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DEATH
OF A LEGEND
A
One-Act Play
by
Dean
Barrett
DEATH OF A LEGEND CAST
BOY (Jimmy).....................................................Early 20's
MAN...........................................................Late 30's/40's
SECOND MAN........................................ Forties/early 50's
(All
three characters are hit men)
(A
small living room in a run-down apartment building. A crucifix and a
colorful but cliched painting on the wall. Worn sofa.
Everything worn; old; second-hand; shabby; used-up. A bath towel and
a clean set of clothes have been neatly folded on top of an out-of-date
television set. A narrow hallway leads to unseen inner rooms.
A casually dressed, middle-aged man is sitting at a table meticulously
cleaning his five-shot, Smith and Wesson
revolver. Steel cleaning rods and small white cotton cleaning
patches are spread out neatly on the page of a
newspaper. Nearby is his gun-cleaning kit storage box. And
a can of gun conditioner oil. And five bullets.
Throughout the first several minutes of the play the man will occasionally
hold the revolver up to the light and check
his barrel or cylinder for any buildup of debris or sign of rust.
And he will use brush, patches and oil to clean. This
opening action continues for about 30 seconds without interruption.
There is a knock at the door. The man never stops cleaning his weapon.)
MAN: Yeah.
(After a pause, there is another knock at the door.)
MAN: Yeah!
(The door slowly opens and a young man dressed to the nines cautiously enters
the room. Early to mid-20's, double-
breasted suit, gaudy tie, spit-shined shoes. Like something out of a bad
B- grade Mafia movie.
He attempts to effect a cocky exterior but he is extremely nervous. He
sees the man cleaning his gun, looks around the room, then closes the door.)
BOY: You left the door unlocked?!
MAN: If you say so.
BOY: What if it had been him?
(For the first time, the man glances up to look at the boy, then continues
cleaning his weapon.)
MAN: Him?
BOY: The guy we've been hired to hit! He's a legend, for Christ's
sake!
MAN: Legends die. Like anything else.
BOY: But he might 'a come here early and-
MAN: And what?
(For a few seconds the man stops cleaning and locks eyes with the boy.
Then he resumes his cleaning.)
MAN (continuing): Don't worry, kid, he's known to be punctual.
(The boy hesitates then walks to the man and holds out his hand; the man
doesn't take it.)
BOY: I'm Jimmy --
MAN: Don't tell me your name. Don't ever tell me your name.
How long you been in this business?
BOY: Uh . . . Lo -- long time...
(He walks about the room warily.)
BOY (continuing): So how long you been here?
MAN: A while. . . . Manny hire you?
BOY: Yeah. Manny.
MAN: What'd 'e tell you?
BOY: About what?
MAN: About the hit!
BOY: Just that the guy does what we do. And that he's the best.
MAN: What do we do?
(The boy struts a bit as he speaks.)
BOY: You know. Eliminate obstacles for people. Settle
disputes. Solve problems. Permanently. . . . Like when I did
the Mason hit.
MAN: You did the Mason hit?
BOY: Yeah. I did the Mason hit. You heard about it, huh?
MAN: Kid, everybody in the business has heard about the Mason hit. I
heard the shooter just brushed past his bodyguards, shot Mason and walked
away. Starin' at them the whole time. Bodyguards were too scared too
react.
BOY: Yeah. Yeah, that's the way it was. Cool and daring.
(The boy sees himself in a mirror and preens a bit, straightens his tie,
etc.)
BOY (continuing): But the guy we're waitin' for pissed Manny off.
MAN: That right?
BOY: Yeah. I don't know what. But if Manny wants him dead, he
must have fucked up big time. So Manny wants it done and done right.
That's why he sent me.
(The boy checks his watch. He then spots the clothes on the TV set. Touches
them.)
BOY (continuing): What's with the clothes and towel? . . .
Oh. That's good. That's really good.
(The man looks at him.)
BOY (continuing): I can see from the way you're cleaning your
gun. You value cleanliness. So you brought clean clothes; just in
case you get blood on what you're wearing.
(The man stares at the boy.)
BOY (continuing): Or maybe it's like a spiritual thing. You
change clothes after a hit and throw away the old clothes. Shed the
old skin. Start out fresh. Right?
(The man slowly smiles.)
MAN: If I were you, I'd clean my gun.
(The boy reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a semi- automatic.)
