break and disappears.
Morgan, Mack and Chandler follow. They move through a
narrow broken path into the cornfield. Danny moves fast.
DANNY
Oh my God no.
EXT BLOODY LANE DAWN
A dozen cop and Ranger cars line Bloody Lane. Photographers
snap pictures a few yards in. A gurney awaits. Morgan, Ella,
Patsi, Danny, Buck, Chandler and Mack look on. FBI agents
and cops with dogs sniff the grounds around the cornfield
and Lane.
BUCK
(to Danny)
I don’t know what to...I
thought...I never thought...I
don’t...
Danny ignores him.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 78.
DANNY
His girlfriend is out there. Dead.
MORGAN
We’re going to find a picture like
this
(gestures towards the break in
the corn)
in Brady’s book.
Danny nods.
MACK
We got everyone looking.
DANNY
We need to know when he was put
here.
Finn runs up.
FINN
Mack, we found her.
THEY ALL RACE 100 YARDS to the BODY OF ELISSA lying in the
woods. HER LEGS AND ARMS ARE AKWARDLY POSITIONED.
WOODS DAWN
CHANDLER
What madness is this?
MORGAN
Cancel the reenactment.
Chandler nods.
EXT JAIL DAWN
Tucker is seated across from two cops. They listen to
him. Their eyes widen. One cop gets up and walks out the
door. he punches a number into his cell phone.
EXT BATTLEFIELD DAWN FRIDAY BLOODY LANE MORNING
Morgan and Danny look at photos of Chris and Elissa at the
base of the Tower. They match their photos with ones in the
Brady book. Yellow duct tape marks where the bodies where
found. The Lane is closed off by police cars at either
end. Men and women in jackets emblazoned with FBI and
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 79.
wearing gloves and plastic over their shoes search the crime
scene.
MORGAN
Each time he positions them just
like a soldier who was killed
nearby.
DANNY
Bloody Lane is the second phase of
the battle. Billy and Lisa were
first phase.
MORGAN
He pre-set the charges so he got us
out of here so he could drop and
position the bodies.
Mack and Chandler drive up and park. They walk up to Danny
and Morgan.
CHANDLER
Morgan! Danny! Tucker confessed.
MACK
A few hours ago after we turned him
over to the FBI. He said he wanted
a lawyer present.
DANNY
What?
MORGAN
That’s, why that’s...that’s great
news!
DANNY
Why the hell would he do that?
MORGAN
(to Danny)
By God, Danny you were right.
Chandler extends his hand to Danny.
CHANDLER
I owe you an apology. We have your
sister’s killer----thanks to you.
MACK
You’re a hero.
Danny automatically extends his hand, but he’s absorbed.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 80.
DANNY
Doesn’t make sense.
MACK
I never seen a guy go from goat to
hero so quickly in my life and now
he says it doesn’t make sense.
Danny, Buck’s got no choice but to
ask you back.
DANNY
Why would he confess?
CHANDLER
Happens all the time. They get
guilty and do it to stop
themselves.
DANNY
Not this guy. He likes doing what
he did.
Morgan puts his arm around Danny. Danny keeps staring at the
photos of Chris and Elissa.
MORGAN
It’s over partner, it’s over.
CHANDLER
You men get some rest. Morgan, we
have that dinner at the VFW
tonight. I’d consider it a personal
favor if you still said some words.
We’re going ahead with the battle.
Danny is perplexed.
CHANDLER
No point in canceling it now. Only
please Tucker to do that. I hope
both of you can help Saturday. We
could use it.
DANNY
Did Tucker say anything about
Carter and Kim?
MACK
They asked him. He just smiled and
asked for a lawyer. He wouldn’t
talk after that.
81.
EXT BATTLEFIELD MORNING
Morgan and Danny drive the battlefield. The town and the
battlefield are slowly coming to life. A bugle sounds.
DANNY
What are you doing now?
MORGAN
I’m going to bed. I feel like I’m
100 years old.
Morgan waits a moment.
MORGAN
You weren’t far off the mark. I had
a woman once...but I let her slip
away.
Danny waits. Morgan stares out the window for a long time.
