43

THE MOVIE

The movie picks up with a daytime interior shot of Blair’s apartment kitchen. She sits at the table, reading the newspaper. The music evokes an ominous mood and begins to build as Blair turns the pages and then stops to read a small article.

She speaks in voice-over. “Then, one morning, I opened the Las Vegas Review-Journal and saw it.”

Her face registers shock and horror. She gasps, puts a hand to her mouth.

Cut to a close-up of the newspaper article:

N LAS VEGAS HOMICIDES

Police are investigating what appears to be a double homicide at a residence on Reynolds Avenue. Maxwell and Jane Bradford were found shot to death in their home, apparently victims of a break-in. Sergeant Sean Wallis indicates the crime could be drug-related. Particularly troubling is that the couple’s two-year-old daughter is missing and believed to be dead. The Bradfords were both employees of the Golden Nugget Casino.

Cut back to Blair, in shock, tears streaming down her face.

“My world came crashing down. Everything I had ever loved had been taken from me. First Hank, and then my daughter, and finally my granddaughter.”

Blair runs to the bedroom, throws herself on the bed, and beats the covers with her fist. She screams, thrashes, and sobs in extreme distress. A lifetime of loss, as well as murder and guilt, comes crashing down.

“I knew what had happened, of course. It was Buddy Franco and his goon who had done it. They had probably gone to Jane and Maxwell, thinking the couple knew where I was hiding. At first the fate of my granddaughter was unknown, but I later learned that her bloodstained pajamas were uncovered in a trash dumpster near the house. And it was most likely all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid in going to the house to give my granddaughter a birthday present …!”

Blair sits up and wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“It had been done to draw me out … they figured I couldn’t help going to my daughter’s funeral.”

She opens a nightstand drawer. The camera cuts to a close-up of its contents—a handgun.

“There was only one thing left for me to do. Fortunately, I knew where Buddy Franco liked to have breakfast.”

At nine in the morning on the day prior to the Bradfords’ funeral, Blair parked the Ford down the street from the Sunshine Diner, facing away from it, and waited. She wore a red wig, sunglasses and a scarf, blue jeans, a plaid blouse, and tennis shoes. Her appearance was altered enough that any witnesses wouldn’t be able to identify her as Blair Kendrick. She did, however, ironically resemble an older Malena Mengarelli.

She sat backward in the seat and watched the building with her binoculars, but Franco was not inside. It was still early, though. When she had seen him there, it was usually around eleven. He liked his breakfast for lunch.

She had purchased the Smith & Wesson in Las Vegas at a gun show. It was identical to the one she had used on Eldon Hirsch and Buddy Franco in Hollywood.

The past few days had been dark as she drowned in the depths of despair. There were moments when Blair didn’t think she could go on living. However, when the idea of revenge had taken shape in her mind—once again—then she had a purpose. History was repeating itself. She was all too aware of this dark parallel of inescapable fate she had inherited, a common trait of a femme fatale in a film noir. The irony was not lost on her. Blair was convinced she was insane—a madwoman, a killer—but she also believed she would be ridding the world of an evil.

Her escape route was all set. If she was able and the timing was right, she would drive directly to the Las Vegas airport. She had a bag packed, a change of clothes, and her “Penny Miller” passport. Blair had already studied the various departures and the cities to which they flew. She would make her way back to Costa Rica and remain there indefinitely. If the timing didn’t work out, she knew of a lot near the airport where she could park and wait, hidden from view, until it was nearer a suitable departure time.

Buddy Franco arrived at the diner at 11:20, parked his car in the back of the diner, and walked around the building with a cane. He was alone, which made Blair’s job easier. She had no idea where his cohort was, but she didn’t care. He was probably off running an errand for his masters. The diner wasn’t crowded—only one other booth was occupied by three people, and there were two others sitting at the counter.

She started the Ford, pulled it out into traffic, made a U-turn, and drove back toward the diner. Double-parking parallel to the front door, Blair left the car running and got out. The pistol was in her hand.

Franco was sipping coffee. He smoked a cigarette while reading the newspaper in a booth by the window. He hadn’t noticed her. The man was slipping in his older age.

Blair entered the diner and walked determinedly to the booth. She raised the gun when she stopped in front of him.

“You killed my lover, my daughter, and my granddaughter,” she said softly. “My granddaughter was only two.”

Franco’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. “Wait—!” he snapped.

She squeezed the trigger. The round struck his chest. The man spasmed in his seat and grunted loudly. A waitress screamed.

Franco clutched the wound. He struggled to breathe as he gasped, “No … she’s alive …”

Blair’s heart was pounding, but his words caused another surge of adrenaline. “Where is she? Where?”

But the man couldn’t answer. His eyes bulged as he tried to speak.

“Tell me!” she barked.

It was no use. Franco slumped over toward the window, his eyes staring blankly at the coffee cup on the table.

She lowered the gun. The waitress was still screaming. Most everyone else in the diner was cowering under the tables.

One man frozen at the counter said, “I think you killed him, lady.”

Blair took a deep breath, turned, and walked out of the diner, her head held high and not looking at any of the witnesses. Once outside, she got in the driver’s seat of her car and drove away before anyone in the joint could call the police.