BOY: Don't worry. Mine is always clean.
(He pops out the clip and slides it back in.)
BOY (continuing): And ready.
MAN: It better be. This guy is the best there is. Like you
said, a legend.
(The boy replaces his gun in the shoulder holster inside his jacket.)
BOY: Yeah? So how come I didn't recognize him in the picture Manny
showed me?
MAN: Kid, when you're recognized in this business, you're dead.
(The boy continues to walk about.)
BOY: What a dump. Whose apartment is this, anyway?
MAN: I couldn't tell you, kid. It's safe enough for the hit.
That's all we need to know.
BOY: Well, I know he thinks he's coming here for a meeting. Manny
told him it's a meeting to plan a hit. (Slams his fist into his palm.)
Hah! But what he doesn't know is he's the target. We're the
hitters and he's the hittee! This should be fun.
(The man gives the boy a look. The boy again glances at his watch.)
BOY (continuing): Shouldn't he be here by now?
MAN: He'll be here. And shouldn't you be sitting down somewhere by
now?
(The boy suddenly walks toward the man; within a few steps he is very close;
his hand moves near the gun.)
BOY: Hey! Tha --
(The man very quickly and expertly moves behind the boy and throws one arm
around his neck and holds a knife at his throat.)
BOY (continuing): I . . . I was only going to say the Knicks won
again! It's . . . it's in the paper.
(The man looks toward the newspaper and understands his mistake. He
releases the boy, replaces his knife and sits. He reaches into his gun kit
and withdraws a silicone gun cloth. He begins wiping down his revolver.)
MAN: Sorry, kid. I thought . . . you know.
BOY: (Rubbing his neck): Jesus Christ, we're on the same
side, ain't we?
MAN: You been in this business a long time, right?
BOY: Yeah, that's right.
MAN: Lots of hits, right?
BOY: Yeah. That's right.
MAN: So how come you talk so much?
(The boy stares at him, then sits down on the sofa.)
BOY: . . . How come you still use a revolver? . . . You only get
five shots with what you got.
MAN: . . . Had a semi-automatic jam on me once. Almost got me
killed.
BOY: I got thirteen rounds. And one in the chamber.
MAN: Doesn't matter how many rounds you got if your weapon jams.
You're dead. You die because you're semi jams, you'll end up the wrong
kind of legend.
BOY: Don't worry about me. I'm gonna be the right kind of
legend. The biggest there ever was. I'm gonna be the best! A
guy's name is what counts, and people are gonna say my name with respect.
(The boy points a finger toward a lamp and pretends to fire a gun.)
MAN: Bad-ass, huh?
BOY: Damn right!
MAN: And you'll get top dollar?
BOY: Fuckin' A!
(The boy takes out a pack of cigarettes, places one between his lips and
strikes a match.)
MAN: This is a no-smoking area.
BOY: You're joking, right?
MAN: I don't mind dying quick with a round through the heart, but I'm not
lying in a hospital bed coughing my lungs out.
(The boy hesitates then puts the match out.)
BOY: Jesus Christ!
(He tries to sit still but is restless and fidgety.
Footsteps sound in the hallway. He draws his gun and jumps up.
The man continues cleaning as before. The footsteps fade. The man
glances up at the boy. The boy, embarrassed, puts his gun away and sits
down.)
BOY: Shouldn't we at least lock the door? I mean, he could barge in
on us and take us out before we could react. . . . You just gonna keep cleanin'
that thing?
MAN: . . . Two rules, kid. One, respect your weapon. Two,
respect the intelligence of your opponent.
BOY: That's why we should lock the door.
MAN: No. That's why we should leave it unlocked.
BOY: Man, I just hope --
(The man suddenly looks toward the inner hallway of the apartment and holds
up his hand.)
MAN: Shhh!
BOY: What?!
MAN: You hear anything?
(The boy jumps up.)
BOY: No. . . . I don't know.
MAN: Maybe I should have checked the other rooms.
BOY: You didn't check the apartment?!
MAN: The front door was locked. I just thought . . . (shrugs)
BOY: Jesus Christ!
(The boy draws his weapon, leaves the room and enters the narrow inner
hallway and disappears.
The man quickly places his bullets in his cylinder, snaps it shut and places
his revolver in a belt holster. He rises and stands just to the side of the
hallway where the boy can't see him.)
BOY (o.s.) Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!