MORGAN
Led a reconnaissance squad in the
Mekong. February 1968. Day Tet
started. Lost 8 of 20 guys that
day, two more died of their wounds
within a month. I knew those kids,
knew some of their families too. I
guess after that I just didn’t want
to be responsible for anyone
getting hurt anymore. I just stayed
inside myself till she went away.
Danny nods.
MORGAN
That woman of yours, she’s a
keeper.
Danny looks at Morgan and smiles.
DANNY
That she is. Yeah, I need some
sleep too.
They pass a group of townspeople who pound on the hood,
smile and give Danny the thumbs up.
DANNY
What a difference a day makes.
82.
EXT BATTLEFIELD
A dozen men replant the charges and clear debris from the
cornfield. Buck stands by with a few elderly men.
BUCK
Yes sir, we’ve got it solved this
time.
EXT SHARPSBURG HOUSE
Morgan stands, hat in hand at the door. Ella in a bathrobe,
dries her hair.
MORGAN
I’m going to the dinner tonight. I
suspect you have to work...but I,
I...
ELLA
If you’re asking me out I suspect I
can get my shift covered.
She waits.
ELLA
Is that what you’re doing?
Morgan nods.
ELLA
Then yes. But get some rest.
MORGAN
Just occurred to me I got one more
thing I need to do. Then I will.
PATSI AND DANNY’S KITCHEN CONTINUOUS
PATSI
But Danny, it’s over.
DANNY
Look, I’m probably wrong and it’s
Tucker.
PATSI
But you’re the one who said it WAS
Tucker.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 83.
DANNY
I know, but something doesn’t sit
right. I gotta check something out.
I have to be sure.
PATSI
Where?
DANNY
The library.
Danny exits the house. Zeke is out front. He signs. Danny
leans over and opens the passenger door. Zeke gets in.
EXT OTTO HOUSE
Morgan faces a closed door.
MORGAN
Yes ma-am I just wanted you to know
we don’t yet know if he was
responsible for your granddaughter
and Carter or not. But I believe we
will find out.
OTTO
Butcher like that don’t confess
unless he’s caught. He likes it too
much.
MORGAN
There are examples of ones who
wanted to stop.
OTTO
Then he’d kill himself or get
himself kilt.
Morgan ponders that.
MORGAN
Something I meant to ask...if I
might.
OTTO
You got me standing here. Can’t get
me more upset than I already am.
MORGAN
When was the last time you saw your
granddaughter?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 84.
OTTO
Night she went missing. She said
Carter and her were heading over to
Frederick after they stopped at
Billy Kemp’s up on South Mountain.
They never showed up, never called.
He was Carter’s best friend. Why
wouldn’t they call him...unless
they couldn’t?
MORGAN
Billy Kemp?
INT SHARPSBURG LIBRARY
Danny stares at a map of the battlefield with green pushpins
marking where the four bodies were found and red ones where
they were killed. Zeke looks over his shoulders, then taps
Danny and signs. A book is opened to a picture of a stone
bridge.
DANNY
It just don’t feel right, him
stopping.
Zeke signs. He points to the photo of the bridge.
DANNY
Yes, he’d want to complete the
picture---do something at
Burnsides’ Bridge.
Zeke signs.
DANNY
I don’t know about your sister
yet. But we’re finally going to
find out. I can feel it. Was
Tucker here two years ago?
Zeke hesitates, then shakes his head. He signs.
DANNY
I don’t think so either.
Danny looks at the map. He sees a photo of an upended
cannon. Something draws him to it, but he can’t place it.
DANNY
It sure looks chronological.
Zeke taps the map where a stone bridge is indicated.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 85.
DANNY
Yes, we have to focus on the final
stage of the battle. You get back
to the Visitor Center.
EXT BATTLEFIELD BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE NOON
Danny stands on a hill overlooking Burnsides’ Bridge. Finn
and several rangers stand around them. Finn walks over to
JIM VESSEY, a Ranger in his forties. They approach the car
and start talking to Danny.
Around them hundreds of tourists watch as Confederate
reenactors take positions on the steep banks overlooking
Antietam Creek and the bridge. On the opposite side, men in
blue race back and forth along a path by the creek that
leads to the bridge.
DANNY
Finn, we don’t need to make a
production out of it, but keep an
eye out anyway.
Finn nods.
