ACT II

FADE IN:

EXT. A VINTAGE MAGAZINE STORE—DAY

Lots of old copies of Life and Look in the window, maybe some Sports Illustrateds with black and white covers. HARDCASTLE, McCORMICK, and PORTMAN are standing on the sidewalk.

HARDCASTLE

The guy’s a whiz. He’s got a mind like a steel trap. Knows every inch of…ah—

McCORMICK

(offers helpfully)

His “stock”?

HARDCASTLE

(casts McCormick a grimace but keeps things polite in front of company—to Andrea)

But you don’t have to come in. We can show him the photo, see if he remembers seeing it before.

PORTMAN

I’m coming in.

(beat—glances at the window)

Besides, it doesn’t look that bad.

HARDCASTLE

This is just the front. The brown paper wrapper stuff is in the back room.

Off Portman’s dubious look we,

CUT TO:

INT. VINTAGE MAGAZINE STORE—DAY

A bell over the door tinkles as Hardcastle steps through the door, with Portman and McCormick behind him.

ANGLE—THE COUNTER

A balding, middle aged guy, GUS, is sitting there. He’s reading one of the magazines and, in fact, that is his primary justification for owning the shop. Reacting to the sight of his new visitors he grins.

GUS

Hey, Judge, long time no see!

ANGLE—THE THREE VISITORS

Hardcastle smiles at the effusive greeting. Andrea looks uncertain. McCormick gives Hardcastle an amused glance.

HARDCASTLE

How’s business?

GUS

(shrugs)

Well, you know—buy a few, sell a few. What can I do you for?

HARDCASTLE

Well—

(awkward pause and half-glance at Portman)

PORTMAN

It’s me—

(steps forward, impatient)

Have you ever seen me before—I mean, in a magazine?

(holds her head at a certain angle and assumes a “come hither” smile)

Gus looks bemused.

McCORMICK

(helpfully)

More hair and fewer clothes.

GUS

(light dawns)

Ahh.

(he looks her up and down for a moment)

Yeah … sure. I never forget a … smile.

(but his eyes have come to rest a bit lower than that)

Gimme a sec.

Gus is up off his stool and heads for the back. He’s only just stepped into the back room when McCormick leans in toward Hardcastle.

McCORMICK

(stage whisper)

Old friends?

HARDCASTLE

(looks annoyed)

He collects stuff for me. He knows what I want.

McCormick’s not quite so amused, maybe a little surprised. Off his reaction—

HARDCASTLE

(gruffly)

Mobsters.

(beat)

Where do you think I get all that stuff for the files?

ANGLE—THE BACKROOM DOORWAY

Gus is returning, his nose buried in a magazine. It is tastefully covered in brown paper. He holds it up briefly for them.

GUS

This one’s cherry. Original wrapper and everything.

Hardcastle, McCormick and Portman crowd in at the counter, across from Gus, who’s resumed his place on the stool. Hardcastle takes the magazine and fans it open to the masthead page.

HARDCASTLE

After Midnight?—

(he makes a face)

this isn’t the one people buy for the articles.

Portman snatches it from him and thumbs to the middle page, peeking inside the fold. There’s a beat and then she raises her face to look at Hardcastle and McCormick and gives a sharp little nod.

HARDCASTLE

August, 1982. You turned 18 that year? When’s your birthday?

PORTMAN

June…the twelfth.

HARDCASTLE

The shoot would have been at least a few weeks before publication, maybe more. Do you remember anything strange happening back then?

PORTMAN

No, nothing.

(pause, she’s frowning, thinking about it, and then)

Okay, maybe one thing. I think it was that year.

(more decisive)

Yeah—it was right before I started college. I was at a concert. A guy came up to me. It was as though he knew me. He came on really strong, and acted like I shouldn’t mind.

(beat—looks down at the magazine)

Oh my God. He must’ve seen this.

McCORMICK

(musing)

1982? It’s old news.

HARDCASTLE

Yeah, a lot of centerfolds through the presses since then. Why now? And does the guy even have more than one copy?

PORTMAN

I don’t know, but if he does have another, and starts circulating it…

She’s clutching the closed magazine.

HARDCASTLE

(to Gus, indicating the magazine)

How much?

GUS

(magnanimously)

For the little lady? It’s on the house.

(beat—to Portman)

Can I have your autograph?

Off that we,

CUT TO:

EXT. GMC TRUCK—DRIVE-BY—DAY

INT. GMC TRUCK—MOVING—DAY

Mark is driving. Hardcastle on the passenger side, back to studying the masthead page. Portman is between them, looking concerned.

HARDCASTLE

It’s an outfit called “Moonglow Publishing”. They’ve got a L.A. address.