(The boy rushes into the living room, gun in hand; the man draws his own gun.)
BOY (continuing): There's a body in the bathtub! Jesus
Christ! There's blood all over the fuckin' place! You hear
me?! There's a body in the --
(In one fast, smooth movement, the man lifts the boy's gun from his hand as
he smashes his own gun down on the back of the boy's head; the boy falls to his
knees, stunned.)
MAN: Don't move.
(The man places the boy's gun in his own belt and checks the boy for other
weapons. The boy holds the back of his head with both hands.)
BOY: Jesus Christ! My head! Are you crazy?
(The man finishes patting him down. He finds no other weapons.)
BOY (continuing): OK, I get it. He came early. You
wasted him before I got here. You want to keep all the money, right?
OK. You earned it so keep it! It's yours! I'll tell Manny I
got here too late. You hadda do the job yourself. Just let me go!
(The man keeps the muzzle of the gun right on the back of the boy's head.)
MAN: You still don't get it, do you, kid? The man in the bathtub was the
man you were supposed to meet.
BOY: . . . Then who?
MAN: . . . I'm the legend.
(The boy starts to turn his head but the man pushes the gun harder.)
MAN (continuing): Don't turn around, kid.
BOY: How did you . . .
MAN: I warned you: always respect the intelligence of your opponent.
You don't get to be a legend by falling into traps. I'm not the hittee;
you are.
(He cocks the hammer of his revolver.)
BOY: Don't! Please!
(During the man's speech the boy begins crying.)
MAN: OK, kid, here's how it works. You tried a hit; it
backfired. But nothing personal, right? No need for you to
suffer. So, I'm going to send a round into your brain. It's the
fastest way to get your body to shut down. But, even then, your heart will
most likely keep pumping for a few minutes. Problem is, it'll be pumping
the blood out of your system. Like, the plug's been pulled, and the
heart's now working against itself. A brainless muscle if ever there was
one, huh? Then your body temperature falls and your
system begins shutting down. Clinical death. Biological death.
End of story. . . .
BOY: Please, no! Don't kill me! I can pay you! Just take my wallet! I'll --
MAN: You know what I noticed in this business, kid? Some guys die
with their eyes open and some die with their eyes shut. I wondered
about that for years. Then I decided that either was acceptable. God
doesn't care one way or the other. But the guy with his eyes open?
I'd say he's more dead than the guy with his eyes shut. Which are you
gonna be, kid? Open or shut?
BOY: For the love of God! Don't kill me! Please! I'll
pay you whatever you want!
MAN: Kid, don't take it so hard. Like I said, it's nothing
personal. But if I don't waste you now, you might come after me. Who
knows? You might get lucky.
BOY: No! I wouldn't! I swear it! I wouldn't dare!
MAN: A man with all your hits might dare anything. After all, you
did the Mason hit.
BOY: I never hit anybody! I never killed anybody! This is my
first time. I just wanted to be like my uncle. He was in the
business for years. I just wanted to be like him! Please,
don't! I'll never come after you!
MAN: I believe you, kid. 'Cause, you see, I did the Mason hit.
BOY: Oh, Jesus.
MAN: You had it right except you weren't there to see my semi jam up on
me. I had to use the backup revolver. That's why I won't touch a
semi-automatic again.
BOY: Look, honest to God, I --
MAN: But it's like this. You being an amateur makes it even
worse. Somebody teams you up with a guy like me -- a pro -- and you could
accidentally get the pro killed by doing something stupid. I can't allow
that to happen.
(The boy sobs; his voice breaks.)
BOY: No! I swear on my mother's grave! I don't want to kill
anybody! I'll never do this again! Nobody will die because of
me! Please don't kill me! Please! Take my wallet! Just
let me go!
MAN: . . . If. If I let you go, how do I know you'll keep your word?
BOY: Mister, I swear to God! If I ever try this again, you come
after me and kill me, OK? I just want out! Please!
(The man slowly lets the hammer down.)
MAN: OK, kid. That'll be the deal. You try another hit, I'll hear about it.
And I'll
put a bullet through you.
BOY: Yes! Yes! But you won't have to! I swear it! Please!
MAN: . . . You piss your pants?
BOY: . . . (crying) Yes.
MAN: All right. You got ten seconds to get up and get the hell out of here.
And nine
of them are gone.
