"TAXI DRIVER" (1976)

TAXI DRIVER

Written by

Paul Schrader

"The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence."

--Thomas Wolfe, "God's Lonely Man"

TRAVIS BICKLE, age 26, lean, hard, the consummate loner. On the surface he appears good-looking, even handsome; he has a quiet steady look and a disarming smile which flashes from nowhere, lighting up his whole face. But behind that smile, around his dark eyes, in his gaunt cheeks, one can see the ominous stains caused by a life of private fear, emptiness and loneliness. He seems to have wandered in from a land where it is always cold, a country where the inhabitants seldom speak. The head moves, the expression changes, but the eyes remain ever-fixed, unblinking, piercing empty space.

Travis is now drifting in and out of the New York City night life, a dark shadow among darker shadows. Not noticed, no reason to be noticed, Travis is one with his surroundings. He wears rider jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid western shirt and a worn beige Army jacket with a patch reading, "King Kong Company 1968-70".

He has the smell of sex about him: Sick sex, repressed sex, lonely sex, but sex nonetheless. He is a raw male force, driving forward; toward what, one cannot tell. Then one looks closer and sees the evitable. The clock sprig cannot be wound continually tighter. As the earth moves toward the sun, Travis Bickle moves toward violence.

FILM OPENS on EXT. of MANHATTAN CAB GARAGE. Weather-beaten sign above driveway reads, "Taxi Enter Here". Yellow cabs scuttle in and out. It is WINTER, snow is piled on the curbs, the wind is howling.

INSIDE GARAGE are parked row upon row of multi-colored taxis. Echoing SOUNDS of cabs idling, cabbies talking. Steamy breath and exhaust fill the air.

reads:

Dependable Taxi Services JRB Cab Company Speedo Taxi Service

SOUND of office busywork: shuffling, typing, arguing.

PERSONAL OFFICE is a cluttered disarray. Sheets with heading "Marvis, B&W, Acme" and so forth are tacked to crumbling plaster wall: It is March. Desk is cluttered with forms, reports and an old upright Royal typewriter.

Dishelved middle-aged New Yorker looks up from the desk. We CUT IN to ongoing conversation between the middle-aged PERSONNEL OFFICER and a YOUNG MAN standing in front on his desk.

The young man is TRAVIS BICKLE. He wears his jeans, boots and Army jacket. He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette.

The PERSONNEL OFFICER is beat and exhausted: he arrives at work exhausted. TRAVIS is something else again. His intense steely gaze is enough to jar even the PERSONNEL OFFICER out of his workaday boredom.

The PERSONNEL OFFICER, though officious, is mildly probing and curious. TRAVIS is a cipher, cold and distant. He speaks as if his mind doesn't know what his mouth is saying.

A thin smile cracks almost indiscernibly across TRAVIS' lips.

CREDITS

CREDITS appear over scenes from MANHATTAN NIGHTLIFE. The snow has melted, it is spring.

A rainy, slick, wet miserable night in Manhattan's theatre district.

Cabs and umbrellas are congested everywhere; well-dressed pedestrians are pushing, running, waving down taxis. The high-class theatre patrons crowding out of the midtown shows are shocked to find that the same rain that falls on the poor and common is also falling on them.

The unremitting SOUNDS of HONKING and SHOUTING play against the dull pitter-patter of rain. The glare of yellow, red and green lights reflects off the pavements and autos.

"When it rains, the boss of the city is the taxi driver" - so goes the cabbie's maxim, proven true by this particular night's activity. Only the taxis seem to rise above the situation: They glide effortlessly through the rain and traffic, picking up whom they choose, going where they please.

Further uptown, the crowds are neither so frantic nor so glittering. The rain also falls on the street bums and aged poor. Junkies still stand around on rainy street corners, hookers still prowl rainy sidewalks. And the taxis service them too.

All through the CREDITS the exterior sounds are muted, as if coming from a distant room or storefront around the corner. The listener is at a safe but privileged distance.

After examining various strata of Manhattan nightlife, CAMERA begins to CLOSE IN on one particular taxi, and it is assumed that this taxi is being driven by TRAVIS BICKLE.

END CREDITS

Travis's yellow taxi pulls in foreground. On left rear door are lettered the words "Dependable Taxi Service".

We are somewhere on the upper fifties on Fifth Ave. The rain has not let up.

An ELDERLY WOMAN climbs in the right rear door, crushing her umbrella. Travis waits a moment, then pulls away from the curb with a start.

Later, we see Travis' taxi speeding down the rain-slicked avenue. The action is periodically accompanied by Travis' narration. He is reading from a haphazard personal diary.

TRAVIS' POV of sleazy midtown side street: Bums, hookers, junkies.

A MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT hails Travis to the curb.

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT, now seated in back seat, speaks up:

On seat next to TRAVIS is half-eaten cheeseburger and order of french fries. He puts his cigarette down and gulps as he answers:

TRAVIS pulls to the curb. The BUSINESS MAN stuffs a dollar bill into the pay drawer and jumps out of the cab. He turns to hail another taxi.

Travis writes up his trip card and drives away.

It is LATER THAT NIGHT. The rain has turned to drizzle. Travis drives trough another section of Manhattan.

STREETSIDE: TRAVIS' P.O.V. Black PROSTITUTE wearing white vinyl boots, leopard-skin mini-skirt and blond wig hails taxi. On her arm hangs half-drunk seedy EXECUTIVE TYPE.

TRAVIS pulls over.

PROSTITUTE and JOHN climb into back seat. TRAVIS checks out the action in rear view mirror.

TRAVIS' taxi drives through Central Park.

GRUNTS, GROANS coming from back seat. HOOKER and JOHN going at it in back seat. He's having a hard time and she's probably trying to get him to come off manually.

TRAVIS stares blankly ahead.

TRAVIS' APARTMENT. CAMERA PANS SILENTLY across INT. room, indicating this is not a new scene.

TRAVIS is sitting at plain table writing. He wears shirt, jeans, boots. An unfiltered cigarette rests in a bent coffee can ash tray.

CLOSE UP of notebook. It is a plain lined dimestore notebook and the words TRAVIS is writing with a stubby pencil are those he is saying. The columns are straight, disciplined. Some of the writing is in pencil, some in ink. The handwriting is jagged.

CAMERA continues to PAN, examining TRAVIS' apartment. It is unusual, to say the least:

A ratty old mattress is thrown against one wall. The floor is littered with old newspapers, worn and unfolded streets maps and pornography. The pornography is of the sort that looks cheap but costs $10 a threw - black and white photos of naked women tied and gagged with black leather straps and clothesline. There is no furniture other than the rickety chair and table. A beat-up portable TV rests on an upright melon crate. The red silk mass in another corner looks like a Vietnamese flag. Indecipherable words, figures, numbers are scribbled on the plain plaster walls. Ragged black wires dangle from the wall where the telephone once hung.

It's EARLY MORNING: 6 a.m. The air is clean and fresh and the streets nearly deserted.

stall. TRAVIS reaches across the cab and extracts a small vial of bennies from the glove compartment.

TRAVIS stands next to the cab, straightens his back, and tucks the bottle of pills into his jacket pocket. He lowers his head, looks into back seat, opens rear door and bends inside.

He shakes a cigarette out of his pack of camels and lights it.

SLIGHT TIMECUT: TRAVIS books it at garage office. Old, rotting slabs of wood are screwed to a grey crumbling concrete wall. Each available space is covered with hand- lettered signs, time schedules, check-out sheets, memos. The signs read:

BE ALERT!!

THE SAFE DRIVER

IS ALWAYS READY

FOR THE UNEXPECTED

SLOW DOWN

AND GAUGE SPEED TO

ROAD CONDITIONS

YOU CAN'T STOP

ON A DIME!

ALL NIGHT DRIVERS

HAVING PERSONAL INJURY

ACCIDENTS

MUST PHONE IN AT ONCE TO

AT 9 AM THE FOLLOWING MORNING AT

W. 61st.

A half dozen haggard cabbies hang around the office. Their shirts are wrinkle, their heads dropping, the mouths incessantly chattering. We pick up snatches of cabbie small talk:

CABBIE

... hadda piss like a bull steer, so I pull over on 10th Ave, yank up the hood and do the engine job. (gestures as if taking a piss into the hood) There I am with my dong in my hand when a guy come up and asks if I need any help. Just checking the battery, I says, and, meanwhile...

CABBIE (CONT'D)

(takes imaginary piss)

CABBIE

If he thinks I'm going up into The Jungle this time of night, he can shove it.

CABBIE

(talking into pay phone) Fuck that Violets First. Fucking saddle horse. No, no, the OTB. Fuck them. No, it was TKR. TCR and I'da made seven fucking grand. Fuck them too. Alright, what about the second race?

CABBIE

Over at Love, this hooker took on the whole garage. Blew the whole fucking joint and they wouldn't even let her use the drinking fountain.

Travis hands his trip sheet to a CAB OFFICIAL, nods slightly, turns and walks toward the door.

OUTSIDE, TRAVIS walks pleasantly down Broadway, his hands in his jacket pockets. The sidewalks are deserted, except for diligent fruit and vegetable VENDORS setting up their stalls. He takes a deep breath of fresh air, pulls a white pill from his pocket, pops it into his mouth.

Travis turns a corner, keeps walking. Ahead of him is a 24- hour PORNO THEATRE. The theatre, a blaze of cheap day-glow reds and yellows, is an offense to the clear, crisp morning air. The permanent lettering reads, "Adam Theatre, 16mm Sound Features". Underneath, today's feature are hand- lettered: "Six-Day Cruise" and "Beaver Dam".

Travis stops at the box office, purchases a ticket, and walks in.

Travis stands in the aisle for a moment. He turns around, walking back toward the concession stand.

Milo sits atop a piece of purple velvet cloth on the counter.

The SOUND of the feature drones in the background.

Travis rests his elbow on the counter, looking at the Girl. He is obviously trying to be friendly - no easy task for him. God knows he needs a friend.

some of them chocolate covered malted milk balls... and ju-jukes, a box. They last.

Travis lays two dollar bills on the counter.

Slight TIMECUT to Travis sitting in theatre, drinking his Royal Crown Cola, eating his popcorn and milk balls. His eyes are fixed on the screen. A MALE VOICE emanates from the screen:

Male Voice yields to Travis' monotone narration.

The Headquarters of the "New Yorkers for Charles Palantine for President Committee", located at the corner of 50th Street and Broadway, are festooned in traditional red, white and blue banners, ribbons and signs.