INT MORGAN’S BEDROOM LATE AFTERNOON
Morgan dresses, eyeing the photographs of the woman and the
soldiers on the table.
INT VFW HALL EVENING
Patsi, Ella, Mack, Morgan and Chandler sit at the front
table in a large hall filled with hundreds of men in
military uniform with other men and women, many in period
dress.
PATSI
(to Morgan)
I don’t know that I know much about
you Morgan. You never say anything
’bout yourself.
MORGAN
(embarrassed)
My mother taught me if people don’t
know the people in your stories
best to not tell them, or at least
keep it short.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 86.
PATSI
You know, no one ever did what you
did for Danny.
MORGAN
It wasn’t much.
PATSI
Oh yes it was, you lost your job
for him. And I love you for it.
Danny walks in, dressed in his Ranger uniform. The room is
abuzz as he makes it to the table. The crowd rises and gives
him a standing ovation. Danny bows awkwardly and speaks into
Morgan’s ear. Morgan digests what he has said, then
nods. Buck stands at the dais.
BUCK
We had a great tragedy here today.
But thanks to the Park Ranger
Service, the police and our office
we have solved the case.
The crowd sits silent.
BUCK
And of course to this man, Danny
Sayers.
There is another standing ovation.
BUCK
Now as I was saying. Tomorrow we
honor another horrible chapter in
our history that is closed.
There is scattered applause.
DANNY
(to his table)
I don’t know how you can stomach
bad food and listen to this fool at
the same time.
Danny gets up and goes to the dais and takes the microphone
from a stunned Bucky.
BUCK
I’m not finished.
DANNY
I always said you were a pompous
fool.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 87.
(pauses)
I was right.
(To audience)
A year ago today I lost my sister
Lisa along with her boyfriend
Billy. Last night the Miller and
Hood families lost a
child. Somehow it doesn’t feel
right even being here. But we are.
(pauses)
I’d like to introduce a man who
knows more about this battle, and
the courage of the men on both
sides of it, than any of us.
Morgan, come on up. I give you
Colonel Morgan Blake, 1st Marine
Division, Purple Heart, Silver
Star.
The crowd erupts in applause. Morgan looks at Ella, rises
unsteadily.
MORGAN
(To Ella)
Honestly, I don’t know that I’m up
for this.
ELLA
Buck’s an easy act to follow.
Morgan goes to the dais, nods to Danny in appreciation. Buck
and Danny leave the dais.
MORGAN
I know our hearts go out to the
Chris and Elissa’s
families. Thanks to Danny Sayers
this evil has been stopped.
(pauses)
Tomorrow, in some ways, we honor
the families of thousands of
Americans who lost their
children. The men on both sides of
the battle had a cause that they
believed in. But when their brother
soldiers were dying beside them,
I’m not so sure they remembered
what it was.
(looking to Danny)
I honor the men on both sides. When
the battle was joined they shared a
horrible clarity of union with the
man beside them. To stand by that
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 88.
MORGAN (cont’d)
man, to risk your life for him and
he for you, to me, well that’s what
it was all about. I salute all you
soldiers.
He leaves the dais to applause and returns to his
table. Danny whispers to Patsi. Morgan whispers to
Ella. Morgan and Danny leave.
INT VISITOR’S CENTER NIGHT
A person uses a magic marker to write on an audio tape. He
writes: AUDIO BACK UP. He writes a note and places it in an
envelope which he puts on top of the tape player.
EXT BURNSIDES BRIDGE 10PM
Bo walks across the bridge.
EXT BATTLEFIELD NIGHT
Morgan and Danny drive through the park. Men can be seen
working around the cornfield under floodlights. The sound of
voices come from tent camps around the park’s perimeter.
Morgan stops the cart.
MORGAN
Well, everyone knows. I don’t
suppose you intend on going home.
DANNY
You can get some shut eye.
Morgan looks over. Danny gets it. He looks out at a string
of campfires.
MORGAN
It was a night just like this,
135,000 men, facing each
other---fate of the country in the
balance. There was murder in the
air.
DANNY
Some wondering, "Why am I here?"
MORGAN
Lot stayed home, some deserted,
some bought their way out. But for
the ones that did come...
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 89.
DANNY
I remember---might be worse than
dying--you believe that?
