"What can we expect from the 'reformed' Frank White?"
Christopher Walken smiles that nervous little needle-toothed grin, an aw gosh spasm of mirth, and the lines around his eyes are swept away by the seriousness of inspiration.
"Do you, know what I want to do to you, counselor?"
The counselor laughs, feeling glamorous as Kim Basinger cast as Vicki Vale-- there's a wallpapered poster just off Times Square covered in the Tim Burton Batlogo and she's wondering how long 'til it peels and starts to tatter and pretty soon junk ad tickertape parade for the paving over of the porno theatres --and she jousts with the freshly showered, freshly sprung mobster.
"What's that?"
"I... want to take you... on, the subway."
And he does. Because, after five years being escorted cage to cage to cage, he can. And when the hoods come they don't come in a dozen, they're kids prowling, not real criminals. Three to one eraserheaded cracker with a piece. The counselor covering her bare breast almost as an afterthought.
Her eyes on Frank. Everyone's eyes on Frank. The grip angled like a hardon. The lady or the tiger.
Frank pulls his money clip with an underhand toss and the wad spins into the skinny kid's damp palm.
"Come down to the Plaza. I got work, for you."
Frank smiles his preferred Trump hotel customer smile. Winks. The kids backing away, eyes big, feeling the luckiest they've ever been, to be able to retreat. Rich, healthy, pants freshly pissed. Feeling wild and a little outta breath, not high. Weirded out.
Thinking 'That piece was real. This money's real. Wazzat motherfucker actually real?'
There's no evidence Abel Ferrara ever gave a fuck about Dick Tracy. But his little electric blue and goldlit epic paen to Christopher Walken's face, it's a Dick Tracy kinda vibe. So this one goes here.
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