One large sign proclaims "Palantine". Another sign reads "Register for New York Primary, July 20.". The smiling middle-aged face of Charles Palantine keeps watch over the bustling pedestrians.

It is LATE AFTERNOON.

Seen from a distance - the only way Travis can see them - those are America's chosen youth: Healthy, energetic, well- groomed, attractive, all recruited from the bucolic fields of Massachusetts and Connecticut.

CAMERA FAVORS BETSY, about 25, an extremely attractive woman sitting at the reception desk between two phones and several stacks of papers. Her attractions, however, are more than skin deep. Beneath that Cover Girl facial there is a keen, though highly specialized sensibility: Her eyes scan every man who passes her desk as her mind computes his desirability: Political, intellectual, sexual, emotional, material. Simple pose and status do not impress her; she seeks out the extraordinary qualities in men. She is, in other words, star-fucker of the highest order.

Betsy, putting down the phone, calls TOM, a lanky, amiable and modishly long-haired campaign workder over to her desk:

Tom is pleasant and good-looking, but lacks those special qualities which interest Betsy. He gets nowhere with Betsy - yet he keeps trying.

Just another of those routine office flirtations which pass the hours and free the fantasies.

Betsy looks toward the street, then back at Tom.

Betsy's attention is being distracted by something she sees across the street. She puts on her glasses and looks out across the street again.

Have you been noticing anything strange?

Travis' cold piercingly eyes Stare out from his cab parked across the street from Palantine Headquarters. He is like a lone wolf watching the warm campfires of civilization from a distance. A thin red dot glows from his cigarette.

Tom exchanges Travis' gaze.

As Tom walks toward front door Betsy's eyes alternate between him and the position where Travis sits.

Tom strides out the front door and walks briskly across the street toward Travis' taxi.

Travis spots Tom walking toward him and quickly stares up his cab, then squeals off in a burst of billowing exhaust.

Tom watches the speeding taxi quizzically.

Travis' taxi continues down Broadway.

He lies on his mattress at the ceiling. He is fully clothed and appears deep in thought.

Near his mattress rest several medications: A large bottle of vitamin pills, two smaller bottles of pills, a bottle of peach-flavored brandy.

ANOTHER DAY - LATE AFTERNOON

Travis' taxi is driving down Broadway with the "Off Duty" sign on.

POV TRACKING SHOT down Broadway. CAMERA stops at Palantine Campaign Headquarters. A few WORKERS remain in the office. Betsy's desk is vacant.

FIFTH AVENUE - THE SAME AFTERNOON

CAMERA TRACKS with crowded mass of MANHATTANITES as they ooze through the sidewalks toward their various destination. Individuals are indiscernible: It is simply a congested mass.

Suddenly: Cut of the congested human mass, IN SLOWING MOTION, appears the slender figure of BETSY in a stylish yellow dress. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there she is: Walking all alone, untouched by the crowd, suspended in space and time.

He is at the table, writing in his diary.

CLOSEUP - His stubby pencil rests on the word "her".

It is 3:30 IN THE MORNING in a bacon-shaped all night WEST SIDE REATAURANT. The thick smell hangs in the air - fried grease, smoke, sweat, regurgitated wine.

Whatever doesn't flush away in New York at night turns up in places like this. A burly grease-stained COOK stands over the grill. A JUNKIE shuffles from one side of the door to another. Slouched over the small four-person formica tables are several WELL-DRESSED BLACKS (too well-dressed for this time and place), a cluster of STREET PEOPLE and a lost OLD COOT who hangs onto his cup of coffee as if it were his last possession.

The restaurant, brightly lit, perfectly conveys the image urban plasticity - without the slightest hint of an accompanying cleanliness.

Toward the rear of the restaurant sit three cabbies: WIZARD, a worn man about fifty, DOUGH-BOY, younger family man, CHARLIE T., fourtyish Black.

Wizard is telling Dough-Boy a story. Charlie T., his elbows popped against table top, is not listening. He stares silently down at a plate of cold scrambled eggs and a Racing Forum. His eyes may not be open.

Travis appears at the door. He has to push aside the JUNKIES to enter without making physical contact - something Travis would not relish. He may be repulsed with these people and this place, but he is too much a part of this to let his feelings rise to the surface.

Wizard gives Travis a perfunctory wave.

Travis straddles a seat at the table. Dough-Boy gives Travis something between a wink and an eye-twitch saying:

Travis shrugs and motions for a cup of coffee.

Travis turns his head. He appears not to be interested, but is.

A WAITRESS brings Travis' coffee and a glass of water. He asks for a cheeseburger.

Travis awaits Wizard's answer.

Wizard realizes Travis and Dough-Boy may not have met.

T.?

Charlie T. nods sleepily. Travis indicates he knows Dough- Boy.

Travis sips his coffee. Charlie T.'s eyelids slip shut.

Travis' eyes turn toward the restaurant's other patrons.

POV: THREE STREET PEOPLE sitting at a table. One GUY, stoned, stares straight ahead. A raggedly attractive GIRL rest her head on the shoulder of the other, a heavily bearded YOUNG MAN with a headband. They kiss and tease each other, momentarily lost in their separate world.

Travis watches the hippie couple closely, his feeling sharply divided between cultural contempt and morose jealousy. Why should these people enjoy the love and intimacy that has always eluded him? He must enjoy these schizoid emotions, because his eyes dwell on the couple.

Travis turns back to his companions.

Waitress slaps down smudge-marked glass of water, and a cheeseburger plate that looks more like a shrunken head on a serving platter.

Travis drops two Alka-Seltzer into his glass of water.

Dough-Boy exits. Travis smiles perfunctorily, then looks back at Wizard. They really don't have much to talk about, and the Wizard doesn't care to manufacture any more conversations.

Travis scans the greasy spoon: The scene is unchanged.

Traffic passes.

Tom and Betsy are talking. She takes out a cigarette. He takes out matches to light it.

Travis is striding briskly across Broadway toward the Palantine Headquarters.

He s dressed the best we have seen him; his pants (not jeans) are pressed, his boots shined, his hair combed. Under his Army jacket he wears a freshly laundered shirt and ivy league tie. He drops his cigarette, steps on it and walks in.

Watching Travis enter Palantine's Headquarters, we are surprised to realize that Travis is really quite attractive. His deformities are psychological, not physical. He believes he is cursed, and therefore he is.

Travis walks briskly into the office, and heads toward Betsy's desk. Tom walks over to greet him, but Travis ignores him.

As the CAMERA examines Travis' face more closely, one can see the hollowness wrought by lack of sleep and sufficient diet.

Travis elbows Tom off.

BETSY waves TOM off with a short gesture, indicating everything is OK. He walks away.

TRAVIS is on his best behavior. He smiles slightly:

BETSY is momentarily taken back, but pleased. TRAVIS' presence has a definite sexual charge. He has those star qualities BETSY looks for: She senses there is something special about the young man who stands before her. And then, too, there is that disarming smile. He is, as Betsy would say, "fascinating".

Betsy is interviewing Travis, but she is also teasing him a little, leading him on in a gentle feminine way:

This takes TRAVIS back a bit. He obviously doesn't have the slightest idea what Palantine's stand on welfare is, in fact, he doesn't have any idea about politics whatsoever. TRAVIS thinks a moment, then improvises an answer:

Betsy does a subtle double-take: This isn't exactly Palantine's position on welfare. She remain intrigued by Travis.

Betsy doesn't quite know what to make of Travis. She is curious, intrigued, tantalized. Like a moth, she draws closer to the flame.

Travis nods, turns and exits.

Tom, who has been watching this interchange with a pseudo- standoffish (actually jealous) air, steps over to Betsy. His manner demands some sort of explanation of what Betsy was doing.

Betsy simply shrugs (it's really none of his business) and says:

Travis is pacing back and forth on Broadway just beyond the Palantine Headquarters. He checks his watch.

Travis and Betsy are sitting in a booth of a small New York Coffee Shop. They both have been served coffee; Travis is nervously turning his cup around in his hands.

As Travis speaks V.O., WAITRESS brings their orders: Apple pie for TRAVIS, fruit compote for BETSY.

Betsy's conversation interrupts Travis' V.O.:

Travis contorts his mouth to match his mispronunciation, than breaks into a big, friendly, infectious grin. The very sight of it makes one's heart proud.

Betsy cannot help but be caught up in Travis' gin. Travis' contagious, quicksilver moods cause:

Betsy laughs. Travis continues:

Betsy cuts Travis' bitterness short:

Betsy, realizing Travis remembers her precisely, scrambles for a polite rationale for her behavior:

Travis looks at Betsy intently and they exchange smiles.

Travis is walking confusedly around SAM GOODY'S at MIDDAY, obviously unable to locate what he desires.

Travis is lost among the hip, young intellectual type that populate the store. He watches the stylish, attractive female help, unable to come right out and requests what he desires.

A young SALESGIRL sees his plight, walks over and asks if he needs any help. Travis INAUDIBLY says a name to her, although the name is obviously Kris Kristofferson.

The Salesgirl digs out Kristofferson's "Silver-Tongued Devil" album for him.

Travis says something additional to the Salesgirl and she goes off to gift-wrap the album.

Travis emerges from the RECORD STORE, the brightly gift- wrapped album proudly tucked under his arm.

A lengthy POV SHOT from Travis' vantage point behind the wheel.

We see the city as Travis sees it. The front windshield is a little dirty, the lighted meter just up at the low right screen. The intercom crackles with STATIC and MESSAGES.

The light turns green; we take off with a start. A short first gear - quick shift - a long second gear. The cab eases to the right of the street, checking out prospective fares.

Our eyes scan the long lines of PEDESTRIANS. The regular - bums, junkies, tourists, hookers, homosexuals, hippies - they mean nothing now. They only blend into the sidewalks and lighted storefronts.

Our eyes now concentrate on those that step away from the curb - is that man hailing a cab or scratching his head?

In the next block there are perhaps three, four fares - quick gas-up through this yellow light - brake sharply - check the action. The first: Tourist, nickel tipper - let the next guy pick them up. Let the second go also, the third - there's a live fare. Middle-aged LOCAL WOMAN: Short fare to the East Side, good tip.

We pull to the curb, waiting for her to get in. It is a long wait - a Black STREET WALKER crosses in front of the cab. We focus on (as Travis would) a YOUNG COUPLE embracing in the distance.

As we travel, we hear Travis' random thoughts about selecting fares and tips:

The meter is activated: $.60 registers. Tick, tick, tick. A quick glance shows the woman is now seated. She says softly, "192 East 89". We take off with another jolt. Cross back up Ave, then cut through the park.

