SARAH GREEN, 31
pretty but tough but emphasis on the pretty. Smart cookie. Good at her job. Great at her job. Came from a broken home, worked her way up to become the most respected detective on the force. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, suggesting general competence with the handling of her weapon and herself and also that she’s the kind of gal that orders draft beer if it’s available and is not averse to glancing at the sports section if it happens to be lying around. That kind of gal. Also, pretty. In case that wasn’t clear already. Very very pretty.
GREEN
(gazing at a dead Chinaman)
What are we looking at?
BLACK DUDE COP
Family drama, probably.
(pause for effect; chimes in the distance, vaguely Oriental)
Some kind of cultural thing.
CLOSE ON: Black Dude Cop.
MILES TURNER, 33.
Tall and built. Really built. Like, if-gray-T-shirts-hadn’t-been-invented-already-they-would-have-to-be-invented-just-so-Miles-could-wear-the-shit-out-of-them built. That kind of built.
Fade tight, edges perfect, skin flawless. Distractingly handsome. Yale then Goldman then a hedge fund, on his way to even bigger things when his father, twenty-seven-year veteran of the NYPD, was killed in the line of duty. Entered the academy the day after his dad’s funeral, graduated top of his class. Been on the force ever since—going on eleven years now, but starting to get antsy.
Youngest in department history to ever make detective (recruited by the FBI, as well as several NYC billionaires to head private security). Cops don’t usually get this famous, but then again Miles Turner is no ordinary cop. Everyone wants a piece of him. Currently weighing his options, but can’t bring himself to tell Green yet. They’re a team—and, considering the smoldering looks—maybe something more?
TURNER
(sexy whisper)
You hear something?
You’re off to the side watching all of this. A spectator.
Black and White both turn to look offscreen, peering into the darkness, their faces lit perfectly. But there’s nothing there. Then:
GREEN
Miles.
TURNER
What?
A sound, from deep background, in the alleyway—richly audible sound effects.
In the shadows is OLD ASIAN MAN, 70s.
Turner draws his weapon, steady and calm. Green draws her piece as well, flicks the safety off, finger on the trigger. She looks uncharacteristically nervous.
TURNER
Who’s there?
GREEN
Hands where we can see them.
They’re going to shoot him. You have to say something. But how can you? You don’t have any lines.
Old Asian Man steps into the light. Turner sees him just in time.
TURNER
No!
Green lowers her weapon, breathing heavily. Turner clenches his jaw.
GREEN
Thank you, Miles.
They share a meaningful look—this is the heart of Black and White, right here, how their partnership evolves, and of course, all this sexy eye contact.
In front of them is the person Green almost shot: Old Asian Man, pushing a cart full of plastic bottles.
Turner shifts his weight, nervous.
GREEN
Sir?
TURNER
(to Green)
I don’t think he understands you.
Turner turns toward Old Asian Man, stoops down a little.
TURNER (CONT’D)
(little too loud)
Do you understand me?
OLD ASIAN MAN
(without accent)
Yeah, man. I speak English.
Old Asian Man turns to you and smiles.
Green laughs. Turner, pissed, looks at the director.
The director yells CUT.
Ever since you were a boy, you’ve dreamt of being Kung Fu Guy.
You’re not Kung Fu Guy.
But maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be the day.
INT. CHINATOWN SRO
Home is a room on the eighth floor of the Chinatown SRO Apartments. Open a window in the SRO on a summer night and you can hear at least five dialects being spoken, the voices bouncing up and down the central interior courtyard, the courtyard in reality just a vertical column of interior-facing windows, also serving as the community clothes drying space, crisscrossing lines of kung fu pants for all the Generic Asian Men, and for the Nameless Asian Women, cheap knockoff qipaos, slit high up the thigh, or a bit more modest for Matronly Asian Ladies, terrycloth bibs for Undernourished Asian Babies, often shown in montages, and of course don’t forget the granny panties and soiled A-shirts for Old Asian Women and Old Asian Men, respectively. This interior space also acting as a conduit for information via the invisible, complex, and (to an outsider) incomprehensible inter-window messaging system for the building, which works in real time and is lower than the lowest of tech—basically you point your face in the general direction of the person you want to communicate with and you yell at them what you want them to know. Somehow, despite the cacophony (or because of it) your recipient usually gets the message.
In the long tradition of immigrants living above their place of work, the SRO sits on top of Golden Palace. It goes: ground floor restaurant, the mezzanine for offices, then seven more floors of SRO living—fifteen single-room apartments per floor, a small bathroom with shower and toilet at the end of the hall. Noises and odors from the kitchen never stop pushing up from below, day and night, year-round (even on Thanksgiving and Christmas), so that when you’re sleeping you are, in a way, still inside the restaurant. You never really leave Golden Palace, even in your dreams.