CRANE UP VERBAL KINT’S BODY
Verbal lights a cigarette, using both his good hand and the one
which is supposedly “bad,” then turns and sees the car running
alongside.
INT. DISPATCHER’S OFFICE
JACK BEER pulls a sheet out of the fax machine and turns it over,
revealing a crude composite sketch of KEYSER SOZE—which looks
a great deal like VERBAL KINT.
EXT. STREET
The car stops. KOBAYASHI, or the man we have come to know
as such, gets out and smiles. Verbal returns the smile as he opens
the passenger door and gets in.
A moment later, Agent DAVID KUJAN of U.S. Customs wanders
into the frame, looking around much the way a child would when
lost at the circus.
FADE TO BLACK
EXT. NIGHT SAN PEDRO BAY, MATCH CUT
Back at the scene of the crime,
the very dock where VERBAL
began spinning his web of words.
The burnt-out freighter is gone.
Distant sirens nonetheless wail.
KUJAN looks around the wharf,
no longer lost in SOZE’s circus.
He is actually no longer “Kujan,”
not even DAVE—just himself;
he carries a rod and tackle box.
Settling on a sodium-lit bench,
he starts fishing around in the box,
not a care to trouble him,
no pressing manhunt for KINT,
no hint he cares about “Keyser,”
nothing on his mind but the sea—
but the sea, a rod, and a lure,
but the cool night air off the bay,
but the stars in the urban sky
that he wishes he could see.
INT. NIGHT PUMARIN THAI, WESTMONT PLAZA OFF SR 213
“The man we have come to know”
as KOBAYASHI and another—the one
“also known as” both Kint and Soze—
sit by the window at a table for five.
Empty plates bear witness before them,
traces of Panang curry, sweet chili,
and Prik King sauces spread thinly
amid half-eaten mounds of jasmine rice.
A brad-bound stack of papers hangs
half-off the end of the copper tabletop.
The man who played the part of Kobayashi
dabs at his lips and large pocked nose
with the corner of a starched napkin
and rises with satisfaction from his seat;
they are done. The other man also rises,
and in an almost absent-minded manner
lifts the hundred-forty-page manuscript.
On their way out the push-bar door,
he drops the pages in a trash can
tucked under an overgrown orchid.
PUSH IN TO TRASH CAN
Past the wide and almost artificial leaves
the typescript on the manuscript’s cover
slowly becomes legible in the shadowed murk:
THE USUAL SUSPECTS by Christopher McQuarrie.