Mick: She was tall, blonde, and dangerous. She had a record as long as your arm, and she'd left a trail of broken hearts
scattered across town like fender parts in a demolition derby. And out of all the places in all the world, she came to see me, Mickey Spleen, Private Eye. (she enters, the typical gangster moll, chewing her gum and protecting her nails) Yeh?

Moll: You Speen?

Mick: Yeh, that's me.

Moll: I gotta talk.

Mick: Figures.

Moll: Can I sit down?

Mick:(observing her outfit) It'll be tough but give it a try.

Moll: T'anks. (she sits)

Mick: Who are ya?

Moll: You don't know me?

Mick: Sure. But just for the record.

Moll: Molly. Molly Cleaver.

Mick: Sharp.

Moll: Huh?

Mick: Your outfit. Classy dame.

Moll: Yeh, I know.

Mick: So what's your beef?

Moll: I'm in trouble. Big, big trouble.

Mick: You're tellin' me.

Moll: I think I killed a guy.

Mick: Dead?

Moll: I think so.

Mick:(whistles)

Moll: What chu lookin' at?

Mick: Your future, dame. Murder's serious.

Moll: Yeh, I know. Especially when they die.

Mick: So who was it?

Moll: I ain't shu-wa.

Mick: You killed a guy and didn't even know his name?

Moll: I didn't have a chance to ask. He was dead before I met him.

Mick: Unusual.

Moll: Yeh. Ain't it though?

Mick: So spill it. What happened?

Moll: I ain't shu-wa. I wasn't there.

Mick: You killed a guy but you didn't know his name?

Moll: Yeh.

Mick: And you don't know what happened because you wasn't there?

Moll: Yeh. Ain't life funny?

Mick:(to the audience) The wild nuts are the hardest to crack.

Moll: You see, I was just standin' there outside da pawn shop when ... (and she continues her spiel in pantomime as he continues)

Mick: She talked on and on, makin' no sense at all. But I'd heard it all before ... a dame murders a guy she doesn't know before she meets him and she wasn't there when it happened. The oldest line in the book. Now she comes runnin' to me for help. That's the down side of this business. New faces, same old lines.

Moll:(as her dialogue becomes audible for a moment) ... and I said, "Listen Buster, don't try that stuff with me, and ..." (and again she goes into pantomime)

Mick: Same old lines. Fact is, I was ready to give it up. Cash it in. Find a new line of work. I was desperate so I signed up for this night course at Junior College. (holds up an imaginary book as Moll continues her silent story, acting out various methods of murder, shocking reactions, horror, mourning, etc.) "Creative Writing." Last Thursday night I found the chapter that changed my life forever, "Using your Fantasies for Fun and Profit." (reading) "Stimulating ideas can be found in even the most mundane of conversations. The trick, dear writer, is to imagine the same conversation taking place in an exotic and exciting locale. The more remote, the better."

Moll:(suddenly becoming audible again, this time with a seductive French accent) Petite Poui, Mon ami!

Mick: Oui?

Moll: Oui! (incensed) Le mort!

Mick: No!

Moll: Oui! Du Louvre et Avenue des Champs Elysees!

Mick: Des Champs Elysees!

Moll: Oui! Oui! Et le Seine Opera! D'Orleans , Tuileries, Notre Dame!

Mick: Notre Dame!

Moll: Fois de Gras Hunchback!

Mick: No!

Moll: Oui!

Mick: Oi!

Moll: Montmartre, Paris, Republique! St. Louis, Mont Saint Michel, Montmartre!

Mick: Hors d'oeuvre! Petit fours! Montreal!

Moll: Montreal!

Mick: DeGaulle! Bridgette Bardot!

Moll: Ahh! (they both hum a few measures of the Marseillaise then fall sobbing into one another's arms) (suddenly coming out of it, back to her Brooklyneese) So then I told him, "Listen Buster, don't try that stuff with me, and ..." (to pantomime)

Mick: It worked. In fact, it saved me, you might say. No more long conversations on hot summer afternoons. No more boring recitals of murder, larceny, and petty pois. Suddenly, all my clients became ... exotic!