(The boy jumps up and runs to the door, opens it and runs out, slamming it
behind him.
The man stares at the door for several seconds then replaces his revolver
in his belt holster. He walks to the table and begins
replacing rods and patches and cloth back into the gun kit box.
Suddenly from the inner hallway leading from the bathroom a middle-aged
man appears. He is soaked and dripping wet. His clothes appear to be
covered with blood. He is carrying his (dry) shoes, which he leaves near the
sofa.)
SECOND MAN: If I hadda stay in that bathtub one more fuckin' minute I would be dead for
real! As it is, I may have got pneumonia! I still say I
could 'a just been on the bed.
(As he speaks he grabs the clean clothes and towel from the television set
and steps back into the hallway -- or behind a screen.)
SECOND MAN: (continued) (o.s.): What the hell I had to be in the tub for, anyway?
MAN: I told you: it looks better.
SECOND MAN: (o.s.)
Yeah, right. It looks better.
MAN: He might have checked you out on the bed. Nobody touches a body in a tub full of
bloody water.
SECOND MAN: (o.s.) That right? Well, you're the expert. But I got ketchup in my hair, my nose, my
ears . . . my eyes for Christ sake! . . . First time I ever
made money playing a corpse. How about you? You ever played a corpse?
MAN: Never did.
SECOND MAN: (o.s.)
You should 'a taken the punk's wallet. I'll bet he was loaded! He offered it to
you, for Christ's sake.
MAN: I'm not a thief.
SECOND MAN: (o.s.) Well, pardon me all over the fuckin' place, but where I come from money is
money (sneezes). See? I'm gettin' pneumonia from
that tub. And it's not like I got health insurance or somethin'.
(The man finishes packing up his gun kit and even folds the newspaper
neatly and drops it in a trash can. He sits in a chair and waits for the second man)
SECOND MAN:
(o.s.) You got health insurance?
MAN: No.
SECOND MAN: (o.s.) I don't know nobody who does. Who the hell can afford it on what Manny pays?
What pisses me off is that punk kid is gonna
go to college now and fuck lots'a broads, and drink lots'a beer and end up in
business makin' a fortune -- and me? -- I'm gonna
croak from not havin' health insurance.
(The second man comes out rubbing his hair with the
towel. He sits on the couch and puts his socks and shoes on.)
SECOND MAN: (continued) We didn't get enough.
MAN: A grand apiece to scare a kid out of the business? Seems pretty fair to me.
SECOND MAN: Yeah, a grand ain't bad. But how much did the kid's uncle pay Manny to hire us?
What's Manny's take? I mean --
MAN: I don't care about Manny's take. I don't like it.
SECOND MAN: What?
MAN: I'm good at what I do. I don't like this kind of thing.
The money's not clean.
SECOND MAN: Money's dirty to you unless you took somebody out for it?
MAN: It doesn't feel right. It feels phoney.
SECOND MAN: What's phony about it?
MAN: I acted out what I am. I only pretended to do what I do. So what am I?
I feel
like a whore.
SECOND MAN: (laughs) Yeah, well, you can always give me your share.
'Cause the only thing don't feel
right to me is not havin' no money. How I got it
ain't the question.
MAN: . . . I wish somebody had done that for me when I was his age.
SECOND MAN: Done what?
MAN: Kept me out of the business.
(The second man stares at him and shakes his head, then checks himself in the
mirror.)
SECOND MAN: You?! Man, you are in some mood today. That kid must'a spooked yah.
I couldn't
believe his bullshit about the Mason hit. I
thought you might take him out just for trying to take the credit.
MAN: Mason was a clean hit.
(The second man interrupts combing his hair to stare at the man, finishes
combing it, then walks to the front door and opens it.)
SECOND MAN: (continued) I don't know about you but I'm blowin' this popcorn stand.
(The second man
exits into the hallway. The man gets up and pauses in the doorway to look
back.)
MAN: (to no one) I just wish somebody had done that for me.
(He exits and closes the door/)
BLACKOUT
THE END
Copyright © 2000 Dean Barrett
No part of this play may be performed or published without written permission
from the
playwright.
Contact Dean Barrett at deanbarrett@mindspring.com
Dean Barrett lived in Asia for 20 years, 17 of those years based in Hong
Kong. His novels on Asia are: Hangman's Point,
Kingdom of Make-Believe, and
Memoirs of a Bangkok Warrior.
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