another well dressed, middle aged man, behind a large polished oak desk, listening intently. this is leo. he is short but powerfully built, with the face of a man who has seen things.
tracking in on tom, sitting in bed, smoking, staring at the bureau. the rippling street light plays over him from the window. we hear a distant knocking.
looking down at the newspaper an the counter, next to a steaming cup of coffee. tom's hand enters to put some change on the counter, leaves, and we hear his receding footsteps.
leo faces us from behind his desk.
the hubbub of female voices evaporates as all turn to look at the male intruder.
slouched in a chair, in the corner of the room, facing tom, is bernie bernheim. he is about thirty and wears his overcoat and hat and a good-natured smile. he holds an apple in one hand and a paring knife in the other. the long peel of the apple corkscrews down off the knife.
facing the door, from behind bluepoint and verna.
on tom.
on tom. in the background, bluepoint is walking over to the door to the room to close it.
wider, from the other side of the car, as the car pulls away.