(beat)

Think they’re still in business? Odds are it was a freelance job, but they’re supposed to keep records on their photographers.

McCORMICK

(nods grimly)

Where to?

EXT. AN AREA ZONED FOR BUSINESS - DAY

It’s a rundown district of warehouses and older companies. Hardcastle’s truck is at the curb. A sign on the building behind it says “Moonglow Publishers”.

INT. THE TRUCK—PARKED—DAY

HARDCASTLE

(to Portman)

I think I’ll have better luck tackling these guys if you stay out here.

(beat)

We don’t wanna spook ‘em.

Portman gives the seedy building another glance, then nods, looking somewhat relieved.

McCORMICK

(to Hardcastle)

You need me?

HARDCASTLE

Nah, stay here with her.

Hardcastle opens the passenger door and exits. Portman remains in the middle for a half-beat, then seems to realize where she is and shifts over. It’s awkward. She covers it with another glance in the direction Hardcastle headed.

McCORMICK

Don’t worry. He’s good at this stuff.

(smiles)

Almost as good as me.

PORTMAN

(turns back toward him, looking a bit abashed)

I think I might have been a little out of line when I said he was crazy.

McCORMICK

(sharp laugh and then he shakes his head)

Nah, he’s crazy. But he’s still good at this stuff.

(beat)

How ‘bout the guy with the flashy car who did some time in prison—think you were wrong about him, too?

PORTMAN

You gotta admit the car’s pretty flashy.

(beat)

Yeah, guess I was a kinda quick to buy the rumors.

McCORMICK

That’s one down and 148 to go.

PORTMAN

Huh?

McCORMICK

(waves airily)

The class of ’89. Our colleagues.

(beat)

Actually, I just need to win over enough to put together a study group,

(beat)

especially if I’m gonna be missing lectures.

PORTMAN

Sorry about that.

(sighs and looks around, bemused)

If somebody had told me this morning that I was going to be going after some porn publishers this afternoon I’d’ve said—

McCORMICK

(interrupting)

“Going after”? Hah, we haven’t even gotten to the going after part yet. This is just reconnaissance so far.

(glances out in the direction of the building—then back at Portman)

He looked kinda excited though, didn’t he?

Portman shrugs lightly.

McCORMICK

(surer now)

He did.

(beat—and now very sure)

He misses it.

PORTMAN

Ah—?

McCORMICK

The reconnaissance.

(beat)

And the part after that.

PORTMAN

I thought he was just a retired judge.

McCORMICK

(smiles)

No, trust me, things would have to get a whole lot weirder than this today to even qualify for business as usual.

Portman gives him a puzzled look and off this we,

CUT TO:

INT. MOONGLOW PUBLISHING—DAY

An upper floor hallway, surprisingly well lighted. Hardcastle has worked his way up to a door marked: J.T. HALLER, PUBLISHER. He knocks and enters.

INT. RECEPTIONIST“S OFFICE—DAY

It’s not what we were expecting from the outside of the building. This has obviously been revamped and remodeled within the last few years. There’s gold in them thar hills. The receptionist is all business, right down to her sensible length French tips.

RECEPTIONIST

(cool)

May I help you?

HARDCASTLE

(flashy and gregarious)

I sure hope so, Missy. The names Hardacre, Jack Hardcacre. I’m with ‘Images, Inc.’ You know, the body-double service?

(half beat)

We match all the big names, millimeter for millimeter.

The receptionist is looking at him in disbelief, but he’s a force to be reckoned with and he knows what he wants. He’s got the magazine out and is thumbing it open to show it to her.

HARDCASTLE

This girl, I ran across her in a back issue.

(checks the page himself briefly)

She’s “Miss Midnight Rendezvous”, August ’82. I’m thinking she’s a dead ringer for Kelly LeBrock,

(beat)

from the neck down, anyway, which is what we’re mostly interested in.

He’s got the receptionist looking at least.

RECEPTIONIST

Well—

HARDCASTLE

All I need is the name of the guy who did the shoot. This could be a helluva opportunity for your Miss August. She could get some real exposure.

Perhaps not the ideal choice of words, but his tone is perfect. The receptionist only hesitates for a moment.

RECEPTIONIST

I’ll see what we have.

(swivels her chair to face a file cabinet)

August, ’82, After Midnight, right?

HARDCASTLE

(smiling)

That’s the one, sweetheart.

The receptionist bends and pulls open one of the lower drawers, riffling through the tops of the files and pouncing on one.

RECEPTIONIST

Here it is.

She swivels back toward her desk, paging through the file as she turns, and extracting a letter-sized piece of paper. Hardcastle leans forward eagerly, but still in character.

