LETHAL WEAPON

by Shane Black

FADE IN:
    
     CITY OF ANGELS

     lies spread out beneath us in all its  splendor,  like  a
     bargain basement Promised Land.

     CAMERA SOARS, DIPS, WINDS its way SLOWLY  DOWN,  DOWN,
     bringing us IN OVER the city as we:

     SUPER MAIN TITLES.

     TITLES END, as we --

     SPIRAL DOWN TOWARD a lush, high-rise apartment complex.
     The moon reflected in glass.

     CAMERA CONTINUES TO MOVE IN THROUGH billowing curtains,
     INTO the inner sanctum of a  penthouse  apartment,  and
     here, boys and girls, is where we lose our breath,
     because --

     spread-eagled on a sumptuous designer sofa lies the
     single most beautiful GIRL in the city.
     Blonde hair. A satin nightgown that positively  glows.
     Sam Cooke MUSIC, crooning from five hundred dollar
     SPEAKERS.

     PASTEL colors. Window  walls.  New  wave  furniture  tor-
     tured into weird shapes.  It looks like robots live here.

     On the table next to the sleeping Venus  lies  an  open
     bottle of pills ... next to that, a mirror dusted with
     cocaine.

     She rouses herself to smear some powder  on  her  gums.
     As she does, we see from her eyes that she is thoroughly,
     completely whacked out of her mind...

     She stands, stumbles across the room, pausing to glance
     at a photograph on the wall:

     Two men.  Soldiers.  Young, rough-hewn, arms around each
     other.

     The Girl throws open the glass doors ... steps out onto a
     balcony, and there, beneath her, lies  all  of  nighttime
     L.A.  Panoramic splendor.  Her hair flies, her expression.
     rapt, as she stands against this sea of technology.  She
     is beautiful.

     On the balcony railing beside her  stand  three  potted
     plants.

     The Girl sees them, picks one up.  Looks over the balcony
     railing ... It is ten stories down to the parking lot.
     she squints, holds the plant over the edge.

                         GIRL
               Red car.

     Drops the plant.  Down it goes, spiralling end over end
     -- until, finally ... BAM --  !  SHATTERS.  Dirt  flies.  A
     red Chevy is now minus a WINDSHIELD.  The Girl takes
     another plant.

                         GIRL
               Green car.

     She drops it.  Green Dodge.  Ten stories below, BAM
     Impact city.  Scratch one paint job.  Grabs the final
     plant and holds it out, saying:

                         GIRL
               Blue car.

     POW.  GLASS SHATTERS.  Dirt sprays.  A blue BMW this
     time.  The Girl loves this game ... her expression is
     slightly crazed.  She reaches for another plant --
     There aren't any.  Her smile fades -- And for a moment,
     just a moment, the dullness leaves her eyes and she is
     suddenly, incredibly sober.  And tears fill her eyes as
     she looks over the edge --

                         GIRL
               Yellow car.

     And jumps the railing. Plummets, head  over  heels  like  a
     rag doll. Hits the yellow car  spot  on.  She  lies,  dead,
     like an extinguished dream.  Still beautiful.

                                                  CUT TO:

1A   EXT. BENEATH THE PIER    NIGHT                         1A

     FOUR TOUGH-LOOKING DOCK WORKERS are camped  out  under  the
     pier, warming themselves around a small bonfire, laughing
     loudly.  Christmas decorations dangle above them from the
     pier, and empty beer cans litter the sand around them.

     CAMERA PUSHES IN to discover an old collie tied to one of
     the pilings. Then we realize that the  dog  is  being  tor-
     mented by the dock workers.  They flick lighted matches
     at him.  Shake their beers and spray him in the face.
     These guys are not rocket scientists.

     The dog cowers, tugging bn the rope.  Tries  to  get  away.
     All to the great amusement of its tormentors.

     One of them turns, laughing --

     As a shadowy FIGURE strides calmly up to the fire:
     Long hair.
     Cigarette dangling from-lower lip.
     Shirt-tails hanging loose below the waist.

     Nothing threatening in his manner as he plops down  beside
     the men, smiling.
     They are immediately on their guard.

                         RIGGS (FIGURE)
               Happy holidays.  Mind if I join
               you?

                         PUNK  #1
               Yes.

                         PUNK  #2
               Fuck off.

     Riggs smiles at him innocently.  Strokes the collie's fur
     with one hand.
     With the other, he reaches intb a paper sack and produces,
     a spanking new bottle of Jack Daniels, possibly the finest
     drink mankind has  yet  produced.

                         RIGGS
               I need help drinking this.  Cool?

