Taxi Driver: The Gun Salesman

FADE TO: BROOKLYN STREET CORNER - DAY Travis stands near the corner wearing his boots, jeans, western shirt and army jacket. He pulls his aspiring bottle out of his pocket, shakes three or four into his palm, pops them into his mouth and chews. An "Off Duty" taxi pulls up to the curb. Travis gets in. INSIDE TAXI Dough-Boy leans back from the wheel and greets Travis as he enters. DOUGH-BOY: Hey Travis. This here's Easy Andy. He's a travelling salesman. In the back seat, beside Travis, sits ANDY, an attractive young man about 29. He wears a pin-striped suit, white shirt and floral tie. His hair is modishly long. ANDY: Hello Travis. Travis nods as the taxi speeds off. Dough-Boy slows down near an economy hotel. Not a flop house, but not so fancy they care what the guests do in the privacy of their rooms. ANDY: This is fine, Dough-Boy (to Travis) Pay Dough-Boy here. Travis pulls a twenty out of his pocket and gives it to Dough-Boy. TRAVIS: 20 bucks? DOUGH-BOY (takes bill): Yeah. Hey thanks. That's real nice, Travis. Travis and Andy get out of the cab and walk toward the hotel. Dough-Boy pulls away. As they enter the hotel, they pass a JUNKIE, stoned out and spread-eagled across the hood of a derelict old blue dodge. INT. HOTEL Travis follows Andy up the worn carpeted stairs and down the hallway. Andy unlocks the door to one of the rooms. The HOTEL ROOM is barren and clean; there's no sign anyone is staying in it. The fire escape is appropriately near. Andy locks the door behind them, steps over to the closet, unlocks it and pulls out two grey Samsonite suitcases - the kind you can drive a truck over. ANDY: Dough-Boy probably told you I don't carry any Saturday Night Specials or crap like that. It's all out of State, clean, brand new, top-of- the-line stuff. Andy places the suitcases on the white bedspread. The suitcases are equipped with special locks, which he quickly opens. Andy opens the suitcases: Stacked in grey packing foam are rows and rows of brand new hand guns. TRAVIS: You got a .44 Magnum? ANDY: That's an expensive gun. TRAVIS: I got money. Andy unzips a cowhide leather pouch to reveal a .44 Magnum pistol. He holds it gingerly, as if it were a precious treasure. Andy opens the chambers and cradles the long eight-inch barrel in his palm. The .44 is a huge, oversize inhuman gun. ANDY (admiringly): It's a monster. Can stop a car -- put a bullet right into the block. A premium high resale gun. $350 -- that's only a hundred over list. Easy Andy is a later version of the fast-talking, good- looking kid in college who was always making money on one scheme or another. In high school he sold lottery tickets, in college he scored dope, and now he's hustling hand guns. Andy holds the Magnum out for Travis' inspection. There's a worshipful CLOSEUP of the .44 Magnum. It is a monster. Travis hefts the huge gun. It seems out of place in his hand. It is built on Michelangelo's scale. The Magnum belongs in the hand of a marble god, not a slight taxi driver. Travis hands the gun back to Andy. ANDY: I could sell this gun in Harlem for $500 today - but I just deal high quality goods to high quality people. (pause) Now this may be a little big for practical use, in which case I'd recommend the .38 Smith and Wesson Special. Fine solid gun - nickel plated. Snub-nosed, otherwise the same as the service revolver. Now that'll stop anything that moves and it's handy, flexible. (MORE) ANDY (CONT'D): The Magnum, you know, that's only if you want to splatter it against the wall. The movies have driven up the price of the Magnum anyway. Everybody wants them now. But the Wesson .38 - only $250 - and worth every dime of it. (he hefts the .38) Throw in a holster for $10. Travis hefts the nickel-plated .38, points it out the window. ANDY (CONT'D): Some of these guns are like toys, but a Smith and Wesson, man, you can hit somebody over the head with it and it will still come back dead on. Nothing beats quality. (pause) You interested in an automatic? TRAVIS: I want a .32. Revolver. And a palm gun. That .22 there. ANDY: That's the Colt .25 - a fine little gun. Don't do a lot of damage, but it's as fast as the Devil. Handy little gun, you can carry it almost anywhere. I'll throw it in for another $125. Travis holds the .32 Revolver, hefts it, slips it under his belt and pulls his shirt over it. He turns from side to side, to see how it rides in his waist. TRAVIS: How much for everything. ANDY: The .32's $150 - and you're really getting a good deal now - and all together it comes to, ah, seven eighty-five for four pieces and a holster. He'll, I'll give you the holster, we'll make it seventy-five and you've got a deal - a good one. TRAVIS: How much to get a permit to carry? ANDY: Well, you're talking big money now. I'd say at least five grand, maybe more, and it would take a while to check it out. The way things are going now $5.000 is probably low. You see, I try not to fool with the small-time crap. Too risky, too little bread. Say 6 G's, but if I get the permit it'll be as solid as the Empire State Building. TRAVIS: Nah, this'll be fine. ANDY: You can't carry in a cab even with a permit - so why bother? TRAVIS: Is there a firing range around? ANDY: Sure, here, take this card, go to this place and give 'em the card. They'll charge you, but there won't be any hassle. Travis pulls out a roll of crisp one hundred dollar bills and counts off eight. ANDY: You in Nam? Can't help but notice your jacket? TRAVIS (looking up): Huh? ANDY: Vietnam? I saw it on your jacket. Where were you? Bet you got to handle a lot of weapons out there. Travis hands Andy the bills. Andy counts them and gives Travis a twenty and five. TRAVIS: Yeah. I was all around. One hospital, then the next. ANDY (through counting): It's hell out there all right. A real shit-eatin' war. I'll say this, though: It's bringing a lot of fantastic guns. The market's flooded. Colt automatics are all over. (pockets the money) TRAVIS (intensely): They'd never get me to go back. They'd have to shoot me first. (pause) You got anything to carry these in? (gestures to pistols) Travis is like a light switch: For long periods he goes along dark and silent, saying nothing; then suddenly, the current is turned on and the air is filled with the electricity of his personality. Travis' inner intensity sets Andy back a bit, but he quickly recovers. ANDY: Sure. Andy pulls a gym bag from under his bed. He wraps the gun in the sheet in the bag and zips it up. An identical gym bag can be partially seen under the bed. He hands Travis the bag. ANDY: You like ball games? TRAVIS: Huh? ANDY: I can get you front and center. What do you like? I can get you Mets, Knicks, Rangers? Hell, I can get you the Mayor's box. TRAVIS: Nah. I ain't interested. Andy closes and locks the suitcases. ANDY: Okay, okay. Travis turns to leave. ANDY: Wait a second, Travis. I'll walk you out.