Moll: (rising up as an angry Spanish/Italian madwoman) La Muerte!

Mick:(shocked) La Muerte?

Moll: Si! Y Pablo Piccasso Alhambre!

Mick: No! Por favor! No!

 

Moll: Si, el muchacho! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh... (as she storms around the room) Ohhhhhh! La Batista con carne alfresco!

Mick: Alfresco!

Moll: Si! Alfresco y Castro!

Mick: Castro! Oh-oh!

Moll: Si, oh-oh! Muy malo benditos frijoles!

Mick:(nearly crying) Benditos frijoles!

Moll: Si! Pero no sprecken ze Duetch! Mi madre, su padre, Mama Mia conquistador! (as she throws an imaginary man to the floor and begins stomping on him ala flamenco, coming down hard on each accented beat) CorDOBA pico pico, NINO pico pico, TACO pico pico, Enchilada! Muerto! (and they embrace to tango while humming a few bars of Hernando's Hideaway) (suddenly standing upright) ) So then I told him, "Listen Buster, don't try that stuff with me, and ..."

Mick:(as she continues in pantomime) What can I say? It changed my life. No more long afternoons listening to one sob story after another ... No more ...

Moll:(coming out of her mime and speaking to him directly) Mickey!

Mick:(somewhat startled) Yeh, doll?

Moll: I can't take any more of this!

Mick:(a small laugh) You're tellin' me.

Moll: (picks up an imaginary purse, turns her back to him, pulls .something from the purse and while tossing the purse aside, holds the "something" behind her back) I gotta come clean.

Mick: Whatta ya got in your hand, doll?

Moll: It's ... it's the real reason I'm here.

Mick: Now listen, don't get crazy, kid.

Moll:(slowly approaching him as he inches away from her) I can't pretend any longer.

Mick: Whatta ya talkin' about?

Moll: You know that guy I said I killed?

Mick: Yeh. Yeh. What're ya doin'? Whatta ya got back there?

Moll: It ain't what I did, Mick. It's what I'm about to do.

Mick: You one of those nutsos? Zat what you are?

Moll: I'm more than that, Mick. I was just leadin' you on, see? Seein' if you'd listen. Seein' if you'd swallow dat murder line.

Mick: Look ... let's talk this out. Don't do anything crazy, all right?

Moll: You believed me, didn't ya? You really believed everything I said.

Mick: Sure doll, sure.

Moll: I thought so. I had to convince ya or it wouldn't work. I had to make you believe everything I said.

Mick:(sweating bullets as she backs him against the desk) You wanna drink? How `bout a nice cuppa tea?

Moll: You're part o' my plan, Mick. Thought I was just a dumb dame, huh? Thought I needed your help? Well, Mick, I want you to get a taste of what I got in my hand here.

Mick: No! Please, baby ... don't do it! Don't do it!

Moll:(whips out the "something" and holds it in front of his face) Look at dat!

Mick:(reading) "The Fundamentals of Acting, City Junior College."

Moll: How'd I do?

Mick: Huh?

Moll: I'm studyin' for da stage, Mick! Did I convince ya? Did ya think I was real?

Mick: Oh, baby. You were real. You were really real all right.

Moll: (hugging him) Mick, you're a doll! A real doll! (looking at her watch) Geesh. I gotta go. Professor Funkenbusch don't like it when I'm late. (stops as she begins to exit) You know Mick, we gotta do this just for fun sometime. I like pretendin', don't you?

Mick:(stillshell-shocked) Yeh. Pretendin'. A real scream.

Moll: Au revouir, Mon Ami!

Mick:(jumps) Huh? (and she is gone) (as he picks up his textbook) Chapter Two: "Separating Reality from Fantasy." Sure. Tell me now.