We're zooming up 9th Ave - how many green lights can we string together? Somebody steps out to hail the cab, but quickly steps back again. The meter is up $.90. It'll be a $1.40 fare.

Now through the park and we're almost there. Check the numbers - 134 - 140. End of the block. Fare=$1.40.

Check back mirror - she's getting out two bills. Two quarters and a dime change. Tip'll be either.25 or .35.

The tip comes back: 35 cents - good tip. Good lady. We take off again with a jolt.

This is Travis' world: Dark side streets, garish glaring main streets, quick glances, quicker evaluations - a dozen instantaneous decisions a minute. Are these people, are these objects?

Travis lets off a fare and pulls into line at the Plaza.

Travis' thoughts are with Betsy, as THREE MEN enter Travis' cab. He activates the meter and pulls off.

Travis checks the mirror. Scanning across the back seat, he recognizes the middle passenger. It is CHARLES PALANTINE, candidate for President. He must have left the Hotel shortly after BETSY.

Tom, seated on the jump seat, checks his watch and speaks deferentially to Palantine:

Palantine nods as his assistant picks up the thread of an earlier conversation.

Travis recognizes his passenger. He puts out his cigarette.

Palantine, his Assistant and Tom all laugh. Palantine, quickly reassuming candiorial mien, speaks to Travis:

Palantine is not a Hubert Humphrey-type professional bullshitter, and Travis' intense reply stops him dead in his tracks. He is forced to fall back on a stock answer but tries to give it some meaning.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls up in front of the Barclay Hotel.

PALANTINE and AIDE get out of the cab. SECOND AIDE stays in back seat a moment to pay TRAVIS.

PALANTINE looks in front window of cab momentarily and nods goodbye to TRAVIS.

Travis' taxi departs.

PALANTINE and AIDES walk up carpet to the St. Regis.

CAMERA CLOSES IN on PALANTINE as he stops, turns back and watches Travis' departing taxi.

PALANTINE turns back and ascends the hotel steps with his

AIDES.

TRAVIS, dressed to the teeth, walks brightly down the sidewalk. His face is frehsly shaved, his hair combed, his tie straightened.

He pauses in a store window to check his appearance.

Under his arm he carries the gift-wrapped Kristofferson record album.

OUTSIDE PALANTINE HEADQUARTERS

BETSY, smartly dressed, waves goodbye to another CAMPAIGN WORKER and walks out the door to greet him.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, TRAVIS and BETSY are walking down Broadway toward Times Square. BETSY does not let their bodies touch as they walk although TRAVIS contemplates edging closer to her.

Betsy has opened the package and is admiring the record - or, rather, Travis' sentiment behind giving it.

Travis looks around himself with pride: This is a moment in his life - one of the few.

Betsy notices that the seal on the record has not been broken.

Betsy's face backtracks a bit. Maybe she was wrong to go out with this fellow she doesn't know.

She makes a polite laugh.

LATER. Travis and Betsy are in TIMES SQUARE, turning the corner from Broadway to 42nd Street. Travis carries the album under his arm.

They approach the garish marquee of a large midtown porno theatre advertising "The Swedish Marriage Manual". The box office is flanked on both sides by glass cages filled with explicit publicity stills. Offending portions have been blocked out with black tape.

Travis steps over to the window and buys two $5 tickets. Betsy, befuddled, watches him. She doesn't know what to say. Travis returns with the tickets.

Betsy still has not fully comprehended what is happening:

Travis seems confused. He is so much part of his own world, he fails to comprehend another's world. Compared to the movies he sees, this is respectable. But then there's also something that Travis could not even acknowledge, much less admit: That he really wants to get this pure white girl into that dark porno theatre.

Travis makes an awkward gesture to escort Betsy into the theatre. Betsy looks at the tickets, at the theatre, at Travis. She mentally shakes her head and walks toward the turnstile. She thinks to herself: "What the Hell. What can happen?" She's always been curious about these pictures anyway, and - like all women, no matter how intelligent - she's been raised not to offend her date. A perverse logic which applies even more in offsetting circumstances like these.

INSIDE THE THEATER

Travis escorts Betsy to an empty center row. Travis was right. Couples do go to films like this. There are at least six or seven other MEN with their bewigged "DATES".

Travis settles into his familiar porno theatre slouch. Betsy looks curiously from side to side.

ON SCREEN, a conservatively-dressed middle-aged woman is speaking in Swedish about importance of healthy sex life in a happy marriage. Subtitles translate her words. Then, without warning, there is a direct CUT to a couple copulating on a sterile table-like bed.

Travis watches intently. The color, however, is slowly draining from Betsy's cheeks. One thought fills her mind: "What am I doing here?"

That does it. Betsy just looks at him for a moment, then gets up and starts to leave. Travis, confused, hustles after her.

He follows her out of the theatre.

ON THE SIDEWALK

Travis catches up with her.

Betsy looks at Travis, trying to understand him:

The TICKET GIRL watches expressionlessly from the booth.

Travis gestures toward the long row of 42nd Street marquees, but is interrupted by Betsy:

Travis is flabbergasted by Betsy's blunt language. His arm still gestures toward the marquees, his lips continue to move, but words do not come out.

Unable to respond to Betsy's question, Travis picks up where he left off:

She walks to the curb.

Betsy looks for a cab.

Betsy looks at his sad, sweet face and relents a bit.

Betsy accepts the record, but quickly turns and hails a taxi.

A taxi quickly pulls up.

Travis feebly protests to no one in particular:

Betsy gives instructions to CAB DRIVER, looks briefly back at Travis, then straight ahead. Taxi speeds off.

Travis looks around helplessly: A cluster of PEDESTRIANS on the crowded street has stopped to watch the argument. Travis looks back at the woman in the porno theatre box office who has also been following the argument.

INSIDE TRAVIS' APARTMENT

Travis is sitting at the table. There are some new items on the table: His giant econo-sized bottle of vitamins, a giant econo-sized bottle of aspirins, a pint of apricot brandy, a partial loaf of cheap white bread.

On the wall behind the table hang two more items: A gag sign reading "One of These Days I'm Gonna Get Organezizied" and an orange-and-black bumper sticker for Charles Palantine.

C.U. of notebook: Travis is no longer sitting at the desk. The pencil rests on the open notebook.

LATER THAT DAY: TRAVIS has pulled his straight-backed chair around and is watching his small portable TV, which rests on the upright melon crate.

A cereal bowl partially filled with milk rests in his lap. Travis pours a couple shots of the apricot brandy into the bowl, dips folded chunks of white bread into the mixture, and eats them.

Travis is watching early evening NEWS PROGRAM. TV background SOUND. Charles Palantine is being interviewed somewhere on the campaign trail.

Betsy is walking down a midtown street when Travis suddenly appears before her. He has been waiting.

Travis tries to make conversation but she doesn't listen. She motions for him to go away and keeps on walking.

Travis, protesting, follows.

Travis speaks intensely into a wall pay phone.

We hear Travis' Voice on the phone.

Travis holds the receiver in his hand. The other party has hung up.

TRACKING SHOT across interior lower wall of TRAVIS' APARTMENT.

Against the stark wall there is a row of wilted and dying floral arrangements. Each one of the four or five bouquets is progressively more wilted than the one closer to the door. They have been returned.

A drama is acted out at PALANTINE HEADQUARTERS: Travis, groggy and red-eyed from lack of sleep, walks into the campaign headquarters about NOONTIME.

Betsy is standing near the rear of the office; she ducks from sight when she sees Travis enter. Travis' path is cut short by Tom's large-framed body. There is no live sound.

Travis tries to push his way past Tom but Tom grabs him. Travis says something sharply to Tom and the two scuffle. Tom, by far the taller and stronger, quickly overcomes Travis, wrenching his arm behind his back.

Travis kicks and protests as Tom leads him to the front door.

ON THE SIDEWALK

Travis' efforts quickly subside when Tom motions to a nearby POLICEMAN. Travis quiets down and walks off.

Travis is again making his way through the garish urban night. He stops for a PASSENGER on PARK AVE. A middle-aging professorial executive.

C.U. TRAVIS: His face is expressionless. The MAN makes himself comfortable in the back seat.

Travis has no intention of driving out to Jackson Heights and coming back with a fare.

TRAVIS switches on the "Off Duty" light.

TRAVIS doesn't budge. PROFESSIONAL PASSENGER curses to himself and exits cab. Travis takes off.

POV as Travis' eyes dwell on the young HIP COUPLES coming out of a East Side movie house.

LATER THAT NIGHT, TRAVIS pulls over for a young (mid- twenties) MAN wearing a leather sports jacket.

TRAVIS eyes his passenger in rear-view mirror.

TRAVIS' taxi speeds off.

LATER, TRAVIS' taxi slows down as it approaches 400 block of Central Park West.

Travis checks apartment numbers.

TRAVIS turns the wheel.

TRAVIS waits impassively. The motor ticks away.

After a long pause, the PASSENGER speaks:

CAMERA CLOSES IN on 417 Central Park West: TRACKING UP to the seventh floor, it moves three windows to the right.

A young WOMAN wearing a slip crosses in front of the light.

C.U. TRAVIS' face: it is devoid of expression.

C.U. YOUNG PASSENGER's face: it is gaunt, drained of blood, full of fear and anger.

Travis does not respond.

Travis shrugs, gesturing toward meter.

CAMERA returns to SEVENTH FLOOR WINDOW. Woman is standing in the light.

Travis says nothing.

CAMERA CLOSES IN on Travis' face: He is watching the woman in the seventh floor window with complete and total absorption. It's the same glazed-over stare we saw in his eyes as he watched the porno movie.

BROOKLYN STREET CORNER - DAY

Travis stands near the corner wearing his boots, jeans, western shirt and army jacket.

He pulls his aspiring bottle out of his pocket, shakes three or four into his palm, pops them into his mouth and chews.

An "Off Duty" taxi pulls up to the curb. Travis gets in.

In the back seat, beside Travis, sits ANDY, an attractive young man about 29. He wears a pin-striped suit, white shirt and floral tie. His hair is modishly long.

Travis nods as the taxi speeds off.

Dough-Boy slows down near an economy hotel. Not a flop house, but not do fancy they care what the guests do in the privacy of their rooms.

Travis pulls a twenty out of his pocket and gives it to Dough-Boy.

Travis and Andy get out of the cab and walk toward the hotel. Dough-Boy pulls away.

