Hellhound 20: Someday I Will Return

DAY--EXTERIOR COUNTRY CROSSROADS

This crossing of roads (outside Greenwood, Mississippi) looks very much like the one from Johnson's earlier nightmare, though he does not appear to notice. An ancient rattletrap Ford truck wheezes to a halt, and Robert dismounts from the passenger seat, nodding his thanks to the black driver.

JOHNSON: Thank ya.

CLOSER ON THE TRUCK

As Johnson reaches into the truck for his guitar and suitcase, the driver leans over.

DRIVER: Curtis place up the way there. (winks) Good times tonight an' ev'ry Sat'dy night!

Then he waves and sputters off in the Ford. Johnson turns to survey the surrounding countryside.

WIDE ANGLE--P.O.V.--PAN

Robert's view of his surroundings: two distant farmhouses, early-spring green fields of cotton, some other plantings as well. And up the road, two hundred yards or so, set well back with its own long dirt-road entry, a large wooden structure almost like an overgrown shed--Ralph Curtis's dancehall/tavern, with proud sign "RALPH'S ROADHOUSE."

ANOTHER ANGLE

He sets out walking towards the building.

INTERIOR ROADHOUSE

Inside, it is somewhat less impressive, though rather large--a battered bar and tables in one half and a large dance floor beyond. Ralph himself is sweeping the fance area, while his assistant Charles stands behind the bar, cleaning sink and drain; a can of "RED DEVIL" lye waits on the bartop near him.

Johnson enters from outside and saunters over to Charles.

JOHNSON: Ralph Curtis?

CHARLES (waving toward the back): 'At's him yonder.

Robert deposits his suitcase by the bar and, guitar in hand, heads for Curtis.

ANGLE FAVORING CURTIS

Ralph--Betty Mae's husband--is stocky and stolid, a perennially suspicious, easily perspiring member of the incipient Negro middle class. He looks at Johnson impassively as the bluesman near him.

CURTIS: Yeah? What?

JOHNSON (showing guitar): I play--breakdowns, blues, you name it. Need a job.

CURTIS: This ain' no dime juke or two-bit crib. If you can cut it, could be we use ya.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson runs through a few dazzling runs on guitar and plays the opening to "Preachin' Blues" (heard early in the film). Curtis holds up his hand.

CURTIS: So you got that part down. The rest of it is, we open Satiddy only, you stay sober and play onta dawn on a right night. Two dollars, more if you draw folks good. Well?

JOHNSON: Better'n choppin'.

CURTIS (dismissively): Right. Be here come nine... what's you' name anyway?

Robert is already walking away. He turns back with a half-smile.

JOHNSON: Johnson. Calls me "Blues Boy Bob."

ANGLE ON THE BAR

Johnson picks up his suitcase as he walks by.

JOHNSON (to Charles): So long.

Then he heads on out the door. Curtis has trailed him over to the bar.

CHARLES: Who 'zat? Look some familiar.

CURTIS: Say his name Bob Johnson.

CHARLES (thinking while he cleans mugs): Bob Johnson... Johnson... Well, sho'... 'At's Robert Johnson, from up Rob'sonville way. You heard 'is records, ain'cha? Real woman-poison too, folks say.

Curtis is already frowning and staring after Johnson.

ANGLE OUT THE SCREEN DOOR

Which shows Robert making his way down the road, Betty Mae coming towards him. She doesn't recognize him at first, but then stops in astonishment. The two ex-lovers approach each other slowly. Their initial words are not heard, as Charles continues speaking voiceover:

CHARLES' VOICE: Oh, yes, he pick 'em up an' drop 'em down. Say, Ralph, ain't you' wife come from up there?

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Curtis strides over to the screen door and yanks it open.

CURTIS (back to Charles): Shut you' mouf.

EXTERIOR ROADHOUSE

As Curtis emerges and bellows out...

CURTIS: Betty Mae!

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Now the couple is in the foreground and Curtis distant in background, gesturing from the door.

JOHNSON: ... to fin' you, Mae.

Betty Mae waves reassuringly at her husband.

BETTY MAE: I never tol' him, but...

JOHNSON: I be wait out at the crossroads. We got t' talk.

Betty Mae hurries off towards Curtis, but she looks back at Johnson, very much troubled by this encounter. He turns and saunters off.

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Betty Mae approaches her fuming husband.

CURTIS: What 'uz he sayin' at you?

BETTY MAE (not meeting his eyes as she passes): Nothing. He wanted a place in town to stay at. Why, who is he anyway?

She hurries on into the roadhouse. Curtis looks stricken by this casual lie, then somehow both angry and despairing, watching Johnson recede into the distance.

Hellhound 19: See That Lonesome Road

DAWN--EXTERIOR LOGGING CAMP--MOVING

This is an East Texas "piney woods" logging camp with sawmill, board shacks, and an off-shift barrelhouse tavern right on site too; its flimsy sign has a handwritten "MUD'S." Both sawmill and barrelhouse are going full-tilt as Johnson wanders into camp, carrying his suitcase and the replacement guitar strapped across his back. He passes the working area with scarcely a sideways glance, arrives at Mud's just in time to stop, allowing two men, the one helping his drunk cohort, to stumble out from inside.

DRUNK (to Johnson): Good evenin', brother!

Robert looks up at the dawn sky, then grins and answers:

JOHNSON: Evenin' to you.

He walks on inside.