     The dock workers exchange glances.  There seems to be no
     harm in this.  One of them frowns:

                         PUNK  #1
               You a homo?

                         RIGGS
               Do I look like a homo?

                         PUNK  #1
               You got long hair.  Homos got long
               hair.

                         PUNK #3
               I hate homos.  Arrggh.

     Riggs shakes his head, laughs.

                         RIGGS
               Boy, you guys are terrific.  You
               make me laugh, you just do.

     At which point, appropriately enough, Punk #4 shakes a
     beer and sprays it in the old collie's face.

     The DOG pulls  away,  WHINING.
     Riggs leans forward.

                         RIGGS
               This your dog?  Nice dog.

     And then, he proceeds to do a peculiar thing:
     He starts to talk to the dog --
     in what seems to be the dog's own language.
     Very weird, folks...
     He coos, snuffles, barks softly, then withdraws,
     listening, his ear to the dog's muzzle.
     Riggs nods.  Frowns.
     The others look  on,  puzzled.
     Then Riggs looks at each of the four dock workers.

                         RIGGS
               Huh-  You know what?  He says he
               doesn't want you to spray beer in
               his face.  He says he just hates
               that.

     A pause.  Uncomfortable.  Then --

                         PUNK #1
               Oh, he does ... ?
                    (beat)
               Well, mister, why don't you ask
               him what he likes...?

     The others snicker.  Riggs simply nods.

                         RIGGS
               Okay.

     And once again, begins to confer with the dog.  Listens
     intently, piecing together what he is hearing.

                         RIGGS
               What ... ? You want ...  oh.  Oh,
               hell no, I couldn't do  that  ...
               Nossirree bob,  you  little  nut.

     He ruffles the dog's hair.
     The men are more puzzled than ever as Riggs turns and
     says:

                         RIGGS
                    (chuckling)
               Get this: He wants  me  to  beat
               the shit out of you guys.

     Everything stops.  A cloud passes over the assembled
     faces and a  pin-dropping  silence  ensues.

     Riggs, completely heedless, once again attends to the dog:

                         RIGGS
               What's that ... ?  The one ... in the
               middle...  'is a stupid fat duck'...
               What ... ?
                    (listens again)
               Oh ... Oh!  A 'stupid fat fuck!'
               Right.

     He looks up, shakes his head.

                         RIGGS
               Boy, this dog is pissed.

     The one in the middle grabs Riggs by the collar.
     Hoists him to his feet.  Gulp.

     Stands, staring down at Riggs, whose eyes are completely
     neutral, like a snake's.

                         PUNK #1
               Buddy, you're shortening your
               life span.

     He flicks open a mean-looking switchblade.

     Riggs is dead meat.

     So why then, does he choose this moment to execute a
     Three Stooges' routine, consisting of nose tweak, eye
     gouge, and rotating fist that bobs the dock worker on
     the head... ?

     He's nuts or something ...

     Riggs steps back and adopts a neutral fighting stance.
     The others begin to circle.

     The DOG BARKS.  Riggs turns to the dog, but his eyes never
     leave his grinning attackers.

                         RIGGS
                    (to the collie)
               What's that ... ?  You want me to
               take the knife away... and break
               his elbow... ?

     Circling ...

     Riggs, watching them, his eyes beginning to dance ...
     Breathing slow and even...

                         RIGGS
               But that would be excruciatingly
               painful ...

     Something inside Riggs is gearing up ... the others can
     perhaps sense it, their smiles falter a bit,  they  crouch,
     combat-ready...
     Riggs, eyes blazing ...

                         RIGGS
               And if I separated the fat one's
               shoulder... he'd probably scream...

     No doubt about it.  We know from the look in Riggs' eyes
     he's nuts.  He wants the fight, badly, all four of them
     at once ...

     And then Punk #1 springs...
     Big mistake.

     Needless to say, mincemeat is made of the  four  meddlesome
     dog-torturers.

     The beach is littered with their writhing forms as Riggs
     does, finally, what he set out to do:

     Unties the dog.

     Starts to go.
     As he does, he pats his shirt ...

     Pats his jeans ... Realizes his wallet has flown free
     during the fracas.

     Scoops to retrieve it from its resting place on the  sand,

     where it lies open, and as it lies open, yes,  folks,  that
     is a badge we see.

     Riggs, we realize, is an officer of the law.

     He lights a cigarette and notices the collie, seated.
     Frowns:

                         RIGGS
               Okay, skeezix.  Go on.  Get outta
               here.

     He begins to walk away.  The dog remains close at his
     heels.  Following him.

