The Spoils Before Dying (2015) s01e01 Episode Script
Murder in B-Flat
1 Hello.
Tonight you're being granted the extreme privilege of sharing in a rare cinematic treat the filmitization of my best-selling novel, "The Spoils Before Dying.
" When a French lens maker propositioned me with the opportunity to film "The Spoils Before Dying," in order to showcase his new wide-screen system "Bastille-O-Scope," I jumped at the chance to experiment within this emerging idiom, forging a new path I dubbed but which unfortunately did not stick Post-Post-Modern French Neo-Fakism.
Oh.
Thank you, Doris.
You are an invaluable treasure.
Thank you.
I'm so sorry.
I have to to see this, but when it's time to eat, it's time to eat.
Mm.
Ah.
Oh, my God.
Give me a break, right? I'm not lucky enough to have sired a child, but right now this is my baby.
Now, what was that you were saying, my little friend? Some people wait forever in the silence, unsure if they will ever know a song.
I've dreamed of a song I could not hold.
This is my song.
They call me Rock Banyon.
I'm a jazz musician.
That's me, the cat on the 88s.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the Topanga Songbird, Miss Fresno Foxglove.
I dare say, old bean, fantastic set.
- Quite splendid.
- My esteemed manager Have you given any more thought to our little plan? Alistair St.
Barnaby-Bixby-Jones.
Busy.
Well, I needn't remind you it's a real cooker/corker.
"Rock With Strings.
" Just you Poor Alistair.
He's been trying to get me to make a jazz-with-strings album for years.
A real ten-ply gasser.
Now, we should strike whilst Hey, lover, Wardell and I got to split.
You got another gig? Yeah, baby.
Another gig, last minute.
Taking my sax player? Oh, well, it's a it's a money gig.
You dig? You know I don't dig those money gigs.
Is this a big money gig or just a gig kind of gig? Oh, it's a big money gig, all right, real big.
Biggity big, big, big.
You dig? I don't really dig, but I dig.
- You dig? - Yeah, I dig.
I'm so glad that you dig.
- Coming back? - Not tonight, lover.
Take this 20.
You sung real good tonight.
Keep it, Rock.
I don't need the cash.
I'll dig you later.
Later, lover.
Speaking of digging big cash digs Fresno never said no to no 20-spot.
Hell, she never said no to a five-spot.
- Great show.
- I mean, she may have said no to a couple of one-spots, but who says yes to a to a one-spot, really? This whole scene made no sense.
Should have followed her that night, but I didn't.
Instead, I dove soul-first into a bottle of Bagpipes O'Toole brand vodka-flavored scotch and attacked the ivories like I always do.
I went looking for that uncertain thing that answers all uncertainty hidden somewhere in the notes on the piano, because I'm a jazz musician and all answers are hidden in those 88 keys.
I played like a madman well into the night.
I might have taken some pills as well.
Yeah, I definitely took some pills.
Can you see me? Open up, Downtown P.
D.
Come on, Banyon, we know you're in there.
Open up, Downtown P.
D.
Come on, Banyon, we know you're in there.
- Who'd I kill, Officer? - You Rock Banyon? - Never sure.
- You want I should kick your teeth in? I'll be Rock Banyon.
- Where were you last night? - At the Swingyard.
- After that? - There is no after that.
- Let's wrap him up.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Hold up.
I said I was at the Swingyard all night.
Hey, missy, wake up.
She don't know nothin' about this.
Is that right, missy? You don't know nothin'? What should I know? Maybe that sleeping with a jazz musician can get you in a lot of trouble in this town.
A lot of trouble suits me fine.
- Let's haul 'em both in.
- No, wait.
Hold up.
Listen now.
I had a few drinks, and, uh I, uh I took some pills.
The bottom line is we blacked out.
- Yeah, some blackout.
- I don't remember anything.
Get your clothes on.
We're goin' downtown.
Downtown was cheapo police talk for the police station.
I wish you guys would tell me what this is all about.
Like you don't know, jazzbo.
How about a clue? How well did you know her? Red, the broad I'm sleeping with? We ask the questions around here, piano man.
What are we talking about? We're talking about Fresno Foxglove.
What that girl get herself mixed up into now? I'll tell you, buddy boy.
She got herself mixed up into being dead.
Take a look, swinger.
There she was, the Topanga Songbird, Fresno Foxglove, almost like I saw her the night before, except now she wasn't singing.
She wouldn't sing ever again.
As I flipped through those photos one after the other, a strange feeling came over me.
Wait, I didn't oh, yeah, sorry.