INTERIOR BARRELHOUSE

One long room filled with off-shift workers--a narrow bar, a few tables, a smoke-filled atmosphere, and a battered upright piano stuck off in one corner. An old juke joint/barrelhouse pianist named Henry sits noodling riffs and runs just about as tired as the workers all around the room. Robert skirts the bar and goes over to the piano.

ANGLE ON PIANO

Johnson sets his suitcase and guitar down, which attracts Henry's attention; he turns his head to the sound, revealing dark glasses and blind eyes. And he begins playing a more complete tune, some slow blues number.

HENRY: Who that?

JOHNSON (leaning on the piano): A weary man.

HENRY (playing throughout their talk): New man too, I'd say. The voice...

JOHNSON: Uh-huh. (about the music) Tha's nice 'n' peaceful.

HENRY: Slow drag for the end o' things. You play?

JOHNSON (looking over at the guitar): Gittar. Some harp when I 'uz a kid.

HENRY: That so? What'd you' name be?

JOHNSON: Robert Johnson.

Henry stops playing long enough to hold out his right hand.

HENRY: Henry Perkins. Calls me "Blin' Boy."

They shake hands and then he resumes the music.

HENRY: Seem like I hear talk of Robert Johnson. You him?

JOHNSON (shrugs): Depen's what you hear.

HENRY (smiles): Bad blues gittar, folks say.

JOHNSON: I get on.

Henry lifts one hand to reach for his beer mug atop the piano, finds it empty.

HENRY: Mebbe we try some piano-an'-gittar after 'while.

JOHNSON: Don' min'.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Henry turns to call across to the bartender.

HENRY: Hey, Mud. Two short'uns.

Robert walks over to pick up the two mugs. The room has gradually begun emptying out as the next camp shift makes ready to start. He returns with the beers, pulls up a chair, and sits down next to Henry. He sips from his mug, but Henry takes a deep draught, then sets his aside and resumes playing.

HENRY: Well, Robert Johnson, where be you boun'?

CLOSE ON THE TWO--FAVORING JOHNSON

Robert shrugs silently, then realizes Henry can't see that motion.

JOHNSON: Wherever. Somewheres better than I been, hope to God.

HENRY (slaps his knee): Ain' that th' trufe! But you ain' soun' near old 'nuff to talk it.

JOHNSON (bitterly): How ol' you got t' be to be dead?

Henry absorbs this silently, segueing into another blues number; the talk ceases for a moment.

HENRY: Some better up North, folks say. Seem like they's movin' up there, anyway--Indiana, Chicago, an' such like.

Johnson absorbs this in silence, shaking his head gloomily.

HENRY: Yessir, that's black man's future, folks say. Mebbe I oughta roll on up that river myself.

JOHNSON (intensely): Blin' Boy, it ain't. I been there.

CLOSE ON HENRY

As he turns and answers Robert just as intently.

HENRY: Son, I be fo'ty-nine year old, near's I kin tell. Live my whole life in Arkansaw, Loo-zana, Eas' Texas--these ol' piney camps. It's damn got t' be better!

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson shakes his head but says nothing. He finishes his beer, and Henry resumes playing. Then:

JOHNSON: No better, jes' diff'runt.

Henry plays silently, lost in the music for a moment.

HENRY: Yeah, I 'speck you right. Hell, if'n I found it, I ain' know whut t' do wid it anyways.

Another silence as they both mull things over. Then the 6 a.m. steam whistle sounds loudly from outside; Robert is startled a bit, but Henry pays no attention.

HENRY: You hear 'bout Bessie?

JOHNSON: Hear what?

HENRY: She done pass on, coupla weeks back. Auto-mobile crash, over t' Mis'sip' or Alabam. Bled on out, folk say, try'na get inta the white man hospital.

JOHNSON (clearly shaken): God-dam, Blin' Boy. Bessie Smith cain't be gone like that.

HENRY: Well, she is. "Queen o' the Blues"? Don' make no nevermin's, it's the road we all gone down, fast or slow. (sings a line from a Smith record) "See that lonesome road, Lawd, it got to end..."

ANGLE ON THE ROOM

Now the midnight-shift workers begin streaming in, their first noisy stop the bar. Then they spread out heading for tables or the small open space meant for dancing.

CLOSE ON THE TWO

Robert and Henry have to talk loudly now to hear each other.

HENRY: Know what the answer is, Robert? Get'cha a good woman. Not no bottle--Lord knows, not these blues lines. Jes' a sof' sweet gal ta hol' onta.

JOHNSON (doubtful): I don' know...

HENRY: I'm tellin' ya, ain't I? You ever have a gal like that?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Several of the new arrivals are ready to whoop it up now.

FIRST MAN: C'mon, Blin' Boy, put me in the dozens!

SECOND MAN: Kick 'em on down!

A third man is in the dance space, all set to step out.

THIRD MAN: I got to be movin', son--where you' Ma Grinder at?

Henry waves one hand in response.

HENRY: Comin' at ya.

Then he bangs into a high-spirited, gutbucket piano stomp.

CLOSE ON HENRY

Robert leans into make himself heard.

JOHNSON: One like that a long time ago, but she took up wid somebody else.

HENRY: Well, you young, ain'cha? Git 'er on back.

Now Henry really gets into the number, swaying and rocking on his piano stool.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The workers are whooping and hollering too, some of them leaping and dancing, beer mugs right in their hands. Johnson looks lost in thought.

HENRY (shouting): Yessir, that's the ticket! One good gal!

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He finally accepts the notion, makes up his mind, nods his head, and speaks aloud but to himself.