As they enter the hotel, they pass a JUNKIE, stoned out and spread-eagled across the hood of a derelict old blue dodge.

Travis follows Andy up the worn carpeted stairs and down the hallway. Andy unlocks the door to one of the rooms.

The HOTEL ROOM is barren and clean; there's no sign anyone is staying in it. The fire escape is appropriately near.

Andy locks the door behind them, steps over to the closet, unlocks it and pulls out two grey Samsonite suitcases - the kind you can drive a truck over.

Andy places the suitcases on the white bedspread. The suitcases are equipped with special locks, which he quickly opens.

Andy opens the suitcases: Stacked in grey packing foam are rows and rows of brand new hand guns.

Andy unzips a cowhide leather pouch to reveal a .44 Magnum pistol. He holds it gingerly, as if it were a precious treasure. Andy opens the chambers and cradles the long eight- inch barrel in his palm. The .44 is a huge, oversize inhuman gun.

Easy Andy is a later version of the fast-talking, good- looking kid in college who was always making money on one scheme or another. In high school he sold lottery tickets, in college he scored dope, and now he's hustling hand guns.

Andy holds the Magnum out for Travis' inspection. There's a worshipful CLOSEUP of the .44 Magnum. It is a monster.

Travis hefts the huge gun. It seems out of place in his hand. It is built on Michelangelo's scale. The Magnum belongs in the hand of a marble god, not a slight taxi driver. Travis hands the gun back to Andy.

(pause) Now this may be a little big for practical use, in which case I'd recommend the .38 Smith and Wesson Special. Fine solid gun - nickel plated. Snub-nosed, otherwise the same as the service revolver. Now that'll stop anything that moves and it's handy, flexible.

Travis hefts the nickel-plated .38, points it out the window.

Travis holds the .32 Revolver, hefts it, slips it under his belt and pulls his shirt over it. He turns from side to side, to see how it rides in his waist.

Travis pulls out a roll of crisp one hundred dollar bills and counts off eight.

Travis hands Andy the bills. Andy counts them and gives Travis a twenty and five.

Andy pulls a gym bag from under his bed. He wraps the gun in the sheet in the bag and zips it up. An identical gym bag can be partially seen under the bed. He hands Travis the bag.

Andy closes and locks the suitcases.

Travis turns to leave.

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER. The face of TRAVIS' apartment has changed. The long, blank wall behind the table is now covered with tacked-up charts, pictures, newspaper- clippings, maps. CAMERA does not come close enough to discern the exact contents of these clippings.

Travis is in C.U. in the middle of the floor doing push-ups. He is bareback, wearing only his jeans. There is a long scar across his left side.

Travis, still bareback, passes his stiff arm through the flame of a gas burner without flinching a muscle.

The CRACKING SOUND of rapid-fire pistol shots fills the musty air of the firing range. The walls are heavily soundproofed, and sawdust is spread over the floor.

Travis stands rock solid, firing the .44 Magnum at an arm's length. With each blasting discharge from the Magnum, Travis' body shudders and shakes, his arm as if each recoil from the giant gun was a direct attack on his masculinity.

Travis fires the Magnum as quickly as he can re-set, re-aim and re-fire. The Magnum is empty, he sets it down, picks up the .38 Special and begins firing as soon as he can aim. After the .38, comes the .25: It is as if he were in a contest to see how quickly he can fire the pistols. After all the guns are discharged, he begins reloading them without a moment's hesitation.

Downrange, the red and white targets have the black outline of a human figure drawn over them. The contour-man convulses under the steady barrage of Travis' rapid-fire shots.

TRAVIS, now wearing an unfastened green plaid western shirt, sits at the table writing in his diary. The vial of bennies is on the table.

LATER. TRAVIS, his shirt still revealing his bare chest, sits on his straight-backed chair watching the TV. The .44 Magnum rests on his lap.

The TV is Broadcasting ROCK TIME, a late afternoon local teenage dance and rock show. On screen YOUNG TEENYBOPPERS are dancing, and the TV CAMERAMAN, as any devotee of the genre knows, is relentlessly ZOOMING-IN on their firm young breasts, fannies and crotches -- a sensibility which reflects TRAVIS' own. These supper-hour rock dance shows are the most unabashedly voyeuristic form of broadcasting the medium has yet developed.

The HARD ROCK NUMBER ends, and the TV CAMERA CUTS TO the local DISC JOCKEY, a hirsute plastic-looking man about 35. FIVE scrumptious TEENYBOPPERS are literally hanging on his shoulders and arms, their faces turned up to him in droolish awe. Out of his mouth comes an incessant stream of disc jockey blather. He is the complete asshole; I don't know who is currently performing this function in New York, but in Los Angeles his name is Real Don Steele.

TRAVIS watches the show, his face hard and unmoving. He is, as the Scriptures would say, pondering all these things in his heart. Why is it the assholes get all the beautiful young chicks? He takes a swig of peach brandy.

EARLY EVENING, about 6:30 p.m. TRAVIS' taxi, with 'Off Duty' light on, sits near the curb somewhere in midtown Manhattan.

TRAVIS runs his hand down the left side of his jacket, attempting to smooth out the bulge underneath.

TRAVIS opens his jacket partially, checking underneath. There rests the nickel-plated .38 Special in its holster.

P.O.V. down the street where TRAVIS' taxi is parked: Several blocks ahead the red, white and blue campaign headquarters of CHARLES PALANTINE are visible.

TRAVIS' eyes resume their watch.

TRAVIS starts the car and drives toward the PALANTINE HEADQUARTERS.

TRACKING P.O.V. shot of row of storefronts leading up to Palantine Headquarters. P.O.V. passes headquarters: it is half-empty. A few stalwart SUPPORTERS continue to work toward the rear of the office. BETSY'S desk ----

Sign in window reads: "Only 4 More Days Until Arrival of

CHARLES PALANTINE." TRAVIS' "Off Duty" light goes off as he speeds up and heads toward a prospective fare.

LATER THAT NIGHT, about 9:30. UPTOWN -- 128th and Amsterdam. The Jungle. TRAVIS' taxi pulls up to an address, lets off

YOUNG BLACK MAN.

TRAVIS receives fare and tip, takes off.

P.O.V. as TRAVIS works his way through Harlem back down Seventh Ave. Cluster of YOUNG BLACK STREET PUNKS pretend to hail cab -- we ignore them. One throws wine bottle which crashes in our path -- taxi swerves to avoid it.

CAMERA TRACKS through sidewalk CROWDS with the roving, suspicious, antagonistic eye of a taxi-driver.

LATER THAT NIGHT, about 12:30. TRAVIS is on the LOWER EAST SIDE, somewhere on B Street, east of Tompkins Square.

The sidewalks are populated with the remains of what once was the hippie movement: TEENAGE STREET-WALKERS, JUNKIES, THUGS, emaciated LONERS on the prowl.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls over, letting out a fare.

TRAVIS pockets his fare, but the rear right door doesn't slam -- instead there is the SOUND of another person jumping into the cab.

TRAVIS checks the back seat in the rear-view mirror: there sits a pale HIPPIE PROSTITUTE.

The GIRL is, at best, 14 or 15, although she has been made up to look older. She wears floppy, Janis Joplin clothes. Her face is pallid. She wears large blue-tinted sunglasses and multi-colored leg stockings.

Her name, as we shall learn later, is IRIS.

TRAVIS hesitates, looking at her in the mirror.

TRAVIS moves to activate the meter, when the rear door opens.

IRIS is helped out of the cab by a MAN TRAVIS cannot see.

IRIS lets herself be taken out of the cab. The rear door closes.

Sport leans partially in the front window, throwing something on the front seat. TRAVIS looks: it is a crumpled $20 bill.

TRAVIS cannot see the Sport's face lime green completely, but notices he is wearing a jacket. The voice is that of a man in his early twenties.

TRAVIS turns to catch a glimpse of Sport as he walks off with Iris.

TRAVIS shrugs and turns around.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls away.

EARLY MORNING, 6:00 a.m. Quitting time -- TRAVIS pulls into

TAXI GARAGE.

TRAVIS pulls into his stall.

TRAVIS sits in driver's seat, thinking a moment. He looks to his right: the crumpled $20 bill still lies there, untouched since it was thrown there six hours previously.

TRAVIS reluctantly picks up the $20 bill and stuffs it into his jacket pocket as he gets out of the cab. He gathers up his time report and heads toward book-in table.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, TRAVIS is walking down the sidewalk near the taxi garage. His hands are in his jacket pockets, obscuring the slight bulge on his left side.

TRAVIS turns into the box offfice of PORNO THEATER. He reaches into jacket pocket for money to purchase ticket and pulls out crumpled $20 bill. Seeing the $20 bill, he decides not to use it, and pays for ticket out of his wallet instead.

TRAVIS walks past concession stand en route to the darkened theater auditorium. A YOUNG MAN is now sitting listlessly behind the concessions counter.

TRAVIS slouches down into his seat, his face glowing in the reflected light from the screen.

TRAVIS averts his eyes as the action on screen becomes too graphic.

Placing his stiffened right hand beside his eyes, TRAVIS can, by turning it inward, shut off or open up his field of vision by small degrees.

MOVIE VOICE DIMINISHES, replaced by SOUND of TRAVIS' voice over.

TRACKING SHOT to wall of TRAVIS' APARTMENT. CAMERA MOVES slowly across wall covered with clippings, notes, maps, pictures. We now see their contents clearly:

The wall is covered with CHARLES PALANTINE political paraphernalia; there are pictures of him, newspaper articles, leaflets, bumper stickers. As the CAMERA MOVES along it discovers a sketch of Plaza Hotel, Kennedy Airport and cut- up sections of city maps with notations written in. There is lengthy N.Y. Times clipping detailing the increased Secret Security Protection during the primaries. A section pertaining to PALANTINE is underlined. Further along there is a sheet reading "traveling schedule" and a calendar for June with finely written notations written over the dates.

As the CAMERA reaches the end of its track, it finds TRAVIS, standing, his shirt open, but the mattress. He is wearing the empty holster, and the .44 is in his hand.

In the SHOTS that follow TRAVIS gives the audience a lesson in gunmanship:

TRAVIS practices fast-drawing the .38 Special from his holster and firing it.

He hooks the .44 into his pants behind his back and practices withdrawing it. He holds the .44 firmly at an arm's length, tightening his forearm muscles.

He has worked out a system of metal gliders taped to his inner forearm, whereby the Colt .25 can rest hidden behind the upper forearm until a spring near the elbow is activated, sending the .25 flying down the gliders into his palm. He has cut open his shirt to accomodate the gun mechanism and now checks in the mirror to see how well the gun is hidden.