                        RIGGS
               No, no.  Don't follow me.  I'm an
               asshole.  Go away.

     The dog sits obediently and Riggs walks away.
     He can't help it, looks back over his shoulder...

     Sees the dog watching him with a beseeching expression.
     Pitiful.

                         RIGGS
               Aw, shit.

     He signals the dog.

                         RIGGS
               Awright.  Move it.  Let's go.

     The COLLIE BARKS happily and dashes toward him through
     the surf, kicking up sand and water.

     As they shuffle off against the palm-lined skyline, we
     hear, supered, Riggs' voice.

                         RIGGS (V.O.)
               So.  You live in the area?  What's
               your major ... ?

     And so on as we ...

                                            CUT TO:

2    OMITTED                                                 2
thru                                                          thru
4D                                                            4D

5    EXT. MURTAUGH'S HOUSE - PRE-DAWN                         5

     Palm trees cast shadows  on  the  lawn.  Toys,  lots  of  them,
     littered across the lawn.  A Big Wheel, a G.I. Joe figure.
     Christmas lights  are  strung  across  the  eaves.

                                            CUT TO:

6    INT. HOUSE - BATHROOM     SAME                            6

     A real gun, a .38  Police  Special,  dangling  in  its  hol-
     ster from the back of a chair.  Next to it -- A real
     badge, gleaming  in  the  light.  It  identifies  its  owner
     as LAPD Robbery/Homicide.

7    ANOTHER ANGLE                                                    7

     A birthday cake comes INTO FRAME.  A set of matronly
     hands places it directly in front of --

8    DETECTIVE ROGER  MURTAUGH                                      8

     Seated in the  bathtub.  He  groans,  throws  a  towel  over
     himself, and mutters in mock indignation:  Roger is
     tough:  An old-fashioned fighter, wears his past like a
     scar.  Piercing eyes; cynical.  He is surrounded by his
     family; wife and three  children,  names  and  ages  as
     follows:  TRISH:  Roughly  thirty-eight.  She  used  to  be   a
     stunner.  NICK:  Ten years old.  Precocious.  CARRIE:
     Age  seven.  Eyes  like  saucers.   Adorable.   RIANNE:
     Heartbreaker stuff, Seventeen.  Takes your breath away
     folks.  The cake is a real beauty.

                         CARRIE
               Make a wish, Daddy.

                         RIANNE
               Go for it, Dad.

                         MURTAUGH
                    (smiles)
               Go for it, huh...?  Okay, I'll
               go for it.

     He blows out the candles.  Applause.  His   gaze   lingers
     on -- the cake.  Or rather, the message scrawled atop it
     in icing:           WELCOME TO THE BIG 50

     The presents arrive.

                                               CUT  TO:

9    EXT. SIMI VALLEY - MORNING                                    9

     The scorched landscape stretches out  beneath  a  lattice-
     work of high-tension power lines.  only scrub grass
     grows here. Rusted railroad tracks  wander  into  the  dis-
     tance, and nestled beside them, like the  last  stop  be-
     fore death -- sits a lonely  trailer  home.  Battered  TV
     antenna.  A dirt yard which houses a beat-up pickup
     truck. Dead garden  sprouting  weeds.  The  ground  begins
     to tremble ... like an earthquake, RATTLING the POWER
     POLES, as, without warning -- An  express  TRAIN  BLASTS
     BY CAMEPA and streaks past the trailer  at  seventy  miles
     an hour.

10   INT. TRAILER HOME                                            10

     Now we are inside, the RUMBLING FAINTER ... And  we  are
     looking at a tired, chiseled face.  Etched  with  line  and
     shadow. Eyes closed, as the  shadows  from  the  speeding
     train strobe across DETECTIVE SERGEANT MARTIN RIGGS.
     Morning is not a good time for  Riggs.  The  CLOCK  RADIO
     suddenly BLARES to life:  'Silver Belllls ... It's
     Christmas Tiiime in the City...'  Riggs snaps awake
     instantly.  Alert.  Tense.  Face bathed in sweat.

11   ANOTHER ANGLE

     He is not alone.  In the doorway sits a thoroughly
     loveable black Labrador.  Sitting  stock  still.  Star3.ng
     at Riggs, watching him  sleep.  Tail  going  thump-thump-
     thump on the carpet.

     Riggs sits up.  Stares at the dog.

                         RIGGS
               Sam, today is the first day ...
               of the rest of my life.

     He lights a cigarette.  Inhales.
     Coughs and hacks.

     The TRAIN THROBS by outside, rattling his skull ...