JOHNSON: All right, I will then...

Hellhound 18: Me an' the Devil

((The fifth section begins here--the last act in this extended look at the harsh life of a Thirties bluesman. We begin, still in Dallas...))

DAY--INTERIOR OFFICE

This is the unused office which the record company ARC has converted for its schedule of "field" recording in Dallas. Two white women are seated on a moth-eaten couch talking listlessly. The sound of string band music comes from within the closed recording portion. Johnson enters, dressed in clean clothes. He is cold sober and now, unexpectedly on the morning after the previous scene, a stronger, more confident man, even quietly dignified. The women look at him with some distaste or dismissal, but he ignores them, standing quietly off to one side.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The closed recording room door opens, and Dawson escorts out the four-man string band in their Western clothing. The women rise to stand with their men.

DAWSON: Thanks, boys. A fine session. I think we'll all do well...

The players insist on each man shaking Dawson's hand as a goodbye. Then all exit, passing now on both sides of Johnson and giving him the onceover. Dawson nods at him coolly.

DAWSON: Well, Johnson, you ready now to work? I got you a replacement guitar.

The bluesman walks over to him, subdued and somehow a different man.

JOHNSON: Yes. I am.

Dawson looks at him in surprise. The change really is apparent. Guitar music begins on the track...

INTERIOR--RECORDING AREA

The set-up is different this time. Johnson at the mic is separated from Harry the engineer and Dawson by a glass office partition. They work the equipment and watch as he finishes his outspoken sexual blues called "Traveling Riverside":

Now you can squeeze my lemon till the juice run down my leg
Till the juice run down my leg, baby... (spoken) You know what I'm talkin' about...
(and so on, to the end)

The song finishes, and Johnson relaxes in his chair, not bothering to turn and look at the white men.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Dawson speaks via the rigged-up intercom.

DAWSON: Whew! I said sexy, Robert--not pornographic. What do you call that, anyway?

HARRY (muttering again, but audible): Most disgusting thing I ever heard. Animals, that's what they are...

ANGLE ON ROBERT

Now he turns to stare at the engineer through the glass. His answer is cold and proud.

JOHNSON: Call it "Mammyjammer Blues." In honor to you' frien' there.

ANGLE ON ENGINEER AND PRODUCER

Harry half-rises, not quite sure whether to be angry or "honored."

HARRY: What's that supposed to mean?

DAWSON: Shut up, Harry. You brought it on yourself.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he points at Harry.

JOHNSON: If you is got any mo' discs, Miste' Engineer, I got two mo' songs...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Dawson signals his okay, proceed.

DAWSON: We're fine. Go ahead when you're ready.

Robert turns back to the mic, adjusts the bottleneck on his finger, and mutters to himself.

JOHNSON: Try this one on, white folks...

Then he plays/sings the haunted and paranoid (or guilty) blues--the film's title song--"Hellhound on My Trail," the awkward beginnings of which we saw early in the film.

I got to keep movin', got to keep movin', blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail,
Umm, blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail,
An' the day keeps on 'mindin' me there's a hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail...

Etc. The song plays through completely, the camera watching Johnson from a variety of angles, but always medium shots; intercut with these are the folllowing inserts:

INSERT--HARRY

The engineer is listening intently, but mechanically, doing his sound job, frowning.

INSERT--DAWSON

The producer is surprised by the intensity of this song and performance.

INSERT--HARRY

He turns to fiddle with various knobs, adjusting the recording levels.

INSERT--DAWSON

He has risen to his feet, unconsciously holding his breath, at pains to keep silent and not disturb the moment.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

As he finishes in a final burst of of guitar notes. Dawson is visible, standing beyond the partition. Johnson turns to signal something as Dawson speaks.

DAWSON: Good God, man! Where did...

JOHNSON (interrupting): Keep rollin' it--I got 'nother one...

He turns back to the mic and launches immediately into his most chilling and evil blues of all, "Me and the Devil," all anger and despair:

Early this mornin' when you knocked upon my door (repeat)
I said, "Hello, Satan, I b'lieve it's time to go."
Me an' the devil was walkin' side by side (repeat)
I'm goin' to beat my woman till I get satisfied...
You may bury my body down by the highway side
(spoken interjection:) Babe, I don' care where you bury my body when I'm dead an' gone
So my ol' evil spirit can get a Greyhoun' bus and ride.

This time the camera concentrates on Johnson only--moving fluidly all around him, in tight on his face, tight on his hands on the guitar, angled down on his body and the mic (from above), etc. The bluesman's face shows all the intensity and searing pain of the song (and of his soul). Dawson can be seen in the background once or twice, pressed against the glass, intent and staring. By the last verse, tears are streaming down from Johnson's eyes as he looks deep into the abyss of his erratic life. He ends, slumped over, head bowed over the mic.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON AND CONTROL ROOM

All are momentarily frozen, unwilling to break the silence. Then the engineer's voice sounds over the intercom.

HARRY: Goddam cylinders... useless as this nigger music...

Dawson turns to glare at Harry silently. Robert brushes the tears from his cheeks, then rises.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson turns to face the control booth.

JOHNSON: Gimme my money, boss--time to shake the Dallas dust off'n my shoes...

Hellhound 17: In the Midnight Hour

DAY--INTERIOR JAIL CELL

As Johnson's limp body tumbles to the floor in a heap. His face is puffed and bruised; he moves like his body is too. From the doorway the fat cop tosses Johnson's broken, strings-dangling guitar in after him.