MORGAN
Just because you can run away
doesn’t mean you can get away.
(gesturing toward the
cornfield)
Sometimes you just have to do what
you feel is right even if you know
you’re going to die. Every time
the color bearer went down, another
grabbed the flag, knowing it meant
they were next.
DANNY
Maybe they grabbed it cause they
wanted to get shot, just to end it.
MORGAN
Say that again.
DANNY
The slaughter may’ve driven them so
crazy they wanted to die. I mean
if you think it’s going to happen
anyway why not get it over
with---like the jumpers on 9/11.
MORGAN
Mrs. Otto, she said if the killer
wanted to stop he would’ve gotten
himself killed before he confessed.
They park in front of an upturned cannon. The name General
Starke is carved into it. They are parked where Billy Kemp’s
body was found. Danny glances at the cannon.
DANNY
She’s right. I don’t see him
confessing when we had nothing
solid on him. He’d do something at
Burnsides’ Bridge. He’d finish his
picture. And if Kim and Carter were
murdered two years ago I don’t
think Tucker was here. Either does
Zeke.
MORGAN
He may’ve been here and you didn’t
notice him. And we still don’t
know they’re dead.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 90.
DANNY
Oh they’re dead. All we can do is
focus on the third phase of the
fighting.
MORGAN
Burnsides’ Bridge it is.
There is the sign of a rifle cocking. They freeze. Danny
reaches for his non-existent gun.
VOICE
Hands up! Turn ’round real slow and
keep them hands where we can see
’em.
They see four CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS, two holding rifles, two
holding lanterns.
SOLDIER
Those aren’t Yankees!
MORGAN
No, we work here.
They pull away.
INT RANGER CAR NEAR BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE NEXT MORNING
Morgan and Danny are parked by a statue of an upended cannon
inscribed with GENERAL BRANCH. A Union REENACTOR walks
over. Danny looks at his cell.
DANNY
90 minutes till showtime.
REENACTOR
Why is that cannon upside down?
MORGAN:
Marks the place where a general was
killed on the battlefield. The
Confederate general Lawrence Branch
was mortally wounded here in the
third stage of the battle.
Danny flashes back to the upended cannon by where his sister
was found, then by where Billy was left. It clicks for him.
DANNY
That’s it.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 91.
MORGAN
What’s it?
DANNY
My sister was placed by one of
these---where Mansfield was
killed. Billy where Starke
was. Chris by Anderson, Elissa by
Richardson. That leaves Branch and
Rodman---they were killed in the
third phase.
MORGAN
Right...six generals...wait, what
did Mrs. Otto say today?
DANNY
Go on.
MORGAN
She said the last time she saw her
granddaughter and her boyfriend
they left to meet Billy Kemp up on
South Mountain, but they never
showed.
DANNY
So?
MORGAN
Generals Reno and Garland were
killed up on South Mountain two
days before the battle---some
people say it was part of the same
battle.
DANNY
Carter and Kim. The real first
phase. Call Mack, get him to get
some cops to meet us.
MORGAN
Let’s go.
Danny flips on the lightbar and speeds off. Morgan speaks
into his cell.
92.
INT JAILHOUSE CONTINUOUS
Tucker sits in a room smiling. Two FBI AGENTS sit across
from his LAWYER and him. An agent listens into a phone. A
man in a suit sits next to Tucker.
AGENT
Wipe that grin off your face.
Tucker continues to smile.
LAWYER
Sir, as is now evident, he is
innocent of this charge.
AGENT
He’s still under arrest for making
a false statement to the police.
LAWYER
Fine. I can and will post bail.
EXT BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE CONTINUOUS
Finn and Jim sit in the Ranger car. The phone rings. He
answers, listens.
FINN
I’ll send Jim back. I’ll be fine
by myself for ten minutes.
(to Jim)
Morgan changed the itinerary. You
head back and get the new
one. I’ll wait here.
JIM
Says who?
FINN
I didn’t recognize the voice.
Finn gets out. The car departs. He searches for his
cell. He calls after Jim, but Jim doesn’t hear him. He
looks around, then enters the woods.
EXT SOUTH MOUNTAIN
Danny, shovel in hand, and Morgan stare at an arm protruding
from the ground. Danny hasbeen digging around an upended
cannon. The monument reads General Jesse Reno. They stare
at another upended cannon a hundred yards away.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 93.