He straps an Army combat knife to his calf and cuts a slit in his jeans where the knife can be pulled out quickly.

He now tries on various combinations of shirts, sweater and jacket in front of the mirror to see how well he can hide all the handguns he wishes to carry. Finally, wearing two western shirts, a sweater and jacket, he manages to obscure the location of all three guns, although he resembles a hunter bundled up against the Arctic winter.

He sits at the table dum-dumming the .44 bullets -- cutting "x's" across the bullet heads.

P.O.V.: he scans the objects of his room through the scope of the .38.

TRAVIS stands in the middle of his apartment, staring at his PALANTINE wall. His eyes are glazed with introspection; he sees nothing but himself.

TRAVIS lies on his mattress, all bundled up in his shirts, sweater, jacket and guns. His face is turned toward the ceiling, but his eyes are closed. Although the room is flooded with light, he is finally catching some sleep.

The big furry animal drifts into his own world.

NIGHT: the taxis are roaming the slick streets.

Sometimes after 2:00 a.m., TRAVIS pulls his cab to the curb near an all-night delicatessen in Spanish Harlem. The streets are relatively deserted.

TRAVIS waves to STOREKEEPER as he walks past counter:

Spanish rhythm and blues blares from a cheap radio.

TRAVIS walks over to dairy counter in rear of store, picks out a pint of chocolate milk, goes over to the open cooler and picks through various chilled prepackaged sandwiches. He overhears a VOICE as he looks at the sandwiches.

When TRAVIS returns to the counter with the chocolate milk and a sandwich in one hand, he sees a YOUNG BLACK MAN holding a gun on 'Melio. The STICK-UP MAN is nervous, hopped-up, or both; he bounces on the balls of his cheap worn black tennis shoes -- a strung-out junkie on a desperation ride. The STICK-UP MAN, a thorough unprofessional, doesn't notice TRAVIS.

'MELIO watches the STICK-UP MAN closely, deciding what to do himself.

It doesn't take TRAVIS long to decide what to do: without hesitation he pulls his .32 from his jacket pocket.

The STICK-UP MAN, surprised, turns toward TRAVIS, finding only an exploding .32. The MAN's lower jaw bursts open with blood as he reels and crashes to the floor. There is no emotion on TRAVIS' face.

As the STICK-UP MAN falls, 'MELIO leans over the counter, wielding his battered .38. He is about to fire when he realizes the MAN is already dead.

'MELIO, charged up, turns his gun toward TRAVIS, then, realizing the danger is over, lowers it again.

'MELIO Thanks, man. Figured I'd get him on the way out.

TRAVIS sets his .32 on the counter.

'MELIO You can't do that, Travis. You're my witness.

'MELIO smiles and holds up four fingers:

'MELIO No, only four. (shrug) Alright, Travis, I'll do what I can.

TRAVIS exits. 'MELIO picks up the phone and starts dialing. The bloody BODY lies on the floor unmoving.

TRAVIS, still carrying his pint of chocolate milk and sandwich, walks down the empty sidewalk and enters his cab. The street is deserted.

DIRECT CUT TO PORNOGRAPHIC MOVIE: this is the first time we have actually seen the porno movie itself.

SEVERAL ACTORS and ACTRESSES are dallying on screen in whatever manner the ratings board deems permissible.

Whatever the action, the movie's decor is strictly Zody's -- ersatz landscape paintings, tufted bedspreads. As in most porno films, the ACTORS look up occasionally toward the CAMERA to receive instructions. Studio grunts, groans and moans of pleasure have been dubbed in.

Action on screen begins to go into SLOW MOTION, the ACTORS and ACTRESSES gradually transforming obscenity into poetry.

TRAVIS, sitting in his chair in his APARTMENT, watching afternoon soap opera. He is cleaning his .38 and eating from a jar of applesauce. Soap opera audio continues.

He watches the soap opera without expression.

SOUND TRACK of film also SLOWS DOWN, gradually mixing with and then becoming the sound track of a midafternoon TV soap opera.

A YOUNG GIRL and BOY are talking in those familiar soap opera voices and a third party, the GIRL's mother, who had tried to terminate their "relationship."

TELEVISION: The BOY is visiting the GIRL in her hospital room. Both look as if they've stepped out of the Blue Chip stamp catalogue.

TRAVIS, through cleaning his gun, begins to play a game with the television set.

He places the heel of his boot at the top of the melon crate which supports the TV. Then, slowly rocking his heel back and forth, he sees how far he can tip the melon crate without knocking it over.

The TV, still broadcasting the hospital room melodrama, rocks back and forth.

TRAVIS pushes the TV farther and farther until finally the inevitable happens -- the crate tips backward, sending the portable TV crashing to the floor.

There is a short flash and the TV screen turns white.

TRAVIS, realizing what he has done, bends over, turns the TV upright on the floor, fiddles with the knobs, slaps it, and tries to reactivate the vanished image. TRAVIS' efforts are futile; a tube has broken, and the TV will not come back to life.

TRAVIS bends over in the chair and places his head in his hands, despairing of himself.

About 1 a.m. TRAVIS pulls his cab behind a line of empty taxis parked outside the Bellmore Cafeteria, a cabbie hangout on Park Avenue South.

He locks his cab and walks past the line of taxis. He sidesteps TWO DRUNKEN FIGHTING BUMS and enters the Bellmore.

A LOUD BUZZER RINGS as TRAVIS steps INTO THE BELLMORE. He pulls a ticket from the dispenser (silencing the buzzer) and walks toward the wall-length counter.

An assortment of CABBIES are seated around a formica-topped table near the rear of the cafeteria. Some are barely awake, some are eating, the rest are swapping stories and smalltalk.

Wizard, Dough-Boy, Charlie T and a FOURTH CABBIE are seated at a long table.

Wizard demonstrates length of hair and others nod.

The cabbies laugh. Across the cafeteria Travis selects a cup of coffee and some pastries.

More laughter.

Travis, carrying his coffee and pastries, walks over to their table. Charlie T spots him.

Charlie forms his hand into a pistol, cocks and fires, making the SOUND, "Pgghew." TRAVIS nods.

TRAVIS sits down and the other CABBIES resume their conversation.

TRAVIS reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of small denomination bills. The crumpled $20 bill falls onto the table. TRAVIS stares at it a moment. He unfolds a five, gives it to CHARLIE T, then picks up the crumpled $20 and puts it back into his jacket pocket.

They all laugh.

WIZARD gets up to leave.

WIZARD gets up, nods and walks toward the CASHIER. After a second's thought, TRAVIS calls to him:

WIZARD waits for TRAVIS as he takes a final gulp of coffee and catches up with him. CHARLIE T calls to TRAVIS as they go:

CHARLIE T cocks his imaginary gun again, fires and chuckles.

WIZARD and TRAVIS nod goodbye, pay the CASHIER and exit.

TRAVIS follows WIZARD out onto the sidewalk. TRAVIS follows WIZARD as he walks toward his cab. He has something on his mind, something he wants to talk to WIZARD about.

WIZARD leans back against the cab. TRAVIS is about to speak when he spots a GROUP of BLACK and PUERTO RICAN STREET PUNKS, ages 12-15, jiving down the sidewalk toward him. ONE tosses a spray paint can around his back, basketball style. ANOTHER mocks as if he's going to scratch a key along one of the cabs.

WIZARD has no visible reaction. A flash of controlled anger crosses TRAVIS' face. He stares at the BOY with the poised key. It is the same look that crossed his face in the Harlem Deli. We are reminded with a jolt that the killer lies just beneath TRAVIS' surface.

The BLACK PUNK must instinctively realize this too, because he makes a cocky show of putting the key back into his pocket and be-bopping around TRAVIS and WIZARD.

The YOUNG MEAN-STREETERS continue down the street and TRAVIS turns back to WIZARD.

Across the street, in the background, a JUNKIE nestles in a doorway.

I've been a hack 27 years, the last ten at night. Still don't own my own cab. I guess that's the way I want it. You see, that must be what I am.

A police car stops across the street. TWO PATROLMEN get out and roust the JUNKIE from his doorway.

WIZARD gives TRAVIS a short wave implying, "Chin up, old boy," and walks around to the driver's side of his cab.

WIZARD drives off, leaving the street to its natural inhabitants.

FADE IN:

A rally platform in a supermarket parking lot somewhere in QUEENS is draped in red, white and blue bunting.

A CROWD of about 500 persons mills about, waiting for the rally to begin. Piped pop-country MUSIC plays over the loudspeaker system.

The CADRE OF SECRET SERVICE MEN, with their distinctive metallic grey suits, sun glasses and football physiques, stands out in the CROWD.

On the PLATFORM are seated an assortment of LOCAL POLITICOS as well as some PALANTINE WORKERS and ADVISERS.

TOM is silently reading something on the podium, and BETSY stands on the platform steps talking with ANOTHER WORKER.

TOM looks up and to his left for a moment, then returns to what he was reading. Then he returns his gaze to the upper left, watching something very closely.

After a moment he walks over to the steps where BETSY is standing.

BETSY excuses herself and walks across the platform with TOM. As they stand to the rear of the platform, TOM secretively makes a gesture with his eyes and says out of the side of his mouth:

No, over further - get your glasses - yes, over there. Isn't that little guy the same guy that was bugging you around the office about a month ago?

BETSY, putting on her glasses, looks closely. She tries not to make her stare too obvious.

CAMERA CLOSES IN on TRAVIS BICKLE standing in the CROWD: he has shaved his head to a short stubble. There he is: brush- cut, wearing a giant grin, and a large "Palantine '72" button.

Although it is a pleasant sunny day, TRAVIS wears a bulky bulged-out Army jacket.

TRAVIS looks warily from side to side and vanishes in the

CROWD.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, TRAVIS walks up to a SECRET SERVICE MAN standing near the fringes of the CROWD. The SECRET SERVICE MAN -- in sun glasses, grey suit, ever-roving eyes -- is immediately identifiable.

Whenever TRAVIS confronts a symbol of authority, he becomes like a young boy. This time is no exception, although one suspects there is a plan hatching beneath that boyish exterior. The SECRET SERVICE MAN, for his part, is about as talkative as the Sphinx.

SECRET SERVICE MAN glances at TRAVIS momentarily.

The SECRET SERVICE MAN is starting to get interested in TRAVIS: he definitely ranks as a suspicious character.