FAT COP: Play yourself some blues--that's what you call 'em, ain't it, black boy? Oh yeah, I dipped my wick in that ink a time or two. Haw, haw, haw!

ANOTHER ANGLE

Wincing with pain, Johnson struggles up onto the bunk, clutching his busted guitar. He looks at it, then hurls it away in disgust--causing himself further pain. He groans loudly, then lies there staring at the darkness.

TWILIGHT--ANGLE ON CELL BARS AND DOOR

The fat cop pulls the door open; he is angry.

FAT COP: On your feet, black boy. You lucked out.

Dawson appears behind him.

DAWSON: Robert? You all right?

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Johnson rises from the bunk, still wincing, but putting on a strut.

JOHNSON: Doin' some better now, Miste' Dawson.

He saunters past the fat cop and thrusts the broken guitar into his hands.

JOHNSON: Here go, boss--play you'-self some blues.

TWILIGHT--EXTERIOR POLICE STATION

Dawson and Johnson emerge and descend the steps to climb into the auto Dawson and Harry are using. Harry has the motor idling; Dawson helps the slow-moving bluesman into the back seat, and he climbs in the front passenger spot. The car speeds off.

INTERIOR AUTO

Dawson twists around to talk with Johnson while Harry drives.

DAWSON: Good Lord, man, what happened to you?

Johnson shrugs, then flinches from the pain.

JOHNSON: Pool hall fight. An' then I done what the po-lice call re-sistin' arrest.

DAWSON: You mean the cops did that to you? But it was a policeman that called me...

JOHNSON: Jes' one of 'em work on me... (exhibiting torn sleeve and tooth marks) him an' his dog. Smash my gittar too.

HARRY (under his breath): Thank God for small favors...

DAWSON: Shut up, Harry. (to Johnson) No problem, we'll find you something--and deduct it from your wages, of course. (shakes his head) Incredible... How could such brutality be allowed to go on?

Robert laughs aloud at that naive remark.

JOHNSON: You sho' ain't black.

EXTERIOR STREET--BLACK SECTION

The car stops and Johnson climbs painfully out. Dawson leans out his window to say a few more words.

DAWSON: Stay put this time, Robert, okay? You got everything you need now? Money enough?

JOHNSON: Axe the Dallas po-lice. They got mine.

Dawson digs deep and comes up with a handful of change.

DAWSON: Here's forty-five cents for a meal. Don't blow it on booze, please?

JOHNSON (with a tired grin): Don' need ta--whiskey'n my room already.

Then he painfully mounts the stairs to his clapboard hotel.

NIGHT--HOTEL HALLWAY

Johnson is talking into the wall telephone. His bruised face has been tended to and he is smiling at something camera does not see. He also looks drunk again.

JOHNSON: Miste' Dawson?

INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Dawson has just picked up his room phone; he is in his underwear, hair touseled, looking half-asleep.

DAWSON: Robert? What the hell's the matter now? (looks at his watch) What do you mean, you're lonesome?

HOTEL HALLWAY--ANOTHER ANGLE

Now we see the object of Johnson's attention--a smiling sexy woman who hands him a glass of whiskey and runs her fingernails down his cheek.

JOHNSON (slurring): I'm lonesome an' they's a gal here. She wants fi'ty cents an' I lacks a nickel...

Clearly over the telephone connection comes the sound of an outraged shout and a receiver slammed down (Dawson reacting at his end). Johnson flinches at the ear shock, then shrugs and hangs up.

JOHNSON: Well, mama, look like you gonn' has t' choose 'tween me an' a fi'-cent-piece.

She looks him over, then answers with her own shrug. She takes his arm, and the two of them head for his room, Johnson weaving a bit.

NIGHT--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Shabby furnishings as ever; bare lightbulb illumination from overhead. Johnson sits at a small table, pouring himself another drink; he is bare-chested. The woman frets on the bed in her bra and panties.

WOMAN: Come on, daddy. Leave off that bottle.

Johnson mumbles something stupidly, lifting the glass to peer up through it at the lightbulb.

WOMAN (wheedling): I be good to ya, honest...

She rubs her pubic area but Johnson is paying no attention.

WOMAN (angry now): Shit, you ain't want a woman--all's you need 's a whiskey-tit.

With that, she bounces up off the bed and over to the table. She grabs up the bottle, and when Johnson stupidly turns to look for it, she yanks her bra down and pours a few drops on each nipple, rubbing the alcohol into her flesh. Then she smiles seductively and falls back on the bed, holding the bottle on her belly.

WOMAN: Here ya go, bottle baby...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson lumbers drunkenly to his feet and over to the bed, where he tries to grab the bottle back. But she resists him, and finally he simply hits out at her with his arm and hand, harder than he realizes, knocking her off the bed. Her head strikes a corner of the bedstand, and she goes limp. Johnson looks around for her stupidly, then sees her on the floor. He tumbles off beside her.

JOHNSON (dazed): Mae, honey, i ain' mean t' knock you down...

INSERT--BETTY MAE

As seen early in the film when Johnson inadvertently knocked her to the floor.

AS BEFORE

Johnson awkwardly lifts the woman's head, and his hand comes away with a small smear of blood. He stares at this stupidly for a moment, then reacts with a terrible groan, scuttling backward, letting her head fall to the floor again.

INSERT--LOUISE

As seen in the death scene, Louise bloody and dead in the hotel room.