RECEPTIONIST

(puts the file on her desk, the single paper still in her hand)

Of course I’ll have to run this by Mr.Haller. You won’t—

The door from the hallway opens and man walks in. He’s J.T. HALLER—expensive suit, but no tie. More tan than you’d expect from the editor of After Midnight. His shirt collar is unbuttoned enough to show that he’s sporting some serious bling. He pauses, finding a stranger in his office. The receptionist catches his expression and hastens to explain.

RECEPTIONIST

Oh, Mr. Haller, this is Mr. Hardcacre—

(she puts the paper down on the file as she makes the introductions)

from Images, Inc., the scouting agency. He’s interested in one of the girls.

Haller doesn’t look pleased. He crosses behind the desk and glances down at the file. He appears suddenly even less pleased but quickly covers that.

HALLER

I’m sorry—company policy. All that information is confidential.

The receptionist looks puzzled but knows enough to keep her mouth shut. She gathers up the file, stuffs the paper back in, and turns to put it back in the drawer.

HALLER

Anyway, I don’t think that particular girl is in the business anymore.

(beat)

You know how it is—they come and they go.

HARDCASTLE

That’s too bad, she would’ve made a great LeBrock.

(turns to leave—casts one more look over his shoulder as he reaches the door)

You sure—just the photographer’s name? He could maybe get a message to her.

HALLER

(firmly)

Company policy.

Hardcastle nods once and departs.

ANGLE—HALLER AT THE RECEPTIONIST’S DESK

He’s not a happy man.

CUT TO:

INT. THE TRUCK

Portman looks a lot more relaxed. This is mid-conversation.

McCORMICK

So you’re working and taking a full load at the same time?

PORTMAN

I know. They said it couldn’t be done. But the work’s not even half-time—a couple shifts a week - it helps me keep up with the bills.

(rueful admission)

I think that’s why that story about you and the judge ticked me off.

(beat)

I was just mad because somebody else was getting a free ride.

McCORMICK

Well, that part’s the closest to the truth—

Hardcastle appears at the passenger-side window and starts to open the door. Portman jumps slightly, then scoots to the middle to make room for him.

HARDCASTLE

(climbs in)

Not interrupting anything, am I?

Portman shakes her head earnestly.

McCORMICK

How’d it go?

HARDCASTLE

Kinda interesting. Somebody’s not happy about me poking around.

McCORMICK

How unhappy?

(beat)

And why?

HARDCASTLE

Not sure yet.

(he opens the glove compartment and takes out a pad and pen, scribbling something down)

The guy in charge there didn’t want me to have this but I can still read the fine print from a contract upside-down from half-way across the room.

(beat)

It’s one of those things they don’t teach ya in law school.

Mark grins and casts a look at what Hardcastle has written.

McCORMICK

Vincent D’Sousa.

(to Portman)

Ring any bells?

PORTMAN

None.

McCORMICK

Okay,

(turns ignition and puts the truck in gear)

Let’s go see a man about a photo shoot.

EXT. THE TRUCK PULLING AWAY

It heads down the street and on that we,

CUT TO:

EXT. WEST HOLLYWOOD—DAY

It’s a place where star-stuck recent émigrés from the Midwest must be pretty thick on the ground. HARDCASTLE, McCORMICK, and PORTMAN are standing on the sidewalk looking up. A second-floor window sign reads: ”Models Wanted“. Hardcastle casts a dubious glance at the other two before they head in through the door to the stairs.

INT. A HALLWAY - DAY

Not as nice as the one at Moonglow Publishers, but not a total dump. There’s a door with signage that says: ”Photos by Vincent“. Hardcastle knocks and,

D’SOUSA (V.O.)

Come in, it’s open.

Hardcastle turns the knob.

INT. A PHOTO STUDIO - DAY

Nothing fancy, but the light is good. VINCENT D’SOUSA is hunched over a work table, studying a picture through a stand magnifier. He looks up, disappointed with his first impressions as Hardcastle walks in. D’Sousa is bored, not concerned. PORTMAN steps in next. D’Sousa brightens a little, but he’s obviously puzzled.

D’SOUSA

The travel agent’s down the hall.

HARDCASTLE

Actually, we’re here to see you.

D’SOUSA

(still puzzled)

What can I help you with?

(glances at McCormick and Portman)

I don’t do weddings.

HARDCASTLE

Nah—something from a couple years back.

(he produces the magazine)

Some work you sold to the nice folks over at Moonglow. You are Vincent?

D’SOUSA

Yeah.

HARDCASTLE

(he holds magazine open, facing D’Sousea)

You shot this spread?

