Noir
A boisterous home, getting ready for the day. Father, mother and their three kids. Bang of bathroom doors, breakfast dish clatter, shouts of hurry up, don’t forget your… Only bustle, no tension. It’s clear they’re a happy family.
Preparing to leave, the husband kisses the wife, and whispers in her ear. She blushes and grins, kisses him again, then he’s out the door with the kids.
She goes through her bag, checking her gear. We see a police badge.
Walking to her car, she makes a call to her lieutenant. She tells him she’s going to interview some people in the neighbourhood, then drop by that club again.
Late morning, inside the Olala club. The cloaked air is weary and stale, dust dancing in slim shafts of light strained through narrow windows. A woman in her late fifties pushes a broom slowly across the stage, stops, puts on rubber gloves, wipes the poles quickly, then goes back to slow sweeping.
The policewoman heads towards the woman at the bar who’s setting up for her service.
She says she knows the bartender was on that night, and asks if she’ll look at some photos. The bartender hesitates, chewing her thumbnail and looking around for someone who isn’t there then slumps, yeah, okay, fine, whatever.
The policewoman pulls out her day planner, opens it on the bar and lays out several photo arrays. The bartender picks them up, one by one, taking her time.
– I’m real good with faces, you know. And hands. Isn’t that so weird? I never forg–
– Could you just concentrate?
– Hey, excuse me for expressing myself. Yous are all so fu–
– Please.
– Yeah, no kidding. Listen, don’t bust my nuts. I’m being cooperative here. And, no, I don’t… Nah, I don’t recognise none of these guys. Sorry.
The bartender then glances back to the open daytimer, at the photo of the woman’s family on the inside cover. She blanches, ‘Holy fuck…’ and points to the woman’s husband, ‘Him… Oh god, oh shit, I mean… I mean don’t quote me, ok? Cause there’s no way I’ll… But, him, holy fuck… Oh, lady, him I know.’
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