AS BEFORE

Johnson lunges away from the woman, gagging and retching, and half-crawls, half-runs to the room door, yanking it open and stumbling out into the hall.

HALLWAY--HAND-HELD

Johnson staggers away from the room and near the wall telephone falls to his knees once more, vomiting up all the cheap whiskey and bad memories.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

The back of his lowered head as he continues to gag and gasp and choke. Finally, the heaving subsides, and he crawls off to another spot where he hunches against the wall, staring blankly.

ANOTHER ANGLE--HAND-HELD AGAIN

After a moment, sounds from the hotel room bring him back to awareness. In agony but also relieved, he gets up and staggers back to the doorway. Framed across the room he sees the woman pulling on her dress and dabbing at her head with a handkerchief.

INTERIOR--HOTEL ROOM

At the sight of Johnson, she lets out a shriek of anger and charges at him. But she stops short, merely holding up her purse threateningly.

WOMAN: Where's my money, motherfucker?

JOHNSON: I... I'm sorry...

He reaches out to her, but she knocks his hands away.

WOMAN: Keep you' monkey paws offa me! Jus' gimme my fifty cents 'fore I calls my mack down on you!

Johnson reaches into his pants pocket and hands her the coins.

JOHNSON: Fo'ty-five cents is all...

She snatches it from him, counts it, then glares at him in anger, wounded dignity, and residual pain. Then she flings the coins in his face.

WOMAN: Keep it, you damn jackass-balls no-good! Your money ain't good enuff!

Then she slams him out of the way with her purse and strides from the room.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He rubs his face where the coins stung, staring after her. Then he wearily turns away.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson stumbles over to the table and collapses into the chair. He looks all the way down--drained, exhausted, sober finally, lost in depression and his memories of other days...

INSERT--BETTY MAE

From the scene of Robert's triumphant return to Son and Willie.

INSERT--JOHNNY

His typical charming self, executing a bow.

INSERT--LOUISE

As she was when first seen, sultry and sexy and fiery.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

Tears well up in his eyes and begin to trail down his cheeks. He rubs his neck where the lucky bag once was, then slowly lowers his head onto his arms crossed on the table top. He doesn't move again.

((END OF SECTION 4--of my failings in this script, Johnson's "dark night of the soul" is probably the most overwritten and romantically cliched; chalk it up to a fledgling screenwriter in his 20's trying to write stuff that might somehow seem tragic and mythic. At any rate, Section 5 rises above all this pathos. Stay tuned...))

Hellhound 16: Deep Ellum Blues

DAY--INTERIOR DALLAS TRAIN STATION

Waiting beside a newly arrived train are Dawson, nervously pacing, and Harry, as ornery as ever. The train is emptying, people disembarking, milling around, but no sign of Johnson. Finally, from a far-back car comes Robert--he is dressed in better clothes now but these are wrinkled and dirty too. He is also already drunk, staggering badly; the wound near his eye has healed, leaving a small scar. (In the scenes that follow, Johnson is sullen and careless--not arrogant exactly, just not caring what happens, and careless of black-white relationship rules.) Dawson hurries to meet him.

DAWSON: Robert! Good to see you.

He hold out his hand to shake with Johnson.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Johnson interprets this as an offer of assistance--so he hands his flimsy suitcase to Dawson instead. (His guitar is slung over his back.)

JOHNSON: Yeah.

Dawson is surprised, but he quickly passes the suitcase over to surly and reluctant Harry, who handles it as though it might bite.

DAWSON: Welcome to Dallas. How was the trip?

Johnson looks at him stupidly for a beat, then mumbles...

JOHNSON: Fine, fine... better'n ridin' the blin's, I 'spect. (pause) What now, white folks?

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Dawson is anxious to get moving, so he sort of half-steers Johnson into walking. Harry is left to carry the suitcase; his disgust is evident.

DAWSON: First thing we do is get you settled in a hotel. We'll be recording in an office I'll show you--starting tomorrow. (then alluding delicately to Johnson's inebriation) If you're ready...

Johnson says nothing, so Dawson babbles on.

DAWSON: We've got to get a dozen or so new numbers--strong stuff. "32-20" didn't hit like "Terraplane," you know. Got to sew up that race market...

They continue through the station, Harry dragging along behind, Dawson guiding Johnson. The white people ignore them, but a couple of black porters turn to watch this odd procession.

JOHNSON: I got the stuff. (sly glance at Dawson) All's I needs now 's a drink.

They pass on out of the station during Dawson's response.

DAWSON: We'll see. But you've got to pull yourself...

The rest is lost to the exterior city noise.

INTERIOR POOL HALL

In Dallas's black section, a dingy hall with three tables and a bar. A game is in progress between two men; a young woman, the barman, and another man are watching boredly. Johnson reels in, bottle in hand and guitar on his shoulder. He looks the scene over then makes a zig-zag beeline for the sexy girl.

JOHNSON: Hey there, honey, who's got the game?

WOMAN (coldly): My man Jack.

JOHNSON (moving in): Is that right. Well, peaches, while Jackson's busy, what say you an' me go somewheres an' shake yo' tree.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The woman moves away from him without speaking. Johnson then repositions himself between her and the game.

JOHNSON: Now don' be unfrien'ly, baby--where's 'at Texas hospitality you...

He doesn't finish the sentence because something is jabbing him in the back--Jack has arrived, with the tip of his pool cue grinding into Johnson's kidney area.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Johnson turns to face Jack.