That that's that's an unrelated personal matter.
A feeling I hadn't had since the Army.
Someone was putting the clamps on me, and I didn't like it.
Did you know her? We were Iovers once.
But you found out she was two-timing you, - and you shot her.
- Hold the boat.
We have witnesses saying you left the club right after Fresno.
You wait a minzo.
Tracked her down and you shot her.
- Crime of passion simple.
- Give me a second.
If you just killed her, we probably wouldn't have even come looking for you.
Who cares about a jazz singer? I wouldn't kill her.
I loved her.
Yeah.
Jealousy is a bitch.
There's no jealousy in jazz.
The Songbird and I were in the same band for You're not listening, jazzman.
Nobody gives a Norman Mailer flying fug about Fresno Foxglove.
- Who's the guy? - Name's Wilbur Stygamian.
Ring a bell? The Iditarod dog-sledding champion? Wrong-o, Captain.
Try the world-class scientist.
I had nothing to do with this.
Oh, that's right.
I forgot.
You blacked out.
The next time you black out, it might be permanent.
A first-class dirt nap.
A free ride in the pine box derby.
Yeah, you'll get up uh, be dead.
Sorry, don't have it.
Give me some time.
I can I can prove my innocence.
I-I maybe I could do something.
I-I could find something out.
I mean, what have you got to lose? Maybe you would skip town.
With this mug? Everyone knows me.
Where am I gonna hide? Oh, yeah, big-shot jazz musician.
Three days, jazzman.
Three days.
Two days.
We have two days.
No, counting today.
Well, three total, I guess.
- I need more time.
- Yeah, well, clock's ticking, jazzman.
Make like a drum kit and beat it.
Just to be clear, though, three days total the rest of today, tomorrow, midday the next day.
Get out of here! Clock's ticking, jazzman! The police were here searching for you.
They found me.
Thanks.
Say, Beatrice, you were here last night.
Oui.
How long was I here? Are you in trouble with the police? Maybe.
There you are, old chapperson.
You split the scene and left it mean, oldest of oldest bean.
I booked you on Artie Mann's Late Night Jazzboree.
- Cancel it.
- Of course.
I'll just pick up the blower, call up Artie Mann, tell him to are you mad? You don't cancel on Artie Mann! I said cancel it.
Fresno is dead.
Dead? Is is this some jazz lingo that I henceforth hereafter shan't not have known? I said she's dead! You're bloody serious.
You still got that old motorbike? Yes.
Motorbike in perfect condition.
Drove it here tonight, parked it out by the curb.
Good.
Because I'm gonna need it.
I swooned out of Los Angeles like a hummingbird on Benzedrine with three things on my mind.
One, two people were dead, and the cops pegged me to take the fall.
Two, I definitely was not going to do a strings album.
And three, could it be possible that it was me that killed Fresno Foxglove? I didn't know.
All I knew was they wouldn't care who killed her in Mexico City.
Señor Rock Banyon.
The name my mother gave me.
I saw you tickle the ivories once in New York at Bird Land.
Was I good? You were very good.
Are you heading into actual Mexico City? Haven't decided yet.
You have a cigarette? Ah, Boghei.
French-like.
- You have no cigarette case.
- Sorry.
You have not come to recently own a new golden cigarette case? Say, what did you say your name was again? DeLeon.
Salizar Vasquez Saint Germain Vasquez DeLeon.
Are you going to play the jazz in Mexico City? You ask a lot of questions.
I was only asking because the best club in Mexico City is called the Club Jaz-Tec.
There is a woman who sings there you might know.
Yeah.
Who? I believe she's an old friend of yours, Miss Delores DeWinter.
get me a drink.
Raymond, can I get a please, just a big glass of Much obliged.
Thank you so much.
Until next time, unless, of course, you want an encore.
Well, that's what you're in for jazz, adventure, cats, coppers, dead people, pills, and booze.
The list goes on.
New twists and turns emerge like snakes and crazy straws bent by the hands of fate.
Plot points become confused, alleyways of emerging new points in time, as they do in real life, and then resolve themselves algebraically in the new dawn, unfolding like Moroccan tablecloths in unconventional ways.
What what am I talking about? Seriously.
I got lost in my words.
I sometimes make words without tethering them to convention.
Oh, oh.
Where are my heart pills? Do they even make heart pills anymore? Jesus, I need a drink.
Tune in next time for more "Spoils Before Dying.
" Even that didn't sound right.
Terry, bring my cardigan in.
I'm feeling a slight draft.
Terry! My cardigan! Now! What? Oh, I forgot.