D’SOUSA

(sighs, resigned, there’s no use denying it)

Yeah.

(he’s triangulating between photos and Andrea)

Who the hell are you?

HARDCASTLE

The name’s Milt Hardcastle.

There’s a beat of nervous silence and then:

D’SOUSA

Milt Hardcastle the judge?

HARDCASTLE

(smiles)

Retired. But I still keep a hand in.

There’s a sudden and total attitude change from D’Sousa. He’s nervous, maybe a little obsequious.

D’SOUSA

(referring to the photos in the magazine)

Nice angles. A lot of artistic merit, don’tcha think?

HARDCASTLE

That’s a matter of opinion, what I’m really interested in is the paperwork.

D’SOUSA

Absolutely.

(he crosses to a file cabinet, talking nervously to fill the silence.)

We’re in complete compliance on that. Wouldn’t want a 311.4, now would we?

HARDCASTLE

(with a smile that implies he wouldn’t mind catching this guy with a few ‘t’s not crossed)

Sure hope not.

D’Sousa pulls out a sheaf of papers and thumbs through them hastily. He looks relieved to track down what he was looking for and pulls it out with a flourish. Two sheets clipped together. He hands it over to Hardcastle, flipped open to the second sheet.

INSERT: STATE OF CALIFORNIA BIRTH CERTIFICATE

It has a fancy border and centered inside that is the photostat of a mid-60’s-era birth certificate. We only have time to read the name: Angela Pinder. The whole thing is stamped ‘For informational purposes only, not for identification’ and it’s been heavily redacted, with only the name, county, and birthdate remaining.

ANGLE - PORTMAN

She leans over to get a look, and then stares at it with a look of bewilderment.

ANGLE—PULL BACK

Hardcastle flips the top page down.

INSERT: A PHOTO RELEASE CONTRACT

There’s lots of fine print, but the signature on the bottom line is clear. It reads: “Angela Pinder”

ANGLE HARDCASTLE, PORTER, AND D’SOUSA

Hardcastle hands the papers back to D’Sousa while Portman stands there, looking bewildered.

HARDCASTLE

(to D’Sousa)

Looks like you’ve got all your i’s dotted here.

D’Sousa takes the papers and relaxes slightly and casts a quick glance at Andrea before addressing the judge again.

D’SOUSA

Don’t know what the young lady’s been telling you, but I’ve always run a clean business. No reason not to. I’ve got ‘em lined up out the door every time I advertise auditions. Everybody wants to be a star.

HARDCASTLE

“Star”, huh?

D’Sousa shrugs and stuffs the papers back in the file.

D’SOUSA

You don’t mind,

(he gestures to the photos on the work table and then the door)

deadlines, ya know?

Hardcastle takes the hint. He, McCormick and Portman head for the door. Hardcastle lets the other two precede him out. He stands, holding the knob, and turns back.

HARDCASTLE

You keep dottin’ those i’s, Vinnie. You never know who’s gonna wanna check your penmanship.

Hardcastle exits

ANGLE - D’SOUSA

As soon as we hear the door close D’Sousa grabs for the phone. All pretense of relaxation shot to hell, he punches the number in.

D’SOUSA

(beat, with the receiver to his ear, then, with no introduction, he shouts)

What the hell you’d think you’re doing, siccing that guy on me?

INTERCUT WITH HALLER’S OFFICE

HALLER

What guy?

(frowns)

That Hardacre guy? How the hell did he find you? Listen, he just thought he had some kinda hot prospect. I ran him off. Told him she wasn’t in the business anymore. He gave up.

D’SOUSA

The hell he did. That was Hardcastle,

(beat)

as in “The Hardcastle Ruling”— capisce? And I thought you told me you got rid of that girl.

HALLER

I did. Gone. Had to. She was a mess when he was done with her.

D’SOUSA

Well, she ain’t a mess no more.

HALLER

Huh?

D’SOUSA

(exasperated)

She was here. In my studio, with Hardcase. She didn’t say nothin’ to me. I dunno what she’s been telling him.

HALLER

Huh-uh. No way. She was dead. We dumped her way out in the Channel.

D’SOUSA

Well she musta swum back. It was her. I oughta know; I spent a lot of time looking at her cleavage.

(beat)

I don’t know what you’re gonna tell your buddy Kayts, but there better not be any more strings leading back to me. I’m just the talent scout.

(hangs up)

End on Haller, hanging up his receiver as well. He looks pensive for a moment and then picks it up and dials again.

HALLER

(into receiver)

Yeah, this is Haller, I need some info. Nothing fancy. What I want is everything you got on a judge named Hardcastle.

Hold for a moment and,

CUT TO BLACK

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