JACK: Lemme cue you in, Eightball--you want a game? You got it. Want trouble, fine, you kin have that too. But Marla... uh-uh.

To emphasize the message, he jams Johnson's stomach with the cue. The bluesman stands quiet as Marla moves around him to stand beside Jack. But when they turn away with a sneer, Johnson slams the bottle down on Jack's head.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Jack drops like a shot, Marla screams and crouches down to help him, and the second player and the no-longer-bored onlooker both charge Johnson, who grins nastily and tosses his guitar aside. The player swings his cue, and Robert dodges him, overturning a small table into the path of his opponents.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he grabs up several billiard balls and starts hurling these at the opposition.

CLOSE ON OPPONENTS

They dodge two balls, but a third smacks the cue wielder in the gut, doubling him over.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Jack is out cold, and Marla runs screaming out the bar's front door, calling for help. The barman has moved out from behind the bar as well, carrying a sawed-off cue; he and the third man stalk Johnson, who retreats warily, waving his last ball. Then he slings it at the third man, who dodges it just as Johnson himself hurtles through the air and knocks him to the floor.

CLOSE ON THE BRAWL

As the barman and now-recovered second player close in to join the fray. They pummel Johnson with fists and feet until the barman finally slugs him with the sawed-off cue; and Robert passes out...

ANGLE UP--CLOSE ON SNARLING DOBERMAN--P.O.V.

This is what Robert sees first as he comes to--a snarling dog right in his face.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The Doberman is on a leash held by a fat white policeman. The cop steps back and yanks his dog to heel. Robert shows fear of the dog.

FAT COP: Get up, boy.

Johnson shakes his head to clear it, then clambers to his feet. The barman and a younger cop (Schmidt) approach; everyone else has vanished.

BARMAN (gesturing and pointing): Yes-suh, Miste' Schmidt, crazy nigger come in here, blin' drunk an' spoilin' for a fight, start wreckin' over my place, had to col'-cock him to keep...

Johnson has been rubbing the back of his head, eyeing the dog warily.

JOHNSON (interrupting): Where Jack an' that bitch at, then?

Barman (all innocent): Jack who? (to Schmidt) What I tol' ya, that fool still half outen his mind. Nobody 'cep'im him here since two 'clock.

Johnson starts to move toward the barman, but the fat cop and dog quickly block him.

FAT COP: Stand you' ground, boy. (to Schmidt) C'mon, Smitty--this one's enuff. Nigra in the hand's worth two in the woodpile. Haw, haw, haw!

ANOTHER ANGLE

He grabs Johnson's arm and starts hustling him toward the door. Robert tries to pull loose.

JOHNSON: Hol' up, boss. Need my git-tar.

The fat cop shoves him hard, but Schmidt intercedes.

SCHMIDT: Forget it, Joe. I'll get the guitar.

He picks it up and actually starts strumming it awkwardly while the fat cop impels Johnson ahead of him and out the door.

EXTERIOR POOL HALL

The street is deserted--black people evidently anxious to avoid the Dallas police. The fat cop shoves Johnson toward the waiting paddy wagon.

JOHNSON: Quit pushin'. I'm goin', aint I?

FAT COP: Naw, boy, you ain't goin'--you smart-assin' me, and I don't cotton to it. You ain't from aroun' here, are ya.

JOHNSON (now Tomming blatantly): Lawd, no-suh, Miste' Charlie, suh. I'se jes' a po' country boy in this big ol' frien'ly city. Doin' some re-cordin, suh, tha's all.

The fat cop is busy snapping handcuffs on Robert, but Schmidt perks up, stopping his half-assed attempt at picking out a tune.

SCHMIDT: That right? You make records? What's your name?

ANGLE ON PADDY WAGON

The fat cop throws Johnson into the van as he tries to answer.

JOHNSON (loudly): Robert Johnson. I'm here with the 'Merican Record Corporation! An' they'll be lookin' for me!

Fat cop Joe grabs the guitar and tosses it in on Johnson.

FAT COP: Too bad they ain't gonna find you, boy. You drive, Smitty. (then over Schmidt's half-protest) Nope, Johnson here's a dangerous prisoner, so me an' Smoke's gonna ride inside and keep an eye on 'im.

Johnson is struggling to stand up inside the wagon as the fat cop un-leashes his Doberman, which leaps inside with a growl. Joe winks at Schmidt and climbs inside, pulling the door shut.

INTERIOR PADDY WAGON

Johnson and his guitar are huddled in the forward area, the dog crouched in front of him growling. Joe moves toward them as the van starts moving as well.

CLOSE ON FAT COP--P.O.V.

He closes in on Robert, cracking his knuckles.

FAT COP: So, you big-mouth, black-ass, uppity-nigra record star, too bad you resisted arrest.

Hellhound 15: B'lieve I'm Sinkin' Down

((The fourth section of Hellhound begins just below; there are five in all, so look for the entire finished script, 20-some parts total, to be posted in a few more weeks.))

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET

A busy street in some town, cars and many white people hurrying past Johnson, who stands playing his guitar somewhat desultorily. No one stops to listen, though one or two passersby toss nickels or dimes at this beggar's feet. And "beggar" is what he looks like--fresh scab near his eye, dirt and dried blood on his shirt, scruffy pants, shoes without socks. Johnson is in bad shape, and no better when he bends down to pick up the few coins.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He picks the coins up, one by one. Suddenly large legs and huge boots step before his face.

LOW ANGLE UP--P.O.V.