Terry is no longer on the payroll.
Tonight you're being granted the extreme privilege of sharing in a rare cinematic treat the filmitization of my best-selling novel, "The Spoils Before Dying.
" When a French lens maker propositioned me with the opportunity to film "The Spoils Before Dying," in order to showcase his new wide-screen system "Bastille-O-Scope," I jumped at the chance to experiment within this emerging idiom, forging a new path I dubbed but which unfortunately did not stick Post-Post-Modern French Neo-Fakism.
Oh.
Thank you, Doris.
You are an invaluable treasure.
Thank you.
I'm so sorry.
I have to to see this, but when it's time to eat, it's time to eat.
Mm.
Ah.
Oh, my God.
Give me a break, right? I'm not lucky enough to have sired a child, but right now this is my baby.
Now, what was that you were saying, my little friend? Some people wait forever in the silence, unsure if they will ever know a song.
I've dreamed of a song I could not hold.
This is my song.
They call me Rock Banyon.
I'm a jazz musician.
That's me, the cat on the 88s.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the Topanga Songbird, Miss Fresno Foxglove.
I dare say, old bean, fantastic set.
- Quite splendid.
- My esteemed manager Have you given any more thought to our little plan? Alistair St.
Barnaby-Bixby-Jones.
Busy.
Well, I needn't remind you it's a real cooker/corker.
"Rock With Strings.
" Just you Poor Alistair.
He's been trying to get me to make a jazz-with-strings album for years.
A real ten-ply gasser.
Now, we should strike whilst Hey, lover, Wardell and I got to split.
You got another gig? Yeah, baby.
Another gig, last minute.
Taking my sax player? Oh, well, it's a it's a money gig.
You dig? You know I don't dig those money gigs.
Is this a big money gig or just a gig kind of gig? Oh, it's a big money gig, all right, real big.
Biggity big, big, big.
You dig? I don't really dig, but I dig.
- You dig? - Yeah, I dig.
I'm so glad that you dig.
- Coming back? - Not tonight, lover.
Take this 20.
You sung real good tonight.
Keep it, Rock.
I don't need the cash.
I'll dig you later.
Later, lover.
Speaking of digging big cash digs Fresno never said no to no 20-spot.
Hell, she never said no to a five-spot.
- Great show.
- I mean, she may have said no to a couple of one-spots, but who says yes to a to a one-spot, really? This whole scene made no sense.
Should have followed her that night, but I didn't.
Instead, I dove soul-first into a bottle of Bagpipes O'Toole brand vodka-flavored scotch and attacked the ivories like I always do.
I went looking for that uncertain thing that answers all uncertainty hidden somewhere in the notes on the piano, because I'm a jazz musician and all answers are hidden in those 88 keys.
I played like a madman well into the night.
I might have taken some pills as well.
Yeah, I definitely took some pills.
Can you see me? Open up, Downtown P.
D.
Come on, Banyon, we know you're in there.
Open up, Downtown P.
D.
Come on, Banyon, we know you're in there.
- Who'd I kill, Officer? - You Rock Banyon? - Never sure.
- You want I should kick your teeth in? I'll be Rock Banyon.
- Where were you last night? - At the Swingyard.
- After that? - There is no after that.
- Let's wrap him up.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Hold up.
I said I was at the Swingyard all night.
Hey, missy, wake up.
She don't know nothin' about this.
Is that right, missy? You don't know nothin'? What should I know? Maybe that sleeping with a jazz musician can get you in a lot of trouble in this town.
A lot of trouble suits me fine.
- Let's haul 'em both in.
- No, wait.
Hold up.
Listen now.
I had a few drinks, and, uh I, uh I took some pills.
The bottom line is we blacked out.
- Yeah, some blackout.
- I don't remember anything.
Get your clothes on.
We're goin' downtown.
Downtown was cheapo police talk for the police station.
I wish you guys would tell me what this is all about.
Like you don't know, jazzbo.
How about a clue? How well did you know her? Red, the broad I'm sleeping with? We ask the questions around here, piano man.
What are we talking about? We're talking about Fresno Foxglove.
What that girl get herself mixed up into now? I'll tell you, buddy boy.
She got herself mixed up into being dead.
Take a look, swinger.
There she was, the Topanga Songbird, Fresno Foxglove, almost like I saw her the night before, except now she wasn't singing.
She wouldn't sing ever again.
As I flipped through those photos one after the other, a strange feeling came over me.
Wait, I didn't oh, yeah, sorry.
That that's that's an unrelated personal matter.
