tuxedoed dealers and croupiers: roulette, craps, Black
Jack. Wall to wall people. The fact that casino gambling
happens to be illegal in New York doesnt stop these
Connecticut slummers, hollow-cheek nightlifers, and junior
wiseguys from having a good time.
AT THE CARD TABLE
NICK CONKLIN, holding a dollar cigar, is trying to pull a
winning hand. In his late thirties, Nick has the sort of
quiet goo
Pitch black. Dead quiet. Dim faint light appears in the distance, approaching, growing larger. As the light nears, we recognize car headlights. Closer and closer until the car is bearing down upon us with great force. . .
2 INT. CAR 2
Two men in the front seat, FISHER and MOORE. Fisher drives. All seems quite normal until we take a closer look, sweat matts hair, dirt stains on white tuxedo shirts
Tuxedoes men escort their diamond-encrusted
ladies through the huge front doors, where they doff their
overcoats and are politely scanned with hand-held metal
detectors by white gloved security staffers.
The walled perimeter of the house runs along the lake, forming
a kind of rampart. There is an opening, to a kind of waterway
or canal, which connects to the private docks inside the
grounds. Ther
tuxedoes grooming
themselves at the basins. Ripley turns on faucets, offers
towels, brushes off dandruff. Men talk over, round, and
through him. Put coins in a bowl.
INT. A BOX AT THE THEATER. NIGHT
The concert continues. Ripley peers through the curtain at
the performances. A haughty woman in the box turns round and
he closes the curtain.
INT. BACKSTAGE. 1:30 A.M.
An empty auditorium. Ripley pla
He is a bespectacled man in his thirties, hale but somewhat bookish. He stands, tuxedoed, in the wings of a theater, looking out at the stage, listening intently to end of a performance.
In the shadows behind him an old stagehand leans against a flat, expressionlessly smoking a cigarette, one hand on a thick rope that hangs from the ceiling.
The voices of the performing actors echo in from the of