                                            CUT TO:

12   INT. MURTAUGH HOME - SAME TIME                               12

     And it is a typical morning for Detective Roger Murtaugh.
     Chaos. The  TELEVISION  BLARES.  Young  Carrie  Murtaugh
     wails like a banshee.  Her brother Nick tells her to
     shut up. Trish Murtaugh is burning  eggs  in  the  kitchen.
     Roger Murtaugh enters then, fixing  his  tie.  The  follow-
     ing dialogue is fast and furious, tossed  over  the  shoul-
     der as Murtaugh scurries to and fro,  getting  dressed:

                         MURTAUGH
               Honey, what's this on my tie?

     She  looks.

                         TRISH
               An  ugly   spot?

                         MURTAUGH
               Thanks.  Sharp as a pin.

                         TRISH
               I'm thinking of going on 'Jeopardy.'

                         MURTAUGH
               Don't take any questions on cooking.

                         TRISH
               Thanks.  I love you, too.

     Carrie is still shrieking.  Tears stream down her face.

                         MURTAUGH
               Hey, kid, turn off the waterworks,
               okay?

                         CARRIE
                    (points to Nick)
               Daddy, he changed the channel!

                         MURTAUGH
               NOOOOOO.

                         NICK
               She's a crybaby, Dad.

                         MURTAUGH
               Mind your own busines.
                    (nods toward the TV)
               That's  illegal.

                         NICK
               What's illegal?

                         MURTAUGH
               Can't put a dead body in an
               ambulance.  This 'Kojak'?

                         NICK
               'Starsky and  Hutch.'

                         MURTAUGH
               Huh.  It's illegal.  Never put a
               dead body in an ambulance, son,
               you got that?

                         NICK
               Sure, Dad.

                        MURTAUGH
               Honey, where's the spot remover?
                    (turns to Carrie)
               Young lady, stop crying or I'll
               give you something to cry about.
               Damn.

     He dabs at his tie.  Carrie screams.  In the kitchen
     Trish drops the eggs, swears.  The PHONE RINGS.  Carrie
     screams.

                         MURTAUGH
               That's it.  I'm gonna give you
               something to cry about.

     He grabs a copy  of Newsweek and hands it to her.

                         MURTAUGH
               Starving children.  See?  They
               haven't eaten, it's very sad.
               Cry.

     He moves away.

                         CARRIE
               Daddy, you're weird ...

                         MURTAUGH
               Thank you, Carrie.  Hear that,
               honey, the children think I'm
               weird.

                         TRISH
               They're bright children.
                    (hangs up the
                     telephone)
               Honey, you know a man named Dick
               Lloyd?  Don't step in the egg.

                         MURTAUGH
               Where's my thinking?  I should've
               checked the floor for egg.  Dick
               Lloyd ... ?
                    (beat)
               Jesus, Dick Lloyd.  What's he want?

                         TRISH
               The office called.  He's been
               trying to reach you for three days
               now.

                         MURTAUGH
               I haven't talked to him in... shit,
               twelve years?  No, wait a minute,
               that would make me fifty years old,
               that can't be right.

                         TRISH
                    (smiles)
               You're not getting older, you're
               getting better.

                         MURTAUGH
               Inform the children of this.
                    (kisses her; heads
                     for the door)
               Forget the eggs, I'll eat later.

                         TRISH
               Whatever.
                    (beat)
               Honey?
                    (as he stops)
               How come I never heard of Dick
               Lloyd?

                         MURTAUGH
               I never talked about him.

                         TRISH
               Oh.
                    (beat)
               Vietnam   buddy?

                         MURTAUGH
               Yeah.  Vietnam buddy.

     He exits the kitchen, crosses the entrance hall.  Stops,
     noticing Rickles the cat, who is happily munching on the
     remains of Roger's birthday cake.

                         MURTAUGH
               Hey.

     He swats it aside.  Pauses, his gaze lingering on the
     silent message which gnaws at his guts.

               THE BIG 50 ...

     He comes out the front door.  Flicks  off  the  Christmas
     lights, crosses to the car. Looks up,  and  sees  --  his
     oldest daughter Rianne.  Jogging past.  She wears an
     adorable pair of dolphin shorts.  Walkman headphones.
     She waves.

                         RIANNE
               'Bye, Daddy.

     He waves.

                         MURTAUGH
                    (shakes his head)
               Goddamn heartbreaker.  She's a
               heartbreaker.