DANNY
(pointing)
So we’ll find the Parker boy over
by Garland’s monument?
Morgan nods.
DANNY
We’re not in the Park---this is
Mack’s jurisdiction, not Chandler
or the FBI.
Morgan speaks into his cell.
MORGAN
Jim, drive back to the Visitor
Center. Do it now.
(listens)
What do you mean you’re just
leaving there?
(listens)
I never changed the itinerary. Who
told him that? Well, ask
him. He’s where?
(listens)
Get some men back to Finn. I’ll
call Finn. What? Why do you have
his phone? Never mind, get to him
now. He’s in danger.
(to Danny)
Floor it. I’ll call Mack.
EXT VISITOR’S CENTER CONTINUOUS
Mack and Chandler stand by the dais. Mack pockets his cell.
MACK
Tucker had a fool proof alibi both
times. Just confessed to screw us
up.
CHANDLER
My God, we still have a killer out
there.
MACK
We’ve got to shut the Park down.
Mack’s cell rings. He answers, listens.
94.
INT PARK RANGER CAR
MORGAN
Mack, get cops to Burnsides
Bridge. Finn’s in danger. The
killer is still loose.
(stops)
What do you mean you know?
EXT JAIL CONTINUOUS
Tucker walks out of jail laughing. The suit follows.
LAWYER
How in God’s name could you do
that?
TUCKER
Fuck them. I got my fifteen minutes
of fame and a good laugh.
LAWYER
You have a serious charge pending.
Giving a false statement is
obstruction of justice.
TUCKER
Big deal. Drop me at the Quality
Inn.
EXT BATTLEFIELD BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE 9AM
Finn stands by the statue of the upended cannon marked
GENERAL BRANCH. A figure stares out from the woods. Finn
looks around nervously. The figure closes. Finn hears a
noise. He steps back, wary.
FINN
Who is it? Identify yourself.
He reaches into his pants’ pocket for his cell, then
realizes he doesn’t have it. The figure emerges from the
woods. Finn turns and smiles.
FINN
What is it? Alright, I’m coming.
Finn walks into the woods. He follows the figure deep into
the woods.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 95.
FINN
What’s up? Where are we going?
Finn walks deeper and deeper into the woods. Then he stops,
suspicious.
FINN
What are you up to? Oh no, wait.
He raises his hands. The gun fires. The sound is muted.
Finn is dragged deeper into the woods.
INT VISITORS CENTER CONTINUOUS
A young man, VAN DORN, sits in a room overlooking the
grandstand and dais. He has various audio equipment in front
of him. He opens the envelope marked "BACK UP AUDIO", reads
it, then rolls a joint. He walks outside and ducks into the
men’s room.
EXT VISITOR CENTER GRANDSTAND
Buck stands on the dais with a few local dignitaries. The
grandstand is filled and a few thousand spectators are
spread out on either side of it. Stacks of speakers frame
both sides of the speaker’s platform.
Confederate soldiers load cannons while columns of troops
march into line. Across Antietam Creek a long line of men in
blue shift into position for the attack. A Ranger steps to
the podium and speaks into a microphone.
RANGER
In a few moments folks, the
battle will begin. The next sounds
you will hear are re-creations of
the sounds of the battle.
The Ranger motions to the audio booth. The kid, stoned,
plugs in a DVD. The audio in his ears plays The Doors "The
End".
EXT GRANDSTAND
As the beat of drums and voices of officers ordering their
troops into the line sounds Buck takes the microphone. He
faces the troops.
BUCK
Let the battle begin.
96.
Cannons boom, Confederate soldiers charge from the Dunker
Church into the cornfield. The audio is garbled.
EXT WOODS BY BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE
Finn is lying, his arms in a contorted position. A few cops
are taping off the area. An ambulance can be heard in the
distance. Patsi is at Danny’s side. Ella and Morgan stand
nearby. Jim, Chandler and Mack are there.
MORGAN
(to Chandler)
Cancel the battle.
Chandler nods, distracted.
DANNY
Do it now.
(to Mack)
Get men over to the Rodman
marker. A lot of them. He’s not
done yet.