A feeling I hadn't had since the Army.
Someone was putting the clamps on me, and I didn't like it.
Did you know her? We were Iovers once.
But you found out she was two-timing you, - and you shot her.
- Hold the boat.
We have witnesses saying you left the club right after Fresno.
You wait a minzo.
Tracked her down and you shot her.
- Crime of passion simple.
- Give me a second.
If you just killed her, we probably wouldn't have even come looking for you.
Who cares about a jazz singer? I wouldn't kill her.
I loved her.
Yeah.
Jealousy is a bitch.
There's no jealousy in jazz.
The Songbird and I were in the same band for You're not listening, jazzman.
Nobody gives a Norman Mailer flying fug about Fresno Foxglove.
- Who's the guy? - Name's Wilbur Stygamian.
Ring a bell? The Iditarod dog-sledding champion? Wrong-o, Captain.
Try the world-class scientist.
I had nothing to do with this.
Oh, that's right.
I forgot.
You blacked out.
The next time you black out, it might be permanent.
A first-class dirt nap.
A free ride in the pine box derby.
Yeah, you'll get up uh, be dead.
Sorry, don't have it.
Give me some time.
I can I can prove my innocence.
I-I maybe I could do something.
I-I could find something out.
I mean, what have you got to lose? Maybe you would skip town.
With this mug? Everyone knows me.
Where am I gonna hide? Oh, yeah, big-shot jazz musician.
Three days, jazzman.
Three days.
Two days.
We have two days.
No, counting today.
Well, three total, I guess.
- I need more time.
- Yeah, well, clock's ticking, jazzman.
Make like a drum kit and beat it.
Just to be clear, though, three days total the rest of today, tomorrow, midday the next day.
Get out of here! Clock's ticking, jazzman! The police were here searching for you.
They found me.
Thanks.
Say, Beatrice, you were here last night.
Oui.
How long was I here? Are you in trouble with the police? Maybe.
There you are, old chapperson.
You split the scene and left it mean, oldest of oldest bean.
I booked you on Artie Mann's Late Night Jazzboree.
- Cancel it.
- Of course.
I'll just pick up the blower, call up Artie Mann, tell him to are you mad? You don't cancel on Artie Mann! I said cancel it.
Fresno is dead.
Dead? Is is this some jazz lingo that I henceforth hereafter shan't not have known? I said she's dead! You're bloody serious.
You still got that old motorbike? Yes.
Motorbike in perfect condition.
Drove it here tonight, parked it out by the curb.
Good.
Because I'm gonna need it.
I swooned out of Los Angeles like a hummingbird on Benzedrine with three things on my mind.
One, two people were dead, and the cops pegged me to take the fall.
Two, I definitely was not going to do a strings album.
And three, could it be possible that it was me that killed Fresno Foxglove? I didn't know.
All I knew was they wouldn't care who killed her in Mexico City.
Señor Rock Banyon.
The name my mother gave me.
I saw you tickle the ivories once in New York at Bird Land.
Was I good? You were very good.
Are you heading into actual Mexico City? Haven't decided yet.
You have a cigarette? Ah, Boghei.
French-like.
- You have no cigarette case.
- Sorry.
You have not come to recently own a new golden cigarette case? Say, what did you say your name was again? DeLeon.
Salizar Vasquez Saint Germain Vasquez DeLeon.
Are you going to play the jazz in Mexico City? You ask a lot of questions.
I was only asking because the best club in Mexico City is called the Club Jaz-Tec.
There is a woman who sings there you might know.
Yeah.
Who? I believe she's an old friend of yours, Miss Delores DeWinter.
get me a drink.
Raymond, can I get a please, just a big glass of Much obliged.
Thank you so much.
Until next time, unless, of course, you want an encore.
Well, that's what you're in for jazz, adventure, cats, coppers, dead people, pills, and booze.
The list goes on.
New twists and turns emerge like snakes and crazy straws bent by the hands of fate.
Plot points become confused, alleyways of emerging new points in time, as they do in real life, and then resolve themselves algebraically in the new dawn, unfolding like Moroccan tablecloths in unconventional ways.
What what am I talking about? Seriously.
I got lost in my words.
I sometimes make words without tethering them to convention.
Oh, oh.
Where are my heart pills? Do they even make heart pills anymore? Jesus, I need a drink.
Tune in next time for more "Spoils Before Dying.
" Even that didn't sound right.
Terry, bring my cardigan in.
I'm feeling a slight draft.
Terry! My cardigan! Now! What? Oh, I forgot.
Terry is no longer on the payroll.