EXT. STREETS OF NEW ROCHELLE – DAY
A black 1967 GT 500 Shelby Mustang with silver-grey
hood and trunk stripes tears around a corner from a
side street near the Pelham border and heads east on
INT. MUSTANG – DRIVER’S POV
Franco winds out second gear and shifts smoothly into
third, cutting past slower cars and easing the Hurst
shifter into fourth. Cruising around 50, he checks his
rear-view mirror for a tail and smiles, opening up to
65. Ahead, he spots the silver MGC along the curb,
downshifts twice, pulls up behind it and stops. He sits
a minute, head resting on the steering wheel, engine
idling, drops the stick into reverse, pulls the parking
brake and shuts the car off.
I gotta be outta my mind.
He gets out and walks toward the corner shop. Dressed
in a black leather jacket over a tight fitting light
blue cotton crew neck shirt, neatly pressed black
woolen dress pants and black shoes, he enters the head
shop, his thick brown hair combed back and styled
INT. RECORD STORE/ART GALLERY/HEAD SHOP – DAY
Inside, he stops and takes a breath, spotting plumes of
jasmine wafting from an ornate thurible. The sound of
Dylan’s, “Subterranean Homesick Blues” cranks from
speakers posted perfectly around incongruously clashing
No patrons in the shop, the register unattended, he
ventures deeper in, stopping at a rack overstocked with
books, magazines and newspapers. Captivated by the
tangle of prison bars, train tracks, dollar signs,
cages and fantastical images emblazoned on the cover,
he picks up a copy of the “East Village Other,” dated
October 6, 1970, and begins flipping through the pages.
A young woman dressed in a red-violet poncho, strings
of multi-colored beads, blue jeans and black work
boots, her reddish brown hair so plentiful you could
see but a glimmer of chalk white skin between adeptly
parted waves, emerges from a back room and sits down at
the register, not seeing he had wandered in.
Franco puts the paper down and reaches for a water
pipe. Hearing him, she leans over the counter to take a
look, pulls back and ducks her head behind the
register. Crouching out of sight, she gathers herself
and breathes deep. When she pops up to take another
look, he’s holding the pipe above his head, not knowing
what to make of it.
Something I can help you with?
Oh, hi. No. I mean yes. Maybe.
His answer makes her smile, though he barely sees her
I have more, if you’d care to see
(placing the pipe
No. I’m just looking. Maybe a
record album. Yeah, a record album.
You’re sure about that?
She throws back her hair, so he could briefly see her
What do you like?
That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.
You tell me.
Doo wop? You have doo wop? Or R and
B? Motown? You don’t have that kind
You might be surprised.
She leads him down an aisle stocked with albums.
R and B. Soul. Motown. They start
with A over here.
And end up with the Zs on the other
side. All the 50s stuff, doo wop,
acappella, starts over there.
As he turns to look, his eye catches one of several
paintings mounted on the wall. It shows the back of a
woman, nude from the waist up, seated on a stool,
staring into a mirror at a black miniature poodle
sitting behind her, watching her brush her long brown
Pardon my asking, but are these
You know art?
(shaking his head)
Not at all.
She moves close to him, gently pressing her leg against
his. A petite five foot four, she loops her hair around
her ear and stares up at him, allowing him to look deep
into her green eyes.
You must see something you like.
I suppose I do.
He turns and stares at the painting again.
For one thing, she’s beautiful. Her
hair. Her back. Her skin.
(back to Bianca)
I wonder what the artist had in
Something of herself, perhaps.
But why the dog?
I don’t know exactly. Sometimes the
artist doesn’t know.
Maybe the dog is like the frog that
turns into a prince.
I don’t know.
A customer comes in the store.
That’s ok. I can’t stay.
Come back. I’m sure you’ll find
what you want.
I never seem to.
Could be your luck’s changed.
(holding up two