MORGAN:
A fifth murder, third phase. It is
chronological. He puts the body
where a general died.
There is the sound of a cannonade in the distance.
DANNY
Dammit, the battle has started.
MORGAN
Let’s get to the Visitor Center.
EXT PATSI’S HOUSE
She opens the door. She smiles.
PATSI
To what do I owe the honor? I’d ask
you in but I’m already late for the
battle.
Patsi turns to grab her purse. A cloth is thrust over her
face. She struggles for a second, then faints.
97.
EXT VISITOR CENTER
A Ranger pounds on the window. Van Dorn sits up and removes
his walkman. He hears the garbled audio and inserts the
back up one.
EXT CORNFIELD
Chandler and Mack and Danny and Morgan pull up to the
Visitor Center. Buck stands with a group of townspeople by
the Dunker Church, watching the armies attacking each other
in the cornfield. Cannons boom with fake charges. Charges
explode through the cornfield and along the road running
beside it.
Hundreds of Union and Confederate soldiers race through
opposite sides of the cornfield. A huge crowd has assembled
to the side to watch the start of the battle.
EXT VISITOR CENTER
The audio starts. It is the sound of a muzzled shot. Then a
girl screaming. "Oh my God, oh my God, please, please don’t,
oh my God, oh my God, NO!’
The crowd turns upon itself. They quickly sense they just
heard something real.
Several police cars, sirens blazing, cut up the road to the
Visitor Center. Police fan out into line behind the charging
Confederates. Other cars can be seen coming up behind the
Union troops streaming down the road. Tourists start from
the grandstand, racing across the troops and out of the
park.
The charging troops collide in confusion with the tourists
and police. Buck screams at the tourists to stay back. He’s
ignored. Fake bombs continue to explode. Cannons boom.
Morgan, Mack, Chandler and Danny start directing Ranger and
cops to get people out of the Park. They order the
reenactors out as well. Buck runs into Danny who pushes him
aside. Buck trails after him as he reaches Morgan and
Chandler. A Confederate General runs up.
GENERAL
This isn’t right. The men are in
all the wrong places. I can’t
attack if there’s no one to attack.
Why are all these people here?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 98.
CHANDLER
The battle is canceled. We’re
clearing the field.
BUCK
You can’t cancel the battle.
Chandler gestures to Mack.
CHANDLER
(to Buck)
Do what he says or I’ll slug you
myself!
(turning to Mack and Danny)
This is all my fault.
Danny snaps his cell phone shut.
DANNY
(to Morgan)
Patsi’s not answering. Be right
back.
Danny sees Ella directing people out of the Park. He runs to
her. They talk. Ella gets in her car and speeds off.
MACK
(to Morgan)
That was Lisa Sayers voice on that
tape.
EXT BATTLEFIELD DUNKER CHURCH
Morgan, Mack, Chandler and Danny confer.
MORGAN
He’s outflanking us at every turn.
CHANDLER
Seven kills where seven generals
died.
MORGAN
Got eight men where Rodman died.
DANNY
He’s not done yet.
DANNY
It has to do with Rodman. But
we’re missing something.
Cannons erupt in the distance.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 99.
CHANDLER
Dammit, the Union’s attacking the
Center.
(to a Ranger)
Tell the men to get every
unauthorized person out of the
Park. Stop the battle.
INT PATSI’S
Patsi is in the trunk of a car in a black body bag. She is
gagged and unconscious. The bag is zipped up . The trunk
is shut. Ella pulls up in front of the house. She
approaches the car. We hear the sound of a gun being
cocked.
ELLA
Is Patsi in there?
Ella waits. There is a click. The car drives off.
ELLA
Hey, where did she go? And why did
you just take my picture? Whoa,
where are you going?
EXT BURNSIDES’ BRIDGE
Morgan and Danny reach the Confederate side as hundreds of
Union soldiers charge across the Bridge. The Confederates
beneath him start shooting from behind rocks and trees. Men
fall in fake death throes on the Bridge. Morgan looks around
as Danny runs down the hill and into the creek. Civilians on
that side watch and applaud.
Danny climbs the far bank. A Union soldier steps out from
behind a tree. Winded, Morgan waves for him to go on alone.
A group of soldiers block Danny’s path.
SOLDIER
You can’t be here.
