Tuesday, August 19, 2008

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.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Still reading. This time in Chicago.

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