                                           CUT TO:

13   SERIES OF SHOTS - RIGGS  GETTING DRESSED                   13
   
     Riggs enters the living  room, naked.  Scars on his back,
     the kind you get from knives. Runs a hand  through  limp
     hair. Turns on the lamp. As he does  --  the  TELEVISION
     also springs to life; hooked to the same  circuit.  Pops
     three aspirin from a bottle.  Chews thein.
     Opens a bag of peanuts, throws it to the big Lab,  who
     gobbles them down.
     Eats a sandwich, standing in the middle of his apartment.
     'Looking at the floor.  What a lonely fucking guy ...
     Straps on his gun.  .9 millimeter Beretta, if it matters.
     Throws on a jacket. Downs a shot  of  whiskey.  Pauses,
     looking at a photograph on the wall.  Riggs, much younger,
     along with a pretty and vivacious woman in a wedding gown:
     his wife. Stares at the photograph.  His  fingers  twirl
     the whiskey glass with completely unconscious skill.
     Tense. Tense ... twirling the glass ... RICHARD DAWSON
     DRONES from the TV (our survey says -- !).  Riggs slings
     the shotglass. Dead center, SHATTERING the  TV  SCREEN.

                                              CUT TO:

14   INT. POLICE FIRING PANGE - MORNING                     14

     Targets: Human silhouettes with kill  zones  numbered.
     Murtaugh enters. Sheds his coat, unholsters  the  .38.
     Steps to the red line.  Shifts.  Stretches.  Cracks  his
     neck.  This is a ritual for him.  He stops to examine his
     right hand, holding it steady before his  eyes.  Except
     there is a slight tremble. Tiny, but  it's  there.  He
     frowns.  Braces himself:  Cross-draws with lightning
     swiftness. -- BAM! -- The sound is DEAFENING in the
     closed room. A neat round hole appears in  the  target.
     Perfect shot:  a neat third eye.  Murtaugh smiles.
     Holsters his gun. Puts on his coat -- and  sings  softly
     to himself:

                         MURTAUGH
               Happy birthday to me ...

                                                   CUT TO:

15   INT. CAR - DAY                                            15

     Sergeant Martin Riggs is driving.  He looks like he
     hasn't slept.  He certainly hasn't shaved.  The DISPATCH
     RADIO SQUAWKS.  He turns down the MUSIC from the car
     radio and hears:

                         DISPATCHER  (V.0.)
               All units in the  vicinity  and
               Fourteen X-ray thirty-one,
               shooting in progress at Venice
               Beach, Washington and Navy.
               Three victims down, PA  en  route
               Fourteen X-ray thirty-one, handle
               code three.

     Riggs hits the gas pedal and  PEELS  OUT.

                                            CUT TO:

16   EXT. CENTURY CITY PARKING LOT  -  MORNING                 16

     The sky threatens rain.  Cars buzz by as the city
     awakens.

     A section of the parking lot is cordoned off by yellow
     streamers which read:  POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS, and
     as we watch, a black and white patrol car pulls up,
     admitting two beat COPS and a young hooker.  Her name
     is DIXIE, and she is not happy.

                         DIXIE
               Can I stay in the car?

                         COP #1
               No.

                         DIXIE
               Aw, cut me a break.  I  told  you
               already: she came  out  on  the
               balcony --

                         COP #1
                    (points)
               That balcony ... ?

                         DIXIE
               -- No, the Chandler fucking
               Pavillion, of course that fucking
               balcony, and then slie jumped, and
               then I puked in a trash can.  Can
               I go now?

                         COP #1
               Not 'til you talk to  the  Sarge.

                         DIXIE
               Terrific.  Where the hell is he?

17   INT. MURTAUGH'S CAR                                     17

     The sarge drives up and gets out.  A BEAT COP Toes by.

                         BEAT  COP
               Happy 50th, Rog.

                         MURTAUGH
               Fuck you.

     He crosses to the two Cops and Dixie.

                         COP #2
               Hey,  Sarge.

                         MURTAUGH
               'Morning, Phil.  Get some rain,
               looks  like.
                    (beat)
               Hey, Dixie.  Nice threads.

                         DIXIE
               Hey, Murtaugh.  Tell these bozos
               to lay  Off.

                         MURTAUGH
               You.  Bozos.   Lay   off.

                         COP #1
               Had a jumper last night, Sarge.
               Dixie here was walking by, saw
               the whole thing.

                         MURTAUGH
               You got a statement?  Send her
               home.

                         DIXIE
               Thanks, Rog.  I'm beat, you know
               how it is.

                         MURTAUGH
               Sure.
                    (points to her
                     outfit)
               All dressed up and no one to blow.

                         DIXIE
               You're hilarious.

     She exits.  Cop #2 escorts Murtaugh across the parking
     lot.

                     &nbs