DANNY
I got a real enemy to worry about.
SOLDIER
What are you talking about?
DANNY
Get out of my way.
(gesturing to up the hill)
There’s a real murderer up there.
100.
EXT QUALITY INN
Tucker sits on his bed, watching news of his release on the
TV. There is a knock at the door.
TUCKER
Yeah?
VOICE
Room service.
TUCKER
Room service? I didn’t call for
room service.
VOICE
Room service Sir.
Tucker opens the door. His face is frozen.
TUCKER
You. But you’re not able to talk.
We see Zeke, grinning, pointing a gun at Tucker.
EXT RODMAN CANNON
Eight cops stand with Morgan and Danny. Danny speaks into
his phone.
DANNY
Is she alright? I can’t hear you.
ELLA
Yes. I mean I think she is.
INT QUALITY INN
Tucker sits in a chair with his wrists handcuffed behind
him. Thick duct tape covers his mouth. His ankles are taped
to the chair’s legs. He stares in terror at ZEKE WHO POINTS
A GUN AT HIS KNEE. The gun has a silencer.
ZEKE
You look scared. You should be.
This is going to be really bad.
Zeke lifts his camera.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 101.
ZEKE
Smile.
Tucker is crying. Zeke lifts his head with the barrel of
the gun.
ZEKE
I said smile.
Tucke, weeping, smiles. Zeke snaps a picture. Then
another.
Zeke fires a shot into one knee cap. Tucker screams into the
tape, his eyes pleading, in pain and horror. Tucker sits in
terror, struggling to breathe as he blows into the tape
against his mouth.
ZEKE
Now it gets really fun.
Zeke brings the gun to Tucker’s mouth then slowly draws it
down over his chest to his groin. He brings it up against
his genitals then smiles at Tucker, looking straight into
his eyes. He widens his eyes, smiling demonically.
ZEKE
What have we here?
Tucker frantically shakes his head, then the gun fires. The
chair falls over. Zeke lies down next to Tucker, placing the
gun against Tucker’s taped mouth, staring into his eyes.
ZEKE
Bye. Bye.
He fires.
EXT RODMAN MONUMENT
Ella speaks to Danny.
ELLA
I don’t know where she is. Zeke
didn’t say..
DANNY
Why was Zeke at my house?
ELLA
No idea. He seemed a bit odd. Then
he took my picture.
It clicks for Danny.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 102.
DANNY
Oh my God, he’s a photographer,
that’s his souvenir.
He grabs a cop. Morgan, Danny and another cop get into a
police car and speed off. As they drive off Zeke slowly
crosses a field in a golf cart. There is a black plastic
bag in the back.
EXT ZEKE’S APARTMENT DOOR/SHARPSBURG
Danny breaks in the door.
COP
Police, come out with your hands
up!
They move through the small, meticulously neat and deserted
apartment. There is a photo album on the bed. Danny looks
through it.
There are pictures of his sister, Billy, and the other kids
lying dead or pleading for their lives. There are also
dozens of photos of a young boy being raped and tortured by
an older man.
EXT BATTLEFIELD
Zeke screeches to a halt in a golf cart by the Rodman
monument. A black garbage bag and various tools are piled in
the back of the cart. Several cops are positioned there. He
jumps out and waves frantically at one. He signs to one
cop. He listens, nods.
COP
Calm down Zeke.
Zeke continues signing. The cop reacts with alarm.
COP
(to other cops and rangers)
We have the killer, boarded up with
hostages in a house by the Bridge.
Let’s go.
RANGER
Why didn’t they call us?
COP
Who cares, let’s go!
The cops and rangers run towards the Bridge. Zeke watches
them disappear then drives slowly down into a meadow.
103.
INT ZEKE’S APARTMENT
A cop’s phone rings. He listens.
COP
That’s not true. Who told you
that?
He looks at Danny.
COP
Zeke sent the cops at the Rodman
monument on a wild goose
chase. He’s up there alone.
Danny runs to the cop car. He gets in and speeds off.
EXT RODMAN MONUMENT
Zeke stands at the edge of the woods, gun drawn. Patsi
lies at his feet, unconscious or dead. Danny
approaches. Zeke’s camera lies on top of a large rock. Zeke
points the gun at Patsi. Danny stops 20 yards away.