The SECRET SERVICE MAN decides it's time to get some more information on TRAVIS:

The SECRET SERVICE MAN motions to a SECRET SERVICE PHOTOGRAPHER to catch a picture of TRAVIS. TRAVIS notices this, and quickly slips away into the CROWD.

TRAVIS sits at his desk in his APARTMENT, writing. He wears jeans, western shirt and empty holster.

NIGHT. TRAVIS' taxi picks up a FARE in the midtown area and heads downtown.

LOWER EAST SIDE. TRAVIS lets off FARE on B Street and cuts across toward Tompkins Square.

TRAVIS turns the corner when SKREETCH! he suddenly hits the brakes, causing the cab to rock back and forth.

He has almost hit a YOUNG GIRL recklessly crossing the street. She thumps her hand on the taxi hood to regain her balance and stares in shock through the front window. C.U. GIRL's face.

TRAVIS recognizes her face: it's IRIS, the GIRL in his taxi a week or so before. IRIS looks at TRAVIS sharply then turns and continues walking.

TRAVIS' eyes follow her and she rejoins a GIRLFRIEND. They are both dressed as hippie hookers: sloppy clothes, boots, jeans, floppy hats. And the old come-hither walk is unmistakable.

TRAVIS follows IRIS and her GIRLFRIEND slowly as they walk down the sidewalk.

TRAVIS' P.O.V. He examines them from bottom to top -- boots, legs, thighs, breasts, faces, hats.

As TRAVIS rolls astride the GIRLS, he notices the familiar FRINGE OF A SUEDE JACKET standing in the shadows. The GIRLS look toward the SHADOWED FIGURE, smile, acknowledge some unheard comment, and continue on.

IRIS looks back uneasily at TRAVIS' taxi and continues on.

On the corner stand TWO well-to-do COLLEGE STUDENTS, somewhat out of place in this environment, but making every attempt to groove on it. They are high on something or another.

The GIRLS spot the COLLEGE STUDENTS and walk over to them. They exchange some small talk and walk off together. There is little subtlety involved: it is obviously a pick-up.

TRAVIS must negotiate a turn around the corner if he is to continue following the GIRLS and their COLLEGIATE JOHNS. This is not so easy, since the traffic is heavy.

As TRAVIS slows down to make the turn, he notices ANOTHER HIPPIE HOOKER who had been watching him watching IRIS and her GIRLFRIEND. She walks over to the taxi, loans in the open left front window and gives TRAVIS the come-on disguised as an innocent question:

C.U. HIPPIE HOOKER.

TRAVIS quickly turns his face away from her in a combination of shock, embarrassment and revulsion. He is the child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The very presence of this crassly, openly sexual human being frightens and sickens him.

TRAVIS takes off with a skreetch. His taxi shoots down the block.

A HOT JUNE DAY. TRAVIS' taxi, the "Off Duty" sign on, is parked against the curb somewhere in HARLEM. WHITE COPS, SECRET SERVICE MEN and REPORTERS, punctuate the otherwise BLACK CROWDS which walk to and fro in the b.g.

CHARLES PALANTINE's voice can be heard coming from a distant loudspeaker system. It is a political rally.

TRAVIS sits behind the wheel, coldly staring at something in the distance. His hair, of course, is still clipped short and he wears mirror-reflecting sunglasses. Even though a drop of sweat is working its way down his cheek, TRAVIS wears his Army jacket with the bulge on the left side -- the

A BLOCK AWAY, PALANTINE stands on a platform outside his uptown campaign headquarters. On the platform sit an array of BLACK DIGNITARIES. Nearby we recognize the SECRET SERVICE MAN TRAVIS spoke to at the earlier rally: he scans the CROWD anxiously.

PALANTINE is speaking animatedly. He is an excellent speaker and captures our attention. He drives hard toward his arguments, crashes down on his points. His strained voice rings with sincerity and anger.

C.U. of PALANTINE as he speaks. He is dressed in rolled-up shirtsleeves and sweat pours down his face.

CUT TO TRAVIS: no expression. PALANTINE's words are barely distinguishable from a block away:

Now is the time for one man to stand up and accept his neighbor, for one man to give in order that all might receive. Is unity and love of common good such a lost thing?

ALL LIVE SOUND CEASES as TRAVIS' narration begins. He is reading from a letter or card he has just written.

As he speaks we see SHOTS of PALANTINE speaking, a seated row of YOUNG BLACK PALANTINE red, white and blue bedecked CHEERLEADERS, SECRET SERVICE AGENTS examining the CROWD and so forth. These SHOTS have no direct relationship to the narration.

I'm sorry I again can not send you my address like I promised to last year, but the sensitive nature of my work for the Army demands utmost secrecy. I know you will understand. I am healthy and well and making lots of money. I have been going with a girl for several months and I know you would be proud if you could see her.

The POLICEMAN's voice come during a pause in the narration.

LIVE SOUND RESUMES.

POLICEMAN leans his head in window, inspecting the cab. As he does, TRAVIS slides his right hand into the left side of his jacket, ready to draw his revolver.

TRAVIS starts up his taxi and drives off.

LIVE SOUND again CEASES as TRAVIS resumes reading letter as taxi drives away.

As TRAVIS reads final paragraph, scene CUTS TO INT. APARTMENT where TRAVIS sits at his table.

Love, Travis.

TRAVIS, at his desk, examines the card upon which he has just written this letter.

C.U. cover of card. It is a 25¢ Wedding Anniversary card with a four-color embossed cover. The design could only be described as ur-kitsch. A cartoon Mr. and Mrs. All-America stand before an outdoor barbecuing grill, clicking salt and pepper shakers in a toast. Sentiment reads:

Who Have Found the Perfect Combination For Marriage...

The card opens to read:

LOVE!

Underneath the word "Love!" begins TRAVIS' short message to his parents, a message which extends to the back cover of the card.

NIGHT on the LOWER EAST SIDE. TRAVIS sits parked in the dark shadows of a side street. The lone wolf waits.

TRAVIS watches the SLUM GODDESSES as they work the section of the street reserved for hippie hookers.

TRAVIS' P.O.V.: some of the YOUNG STREET GIRLS are arrogant, almost aggressive, others are more insecure and inexperienced.

A BLACK MAN charges down the sidewalk across the street from TRAVIS. He walks at a fast, maniacal clip, looking only at the sidewalk in front of him. Out of his mouth comes a continuous stream of invective: "That-cock-sucking-crazy-no- good-asshole-bitch-when-I-get-my-fucking-fingers-on-her- nigger-tits-I'm-gonna-ring-em-and-shit-up-her-ass..." and so on. He is Out of Control. Nobody seems to notice or care.

TRAVIS takes a swig of peach brandy and continues his stake- out.

Finally, TRAVIS spies the object of his search: IRIS walks down the sidewalk with her GIRLFRIEND. Iris wears her large blue sunglasses.

TRAVIS checks to see if his .38 is in place (it is), opens the door and exits from the cab.

Flipping up the collar of his Army jacket, TRAVIS slouches over and walks toward IRIS. He sort of sidles up next to her and walks beside her: TRAVIS always looks most suspicious when he's trying to appear innocent.

Travis' eyes follow Iris' nod until they reach Sport, standing in a doorway in his lime green jacket. Travis walks toward him.

Sport, a thirtiesh white greaser, has the affections of a black pimp. His hips are jiving, his fingers softly snapping. He sings to him self, "Going to the chapel, gonna get married..." His complexion is sallow; his eyes cold and venal. He could only seem romantic to a confused underaged runaway.

Sport immediately takes Travis for an undercover cop. He extends his crosses wrists as if to be handcuffed.

TRAVIS digs in his pocket for money.

TRAVIS turns to walk away.

TRAVIS freezes, not saying anything. He turns back toward

SPORT.

IRIS motions for TRAVIS to follow her and he does.

IRIS and TRAVIS turn the corner and walk about a block, saying nothing. IRIS turns into a darkened doorway and TRAVIS follows her.

At the top of the dark stairs IRIS and TRAVIS enter a dimly lit hallway. On either side are doors with apartment numbers. IRIS turns toward the first door, No. 2.

At the far end of the darkened corridor sits a huge OLD MAN. His face is obscured by shadow. TRAVIS is about to enter the room when the OLD MAN speaks up:

TRAVIS turns his head toward the OLD MAN who has stood up and is advancing toward him.

TRAVIS hesitates a moment, uncertain what to do. The OLD MAN reaches in TRAVIS' jacket and pulls out the .38 Special.

TRAVIS enters No. 2 with IRIS.

TRAVIS looks around IRIS' room: although dimly lit, the room is brightly decorated. There is an orange shag carpet, deep brown walls and an old red velvet sofa. On the walls are posters of Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan and Peter Fonda. A Neil Young album is playing on a small phonograph.

This is where IRIS lives: it bears the individual touch of a young girl.

IRIS lights a cigarette, takes a single puff and places it in an ashtray on the bedstand.

IRIS sits on the edge of the bed and removes her hat and coat. She takes off her blue-tinted sunglasses--her last defense. Without the paraphernalia of adulthood, Iris looks like a little girl she is. About 14, 15.

IRIS unbuttons her shirt, revealing her small pathetic breasts -- two young doves hiding from a winter wind. TRAVIS is unnerved by her partial nudity.

IRIS buttons only the bottom button of her shirt.

IRIS tries to unzip TRAVIS' fly. This only unnerves TRAVIS more: sexual contact is something he's never really confronted.

IRIS works on TRAVIS' crotch OFF CAMERA. He bats her hand away.

TRAVIS is getting increasingly panicked, but IRIS only thinks this is part of his particular thing and tries to overcome it.

IRIS lowers her head to go down on TRAVIS. TRAVIS, seeing this, jumps up in panic.

TRAVIS stands several feet from IRIS. His fly is still open, and the white of his underwear shows through his jeans. He is starting to come apart.

IRIS says nothing. After a moment, TRAVIS again sits on the bed beside IRIS. She no longer tries to make him.

There is a moment of silence. IRIS puts her arm around his shoulder.

TRAVIS rests a moment, collecting himself. Finally, he says:

There is a pause. TRAVIS smiles and shrugs apologetically. TRAVIS looks at Iris' cigarette. It's burning down to the butt.

IRIS is interfering with TRAVIS' assassination schedule.

TRAVIS turns; IRIS smiles.

TRAVIS closes the door to No. 2 and stands in the corridor for a moment.

The OLD MAN slowly walks from the dark end of the hallway with TRAVIS' .38 in his hand. OLD MAN stands near TRAVIS, and checks his watch.