On the mammoth towering figure of a gross, perspiring Southern white lawman.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson stands up gingerly, shielding his guitar behind him. Very nervous, he plays the "Tom" completely--so much so that the scene becomes embarrassing and uncomfortable for the viewer too.

LAWMAN: What's this, boy?

JOHNSON (mumbling): Nuthin', suh.

LAWMAN: Whut say, boy? Speak up.

JOHNSON: I jes' playin' mah git-tar.

LAWMAN: Not in this heah town, you don't, boy. Wheah you from?

JOHNSON (darting nervous looks): Memphis, suh. On my way back there, suh.

LAWMAN: Well, you jes' keep movin', y'heah? We don't want no (sarcastic now) big-city nigras comin' in this litta-bitty town o' ours.

Johnson is shifting and shuffling, anxious to be away.

JOHNSON (bobbing his head): Yassuh, I do it...

LAWMAN (off-hand now, bored): All right, boy. Git on you' way now. Ten p.m.'s curfew for culuhed folks. Don' lemme find you heah-'bouts come mawnin'.

JOHNSON: Yassuh, cap'n.

Still bowing and scraping, he scurries off.

EVENING--EXTERIOR FARM

To this ramshackle, back-country farm at twilight comes Johnson. He is dressed as before, carrying his guitar, yet looks somewhat better; we'll see that the scab has healed some too. The black farmer sits on his porch steps whittling.

FARMER: 'Lo.

JOHNSON: (wearily): Mighty low. (sheds his guitar) But it's a nice 'nuff evenin'.

FARMER: Summer come early.

JOHNSON (after a moment): You got somethin' could lay the dust?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Farmer gestures with his whittling knife.

FARMER: Water over there.

JOHNSON: Whiskey mebbe go wid it?

The farmer stops whittling and regards him thoughtfully, then nods at the guitar.

FARMER: Is you kin play that?

JOHNSON (collapsing on the steps): Oh yes, my frien', I do play gittar.

ANGLE ON THE TWO--DOOR BEYOND

The farmer twists around to shout into the house; some children are peeking out already.

FARMER: Yo, Martha! Bring us 'at jar out. (to Robert) Hongry too?

JOHNSON (shrugging): Not so's you'd notice...

He picks up his guitar and begins picking and chording softly, tuning up some. Martha appears in the doorway, nodding shyly and handing the Mason jar of corn liquor to her husband. Then she leans against the doorframe, kids clinging to her skirt and peeking around. Johnson accepts the first drink gladly.

JOHNSON (toasting): Better days. I hope.

He takes a healthy swig and passes it back to the farmer, who drinks more carefully, savoring the taste. Johnson starts a slow blues instrumental.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR PORCH

The music continues over. By the moonlight we see that the children are long gone, the woman is rocking slowly back and forth, Robert is tipsy and consuming the last of the jar's contents, and the farmer is now playing Johnson's guitar.

NIGHT--INTERIOR SHED

Later, Johnson lies snoring in a smushed heap of corn-cobs and straw, inside the farmer's rickety shed. The music slowly fades.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

Still later. Now his sleep is fitful; he struggles and utters a strangled groan--another nightmare...

NIGHT--EXTERIOR CROSSROADS

In pitch-black darkness Johnson stands at a rural crossroads, a town vaguely in the distance. He is nervous, agitated, glancing about fearfully. A mournful howling dog sounds on the track throughout the ensuing brief scenes...

Now distant shouting men too. Johnson's fears mount, but he seems rooted to the spot, unable to move.

ANGLE ON ONE ROAD

As an old sedan speeds past on the crossing road, driven by a white man resembling Dawson the record producer. Johnson, still rooted, tries to flag him down, to no avail.

ANGLE ON DISTANT TOWN--RAPID PAN

The voices are getting louder, as a second car comes speeding from the town. The driver seems to be Johnny, with Betty Mae as his passenger. Jonson waves frantically for them to stop, but the car passes him by. Betty Mae turns to look back as the car speeds away. An incoming vehicle appears beside it, this one seemingly driven by Louise.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson is finally able to move, and he runs into the road to stop this third car. But Louise drives as though she can't see him there, and at the last moment Johnson must leap from the path of the speeding car, rolling off the road.

ANGLE ON TOWN

As Louise's vehicle speeds toward the town--suddenly illuminating a gang of white-hooded figures coming for Johnson.

ANGLE ON HILL

A lone tree looms against the night sky. Up this rise go the men hauling Johnson. One figure throws a rope over a high limb.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As the hooded men fashion a noose and slip it over his head. They brutally yank him erect till only his toes are touching the ground.

CLOSE ON HOODED LEADER

This menacing figure now removes his hood, revealing himself to be plantation-owner Lubbell. He brandishes his riding crop, striking Johnson lightly across the face, then bursts into maniacal but silent laughter.

ANOTHER ANGLE

One of the other figures steps forward, opening a straight-razor. He stands before Johnson, and Lubbell pulls the hood from his head--it is, of course, black gangster Ras.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

His utter terror; his frantically pleading eyes. Then he simply closes them. (The dog's howling has kept getting louder and louder through all the above.)

CLOSE ON RAS

As he smiles evilly, then lifts the razor and strikes suddenly downwards. The camera image is optically forced to a blood-red, then orange, blankness, dissolving to:

CLOSE ON SUN--ZOOM OUT

Dawn over the farmer's nearby field. Zoom out reveals Johnson seated, leaning against a broken wagon.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He is drawn and haggard, his eyes bloodshot, traces of straw in his clothing. He stares out across the field, lost in thought, guitar across his lap. Absently, he reaches up to touch the missing mojo bag, then realizes what he is doing and shifts his hands to the guitar. He positions it and begins idly picking, trying out chords and lines as he goes.