DANNY
Motherfucker.
ZEKE
She’s still alive.
DANNY
You can talk.
ZEKE
I’m full of surprises, ain’t I?
Zeke glances at Patsi, leans over and nudges her head with
the edge of the gun. Danny starts forward, then stops as
Zeke cocks the gun. Danny lifts his hands and backs off.
Zeke points to the camera.
ZEKE
I like to see their faces when they
know they’re going to die.
Especially with the girls. Your
sister was my favorite. She was so
scared.
(pauses)
Though Tucker was fun just now. I
keep pictures of them so I can
remember how special it was.
Danny registers this, breathes.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 104.
DANNY
Take me instead.
ZEKE
I can take you both now.
DANNY
This place is going to be
surrounded in five minutes.
ZEKE
I know, we don’t have much time.
DANNY
They know it’s you. You’re not
going to get away.
ZEKE
I know. I still love to take the
pictures.
Zeke snaps a picture of Patsi, then Danny.
He kneels quickly and snaps something under Patsi’s nose.
She stirs, gradually coming to.
Morgan, out of breath, comes up the hill. He stands behind
a tree, surveying the situation. He looks down the
hill. He sees people running towards them,about 500 yards
away. He looks at Zeke pointing the gun at Danny. Help
will not reach them in time. He steps out from the tree.
DANNY
Don’t do this.
ZEKE
Didn’t think you were smart enough
to figure it out.
(gesturing with his gun.)
Thought he was.
Morgan stands twenty yards to Zeke’s side. Zeke motions him
toward Danny with the gun.
MORGAN
It’s over son.
ZEKE
How come you’re not surprised I can
talk?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 105.
MORGAN
So you knew your sister was going
to leave so you killed her. What
was it after that, just found out
you liked hunting.
ZEKE
Shut up.
MORGAN
Look at me. Let it go. This ends
now. Take more courage for you to
stop this. Right now.
Patsi groans and sits up, looking form Morgan to Danny to
Zeke.
Sirens can be heard approaching. Zeke and Morgan lock
stares.
MORGAN
All this must end now.
Patsi takes it in. She screams. Zeke is distracted for one
moment.
Morgan trots forward. Zeke lifts the gun and shoots Morgan
who falls backwards. Danny rushes Zeke. Zeke shoots him in
the leg. Danny crawls towards Zeke.
ZEKE
Keep coming.
Zeke shoots him in his other leg. Patsi screams. Zeke
punches her in the head.
Morgan stares at the tree he stepped out from. He can make
it to it and roll himself down the hill. Instead he charges
Zeke. Zeke shoots him again. Danny and Morgan crawl
towards Zeke. Zeke is laughing. He stands over the
prostate men. He aims at Danny.
ZEKE
Bye, bye.
Patsi smashes a large rock into Zeke’s head. He
staggers. She hits him repeatedly till he falls to his
knees, screaming. She brings the rock down on his head and
he collapses.
106.
SUPER: ONE MONTH LATER
EXT VISITOR CENTER MORNING
Danny is carrying a suitcase, walking up to a Park Ranger
car. Patsi is alongside him. A young Ranger drives. Morgan
sits alongside him, head out the window.
DANNY
I’m going to miss you.
MORGAN
I’m here if you need me...and even
if you don’t.
PATSI
If I have a son...
MORGAN
If you dont...Ella’s a fine name
for a girl.
Danny pulls a badge from his pocket and hands it to Morgan.
DANNY
When they canned me, I held onto
this. Thanks for making me realize
why.
MORGAN
You’d do me a favor if you kept it.
Danny pockets the badge.
DANNY
When I went up after him, I knew
you’d be coming. When he shot you
I knew you’d keep coming.
MORGAN
How’s that?
DANNY
Sometimes you got to do what you
think is right even if you know
you’re going to die.
Morgan slaps the car and waves as they drive off.
RANGER
So that’s the other guy.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 107.
MORGAN
Son, he was my Lone Ranger...we all
need one of those in our lives.
RANGER
Sir. Can you tell me what happened
here last month?
MORGAN
(Sighing)
Sure, let’s get some breakfast
first.
RANGER
Yes, Sir.
MORGAN
Just don’t call me Sir.