TRAVIS reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out the familiar crumpled $20 bill. He makes a big show of stuffing the wrinkled bill into the OLD MAN's hand. The OLD MAN doesn't understand the significance of it.

TRAVIS turns and walks away.

OLD MAN says as TRAVIS walks down stairs:

TRAVIS does not respond.

Palantine, Tom and Palantine's Assistant are seated in garishly decorated suite.

Palantine gets up and walks over to the window. Its bars form a cross-sight on his head. He thinks to himself:

He looks at the crowded traffic on Fifth Avenue eighteen floors below. It is a mass of yellow.

Travis' cab pulls away from the yellow mass and heads downtown.

Travis' cab is parked near a neighborhood Bickford's.

TRAVIS and IRIS are having late breakfast at a middle-class EAST SIDE COFFEE SHOP. It is about 1:30 P.M.

IRIS is dressed more sensibly, wearing jeans and a maroon sweater. Her face is freshly washed and her hair combed out.

Seen this way, IRIS looks no different than any young girl in the big city. OTHER PATRONS of the coffee shop most likely assume she is having lunch with her big brother.

They are both having an All-American breakfast: ham and eggs, large glasses of orange juice, coffee.

Outside here environment, Iris seems the more pathetic. She seems unsure, schizy, unable to hold a subject for more than thirty seconds. Her gestures are too broad, her voice too mannered. We sympathize with Travis' paternal respect. This girl is in trouble.

Iris removes her large blue-tinted sunglasses and fishes through her bag for another pair.

She finds a pink-tinted pair and puts them on.

There is a short, quick silence; TRAVIS' eyes retract. He goes on:

Iris places a large gob of jam on her unbuttered toast and folds the bread over like a hotdog.

At least I don't walk the streets like a skunk pussy. I don't screw and fuck with killers and junkies.

IRIS motions him to lower his voice.

There is a brief silence. Iris mind continued to whirl at rpms. She seems to have three subjects on her mind at a time. She welcomes this opportunity to unburden herself.

Everybody was crashing, hanging out at the Fillmore. Me and my girlfriend Ann used to go up the fire escape, you know? It was unbelievable. Rock Stars everywhere. That Airplane--that's my group, man. All Libras. But now everybody's split or got sick or busted. I think I'll move to one of those communes in Vermont, you know? That's where all the smart ones went. I stayed here.

TRAVIS breaks out in his big infectious grin, and IRIS joins his laughter.

It takes IRIS a moment to digest this pure example of negative thinking: I am loved to the extent I do not exist.

Mumbling something about her "shades" again, Iris fishes through her bag until she comes up with another 99¢ pair of sunglasses and puts them on. She likes these better, she decides.

CLOSE on C.U. of TRAVIS:

IRIS' ROOM - DAY

Sport stands beside the bed.

Iris is wearing her blue-tinted shades.

Sport puts his hand on her hips. He is slowly, carefully, smoothly manipulating her. It's the stone black hustle.

Sport puts some slow soul music on the stereo.

Sport slowly grinds his hips to hers. Iris starts to move with him. This is what she really wanted. Her man's attention.

Sport slowly rubs his crotch into her. Iris smiles. She is happy. The music rises.

FIRING RANGE - DAY

TRAVIS stands at the firing range blasting the .44 Magnum with a rapid-fire vengeance.

He sets down one gun, picks up the next, then the next. Quickly reloading, he fires again.

The targets spin and dance under his barrage. The piercing sound of GUNSHOTS ring through the air.

TRAVIS is again writing at the table. His western shirt is open, exposing his bare chest.

A note of despair and doom has entered into TRAVIS' normally monotone narration voice: this will be the last entry in his diary.

LENGTHY P.O.V. SHOT from TRAVIS' taxi: we see New York's nightlife as TRAVIS sees it. CAMERA TRACKS down midtown sidewalks in SLIGHTLY SLOW MOTION. There we see:

COUPLES, walking in SLOWING MOTION, young couples, middle- aged couples, old couples, hookers and johns, girlfriends, boyfriends, business friends -- the whole world matched up in pairs, and TRAVIS left wandering alone in the night.

Others would notice the breasts, the asses, the faces, but not TRAVIS: he notices the girl's hand that rubs the hair on her boyfriend's neck, the hand that hangs lightly on his shoulder, the nuzzling kiss in the ear.

MATCHCUT TO P.O.V.: another neighborhood, LATER IN THE NIGHT. Still in SLIGHTLY SLOW MOTION.

The CROWDS are more sparse here, the streets darker. A JUNKIE shudders in a doorway, a WINO pukes into a trash can, a STREET-WALKER meets a prospective CLIENT.

I will no longer let myself fall apart, become a joke and object of ridicule. I know there is no longer any hope. I cannot continue this hollow, empty fight. I must sleep. What hope is there for me?

TRAVIS, his shirt fastened, stands beside table.

C.U.: He lays a brief hand-written letter on the table. We read it.

Dear Iris, This money should be enough for your trip. By the time you read this I will be dead.

Travis

TRAVIS stacks five crisp hundred dollar bills beside the letter, folds them up with the letter, and puts them into an envelope.

TIMECUT: A SHORT WHILE LATER. TRAVIS has cleaned up his apartment. Everything is neat and orderly.

CAMERA PANS across room. The mattress is bare and flattened out, the floor is spotless, the cans and bottles of food and pills put out of sight. The wall is still covered with Palantine political paraphernalia, but when we reach the desk we see only four items there: an open diary and three loaded revolvers: .44, .38, .25.

TRAVIS, freshly shaved and neatly dressed, stands in the middle of his clean room. The empty holster hangs on his shoulder. Metal .25 gliders can be seen under the slit in his right sleeve. He turns toward table.

TRAVIS, envelope in hand, closes the door behind him and walks down the corridor.

He passes a ajar door and we are suprised to see the room is empty--and trashed. Travis lives in a decaying, if not condemned building.

TRAVIS places the envelope to IRIS in his mail box.

BACK IN APARTMENT. CAMERA CLOSE ON revolvers lying on the table in neat array.

FADE IN:

SOUND of a political rally: cheering, laughing, a band playing, talking.

AFTERNOON. A CROWD of about 500 PERSONS is assembled before a platform outside a Brooklyn union hall. A DIXIELAND BAND is playing on the platform.

C.U. CHARLES PALANTINE's feet climb out of a limousine. There is a ROAR from the nearby CROWD.

PALANTINE, a bulky SECRET SERVICE MAN to the right and left of him, pushes his way through the CROWD toward the platform. Still cameras click, and TV cameras purr.

SLIGHT TIMECUT: PALANTINE is speaking on the platform.

TRAVIS' empty taxi sits parked a few blocks away from rally. At this distance, the rally sounds are almost indistinguishable.

C.U. of TRAVIS' boots walking. They make their way past one person, then two, then a cluster of three or four. SOUNDS of rally increase.

We see a FULL FIGURE SHOT of TRAVIS: he is standing alone in an opening near the fringes of the CROWD.

TRAVIS looks like the most suspicious human being alive. His hair is cropped short, he wears mirror-reflecting glasses. His face is pallid and drained of color, his lips are pursed and drawn tight. He looks from side to side. One can now see the full effect of TRAVIS' lack of sleep and sufficient diet -- he looks sick and frail.

Even though it is a warm June day, TRAVIS is bundled up in a shirt, sweater and Army jacket buttoned from top to bottom. Under his jacket are several large lumps, causing his upper torso to look larger than it should. He is slightly hunched over and his hands shoved into his pockets.

Anyone scanning the crowd would immediately light upon TRAVIS and think, "There is an assassin."

TRAVIS pulls the vial of red pills from his pocket and swallows a couple.

SECRET SERVICE MAN standing beside the platform, scanning the CROWD. It is the same SECRET SERVICE MAN TRAVIS spoke to at the first rally. TOM, dressed in a conservative suit, stands beside him.

PALANTINE is wrapping up his short speech:

PALANTINE steps back, smiling and receiving the applause. Then, nodding, at the SECRET SERVICE MAN he descends the stairs and prepares to work his way through the CROWD.

TRAVIS unbuttons the middle two buttons of his jacket, opening access to his holster. With the other hand he checks the .44 hooked behind his back.

PALANTINE smiles and shakes a few of the many hands outstretched toward him.

The SECRET SERVICE MAN, scanning the CROWD, spots something that interests him. He looks closely.

SECRET SERVICE MAN'S P.O.V.: TRAVIS, his face intense, pushes his way through the CROWD.

PALANTINE works his way through crowds and cameras.

SECRET SERVICE MAN motions to SECOND SECRET SERVICE MAN and points in TRAVIS' direction.

TRAVIS slips his hand into his jacket.

The SECOND SECRET SERVICE MAN converges on TRAVIS from the side.

TRAVIS and PALANTINE draw closer to each other.

SECRET SERVICE MAN, walking just behind PALANTINE, grabs the candidate's hand and pulls him backward. PALANTINE looks sharply back at SECRET SERVICE MAN who motions for him to take a slightly altered route.

TRAVIS sees this: his eyes meet the SECRET SERVICE MAN's. He recognizes the situation. To his right he spots the

SECOND SECRET SERVICE MAN.

TRAVIS' eyes meet PALANTINE's: candidate and would-be assassin exchange quick glances.

TRAVIS hastily works his way back through the CROWD. He hears the SECRET SERVICE MAN's voice call out:

OVERHEAD SHOT reveals TRAVIS has the jump on his pursuers. He is breaking free of the CROWD while they are still mired in it.

TRAVIS, free of his pursuers, quickly makes his way down the sidewalks. The SECRET SERVICE MEN look futilely about.

TRAVIS jumps in his cab. Sweat covers his face.

The film is moving fast now; it pushes hard and straight toward its conclusion. We're moving toward the kill.

LATE AFTERNOON. TRAVIS' taxi skids around a corner and speeds into Manhattan.

TRAVIS checks his mail slot: the letter to IRIS has already been picked up by the MAILMAN.

TRAVIS, stripped to the waist, walks back and forth across his INT. APARTMENT, wiping his torso with a bath towel.

TRAVIS begins dressing:

-- He straps the Army combat knife to his calf.

-- He reflexes the metal gliders and the Colt .25 on his right forearm.

INTERCUT: SPORT stands in his doorway on the LOWER EAST SIDE shot with LONG DISTANCE LENS. It is EARLY EVENING.

INTERCUT: A pudgy middle-aged white PRIVATE COP walks up to SPORT.