JOHNSON: I was standin' at the crossroads... (pause) ...crossroads, an' I could not get...

Hearing voices, he stops and turns.

ANGLE ON THE HOUSE

The farmer and his family have come out on the porch, the children still brushing sleep from their eyes.

ANGLE FROM THE PORCH OUT

Robert stands up, slings the guitar over his back, and waves goodby.

JOHNSON: Thank you.

Close to camera, the farmer and children wave back. The woman calls out to him.

MARTHA: You got to eat some-thin'!

Johnson looks back, already heading off.

JOHNSON: Give mine t' the chil'ren.

The he walks away. When he stumbles momentarily, the watching farmer looks at his wife and speaks for the first time this scene.

FARMER: That boy is livin' fas' time...

Hellhound 14: The Killing Floor

DAY--INTERIOR RESTAURANT/BAR

A long bar closer to camera, some tables for eating further back. The front window reads "SPIVEY'S" (seen reversed from here inside). Camera view puts Robert and Louise in background; they are huddled together at a table, laughing and talking intimately, though none of their words reach us. The bartender putters around behind his bar. Seated there drinking and watching the happy couple in the reflecting mirror on the wall is a black man, a street hustler type. He finishes his beer and then, whistling, saunters over to the wall phone and begins dialing.

NIGHT--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM--SLOW ZOOM IN

The room is in total darkness, but the bright neon sign outside the window keeps flashing on and off, adding a pulsating reddish glow to the room. Robert and Louise are in bed; they have likely just had sex because he rolls off from atop her. The two rest happily beside each other, breathing deeply. Then on the soundtrack a mournful howling begins, some unseen hound baying in the distance. Louise shivers and moves closer to Johnson.

LOUISE: Somebody dying...

Her words chill Johnson too--always the superstitious one--but he tries to make light of the continuing sound.

JOHNSON: Naw, baby, settle down. Some ol' hound, one eye on the moon, other on some sweet bitch.

They snuggle together silently then.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Suddenly there is the sound of something crashing into the room door and splintering the wood; the door bursts open, kicked in by the heavy-set, gangsterish man (Louise's keeper Ras) who steps inside, a huge .45 in his hand. Louise has screamed during his entry; closer to the door and Ras, she cowers against Robert.

RAS: Well, well now. Ain't y'all the picture... So, Lou, you an' your cousin here talkin' old times?

Johnson still hasn't moved. Louise tries to recover some, hoping that Ras may be willing to talk. She starts to rise from the bed.

LOUISE: Ras... Please... Don't do anything, please. I'll...

RAS: Cheat on me, bitch.

He shoots her coldly three times. Louise's body sprawls backwards across Johnson--who struggles to cast her aside and tumble to the floor on the far side of the bed. Ras takes two steps closer, aiming for Robert too; but when he fires, the gun jams. He throws it aside, pulling a straight razor from his coat pocket.

RAS: I sooner cut you, nigge', down...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson manages to escape to the far side of the bed away from the razor. He is weaponless and naked (his body seen only in motion as the pulsating red light continues). Ras closes in on him fast, slashing out. Johnson leaps backwards to avoid the blade but is still nicked on his face, near one eye.

JOHNSON (in shock and pain): Motherfucker!

He stumbles backwards over a chair, his hand knocking a near-empty bottle from the table. Johnson grabs this up from the floor and smashes it on the table edge, holding up the jagged top as his own cutting weapon.

CLOSE ON THE TWO--HAND HELD

A series of quick-cut, in motion, jagged shots of the ensuing fight between razor and bottle-knife. In the flickering reddish light it becomes an obscene dance of death, as much imagined by the viewer as actually seen, in the alternating darkness and light of the room--feinting, slashing, parrying, grappling, circling each other, the two men grunting and perspiring. Robert's face when seen is set and focussed, blood dripping from the cut; Ras in contrast looks manic, even evil, a grim smile frozen on his mouth. The light flickers on razor, bottle, teeth, and sweating flesh.

Finally, in a lit moment, the two grapple close again. Ras starts a swing of his razor, and Johnson steps inside that slash as the light goes off again. In the moment of darkness there is the sound of a blow and a terrifying scream. A body falls as the returning half-light reveals Johnson (minus his neckbag now) standing over the bloody body of Ras, whose face is a pulpy mess. (The dog's howling has continued throughout all this frantic action; now it stops.) Johnson kicks at the fallen man; when there is no response, he wearily drops the bloody bottle-knife beside the body.

JOHNSON: Lord Jesus...

He grasps for his lucky bag--and it's not there! He looks about in sudden panic. But...

ANGLE ON THE DOOR

Now Robert becomes aware of pounding feet coming up the unseen stairs outside the room.

MAN'S VOICE: Ras! Ras! Everything all right?

Already Johnson has been grabbing up his clothes and guitar. With no more than a glance at Louise's body, still naked himself, he dives out the open window onto a fire escape.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR FIRE ESCAPE

Tumbling down the metal stairs, dropping some clothing as he scrambles, yanking his trousers on at a staggered run, he leaps down to the ground. From the window above two black men shout and fire wildly after him, but he escapes into the alley darkness.

((END OF SECTION 3))