The two men laugh, slap each other on the back and exchange a soul shake. They discuss a little private business and the PRIVATE COP walks off in the direction of IRIS' apartment.

-- TRAVIS straps on holster and fits the .38 Special into it.

INTERCUT: PRIVATE COP walks down block.

-- TRAVIS hooks the huge Magnum into the back of his belt. He puts on his Army jacket and walks out the door.

INTERCUT: PRIVATE COP turns up darkened stairway to IRIS' apartment.

NIGHT has fallen: TRAVIS' taxi careens down 10th Ave. He speeds, honks, accelerates quickly. The glare of speeding yellow and red lights flash through the night.

TRAVIS' P.O.V.: PEDESTRIAN attempts to flag down TRAVIS' taxi, but quickly steps back up on the curb when he sees TRAVIS has no intention of stopping for anything.

INTERCUT: SPORT maintains his post in the dark doorway. He waves to a GIRL who passes, and she waves back.

TRAVIS' taxi screeches to a stop and parks obliquely against the curb.

TRAVIS walks down the block to the doorway where SPORT stands. CAMERA TRACKS with TRAVIS.

Without slowing, TRAVIS walks up to SPORT and puts his arm on his shoulder in a gesture of friendliness.

TRAVIS pushes SPORT back into the dark recesses of the corridor.

TRAVIS is being propelled by an inner force, a force which takes him past the boundaries of reason and self-control.

SPORT looks into TRAVIS' eyes, saying nothing: he realizes the seriousness of the situation.

TRAVIS pulls his .38 Special and holds it on SPORT, pushing him even further back against the wall.

SPORT reluctantly pulls a .32 caliber pistol (a "purse gun") from his pocket and holds it limply.

TRAVIS sticks his .38 into SPORT's gut and discharges it. There is a muffled blast, followed by a muted scream of pain.

Agony and shock cross SPORT'S face as he slumps to the floor. TRAVIS turns and walks away before SPORT even hits.

As TRAVIS walks away, SPORT can be seen struggling in the b.g.

TRAVIS, he gun slipped into his jacket, walks quickly up the sidewalk.

AROUND THE CORNER, TRAVIS walks into the darkened stairway leading to IRIS' apartment.

As he walks up the stairs, TRAVIS pulls the .44 Magnum from behind his back and transfers the .38 Special to his left hand. He walks up the steps, a pistol dangling from each hand.

AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, TRAVIS spots THE OLD MAN sitting at the far end of the dark corridor. THE OLD MAN starts to get up when TRAVIS discharges the mighty .44 at him. BLAAM! The hallway reverberates with shock waves and gun powder.

THE OLD MAN staggers at the end of the corridor: his right hand has been blown off at the forearm.

There is the sharp SOUND of a GUNSHOT behind TRAVIS: his face grimaces in pain. A bullet has ripped through the left side of his neck. Blood flows over his left shoulder.

TRAVIS' .44 flies into the air.

TRAVIS looks down the stairway: there SPORT lies choking in a puddle of his own blood. He has struggled long enough to fire one shot.

Falling, TRAVIS drills another .38 slug into SPORT's back but SPORT is already dead.

TRAVIS slumps to his knees. Down the corridor THE OLD MAN with a bloody stump is struggling toward him. TRAVIS turns his .38 toward THE OLD MAN.

The door to No. 2 opens: IRIS' scream is heard in the b.g. The bulky frame of the PRIVATE COP fills the doorway. His blue shirt is open, in his hand hangs a .38 service revolver.

The PRIVATE COP raises his gun and shoots TRAVIS. TRAVIS, blood gushing from his right shoulder, sinks to the floor. His .38 clangs down the stairs.

THE OLD MAN grows closer. TRAVIS smashes his right arm against the wall, miraculously, the small Colt .25 glides down his forearm into his palm.

TRAVIS fills the PRIVATE COP's face full of bullet holes.

The PRIVATE COP, SCREAMING, crashes back into the room.

THE OLD MAN crashes atop TRAVIS. The .25 falls from TRAVIS' hand.

Both men are bleeding profusely as they thrash into IRIS' room. IRIS hides behind the old red velvet sofa, her face frozen in fright.

TRAVIS, trapped under the heavy OLD MAN, reaches down with his right hand and pulls the combat knife from his right calf.

Just as TRAVIS draws back the knife, THE OLD MAN brings his huge left palm crashing down on TRAVIS: THE OLD MAN's palm is impaled on the knife.

OLD MAN SCREAMS in pain.

Police SIRENS are heard in b.g.

With great effort, TRAVIS turns over, pinning THE OLD MAN to the floor. The bloody knife blade sticks through his upturned hand.

TRAVIS reaches over with his right hand and picks up the revolver of the new dead PRIVATE COP.

TRAVIS hoists himself up and sticks the revolver into the OLD MAN's mouth.

THE OLD MAN's voice is full of pain and ghastly fright:

IRIS screams in b.g. TRAVIS looks up:

TRAVIS fires the revolver, blowing the back of THE OLD MAN's head off the silencing his protests.

The police SIRENS screech to a halt. SOUND of police officers running up the stairs.

TRAVIS struggles up and collapses on the red velvet sofa, his blood-soaked body blending with the velvet.

IRIS retreats in fright against the far wall.

First uniformed POLICE OFFICER rushes in room, drawn gun in hand. Other POLICEMEN can be heard running up the stairs.

TRAVIS looks helplessly up at the OFFICER. He forms his bloody hand into a pistol, raises it to his forehead and, his voice croaking in pain, makes the sound of a pistol discharging.

Out of breath fellow OFFICERS join the first POLICEMAN. They survey the room.

TRAVIS' head slumps against the sofa.

IRIS is huddled in the corner, shaking.

LIVE SOUND CEASES.

OVERHEAD SLOW MOTION TRACKING SHOT surveys the damage:

-- from IRIS shaking against the blood-spattered wall

-- to TRAVIS blood-soaked body lying on the sofa

-- to THE OLD MAN with half a head, a bloody stump for one hand and a knife sticking out the other

-- to POLICE OFFICERS staring in amazement

-- to the PRIVATE COP's bullet-ridden face trapped near the doorway

-- to puddles of blood and a lonely .44 Magnum lying on the hallway carpet.

-- down the blood-specked stairs on which lies a nickle- plated .38 Smith and Wesson Special

-- to the foot of the stairs where SPORT's body is hunched over a pool of blood and a small .32 lies near his hand

-- to CROWDS huddled around the doorway, held back by POLICE OFFICERS

-- past red flashing lights, running POLICEMEN and parked police cars

-- to the ongoing nightlife of the Lower East Side, curious but basically unconcerned, looking then heading its own way.

FADE IN:

It is EARLY FALL. The trees are losing their leaves.

SLOW TRACKING SHOT across INT. APARTMENT. Room appears pretty much the same, although there is a new portable TV and an inexpensive easy chair.

VISUAL: TRACK begins at table and works across the room to the mattress.

We see these items:

-- On the table rests the diary, closed. A desk calendar stands on the table: it is October.

-- Across the wall where the Palantine clippings once hung there are now a series of new newspaper clippings. Right to left, they read:

The first is a full back page from the N.Y. Daily News. Headline reads: "CABBIE BATTLES GANGSTERS." There are large photos of police standing in IRIS' room after the slaughter, and a picture of TRAVIS' cabbie mug shot.

Underneath there is a more discreet clipping without photo from the N.Y. Times. Two-column headline reads: "Cabbie Shootout, Three Dead."

A follow-up story from the News. Two-column photo shows plain middle-aged couple sitting in middle-class living room. Two-column headline reads: "Parents Express Shock, Gratitude."

A two-column Daily News story without photo. Headline reads: "Taxi-Driver Hero to Recover."

A one-column two-paragraph News story stuck on an obscure page. Headline reads: "Cabbie Returns to Job."

-- At the end of the clippings, a letter is tacked to the wall.

It is a simple letter hand-written on plain white paper. The handwriting makes a conscious effort to appear neat and orderly. We recognize that it is the same letter that is being read in voice over.

-- When we finally arrive at the mattress, we find it is barren. A pillow and blanket (new purchases) are folded at the head of the mattress.

AUDIO: THROUGHOUT THE TRACK, we hear the voice of a middle- aged uneducated man reading in voice over.

It is the voice of IRIS' FATHER and he is reading a letter he sent to TRAVIS, and which TRAVIS has tacked to his wall.

I can't say how happy Mrs. Steensma and I were to hear that you are well and recuperating. We tried to visit you at the hospital when we were in New York to pick up Iris, but you were still in a coma.

There is no way we can repay you for returning our Iris to us. We thought we had lost her, but now our lives are full again. Needless to say, you are something of a hero around this household.

I'm sure you want to know about Iris. She is back in school and working hard. The transition has been very hard for her, as you can well imagine, but we have taken steps to see she never has cause to run away again.

In conclusion, Mrs. Steensma and I would like to again thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Unfortunately, we cannot afford to come to New York again to thank you in person, or we surely would. But if you should ever come to Pittsburgh, you would find yourself a most welcome guest in our home.

Our deepest thanks,

Burt and Ivy Steensma

Four cabs stand in the waiting line in front of the hotel.

Near the entrance, TRAVIS and WIZARD stand in the light talking.

TRAVIS' hair is almost fully grown back to its normal length.

TRAVIS wears the same clothes -- cowboy boots, jeans, western shirt, Army jacket -- but he isn't wearing a gun. There is a thick scar on the left side of his neck.

Wizard is speaking.

CHARLIE T. parks his cab in line and walks toward TRAVIS and

WIZARD.

CHARLIE T. points his pistol/finger at TRAVIS, fires, says "Pow" and laughs.

They all turn. P.O.V. of DOORMAN closing rear door of TRAVIS' taxi.

TRAVIS waves back to CHARLIE T. and WIZARD as he runs around cab and jumps in the driver's seat.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls away.

C.U. TRAVIS at the wheel. A FEMALE VOICE says:

TRAVIS recognizes the voice. He looks in the rear-view mirror: It is BETSY.

TRAVIS says nothing: he heads toward 56th Street.

After a silence, BETSY speaks:

There is an uneasy pause.

There is another pause.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls up to 34 East 56th Street.

BETSY digs in her purse.

BETSY gets out of the cab and stands by the right front window, which is open.

TRAVIS prepares to drive away.

BETSY steps away from the curb and TRAVIS drives off. She watches his taxi.

CAMERA FOLLOWS TRAVIS' taxi as it slowly disappears down

Street.

SUPERIMPOSE TITLES: THE END