The Story so far:
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26463
SCENE FOUR:
Late afternoon Luger’s Steak House Williamsburg, Brooklyn. A clean shaven and well dressed Frank sits eating a rare porterhouse when Soap walks in and makes his way through the narrow dining room to the back where Frank sits. He drops his snow speckled and disheveled rain coat over the back of the chair and sits facing Frank.
Soap:
Trying to clean up your image?
Frank:
Felt like some real food for a change. Needed to fit in.
Soap:
Tell me about it, it gets old swapping info over a greasy spoon all the time.
Frank:
I ordered you prime rib. Bring the file?
Soap:
Thanks Frank. I brought what little we have. This Toomey is a recluse. Keeps a low profile, reminds me of ol’ Frank Lucas back in Harlem ten years ago. He lives in Bed-Stuyvesant, married, three kids. Moved here from Newark in ‘71 after a tour in ‘Nam. Before that he had a history of petty crimes and larceny, judge gave him the option of jail or the army. Only two cases are open on him but they’re floundering. Two former cases folded after witnesses vanished. You’ve never heard of the guy?
Frank:
I’ve heard the name in passing, but I can’t exactly blend in with his community the way I can with the Italians.
Soap:
Yeah, I guess a six foot four white guy built like a truck would stand out in the projects.
Frank:
They assume I’m a cop more than anything. I had to bluff my way into the crack house to get Kessani’s killer. I’ve taken to sticking myself with saline. I let neddle marks get a infected to simulate track marks; helps add a little credibility.
Soap:
Rufus was his name, the guy that killed the Kessanis. Rufus Johnson. When the medical examiner scooped the body off the roof his brains fell out right then and there. Some rookie barfed on my pants.
Frank:
Bill me.
(The waitress arrives with Soap’s Roast as Frank picks up his coat. He slides her check and pockets the dossier on John James Toomey.)
Enjoy the steak.
Soap:
See ya Frank.
PWJ:
I think it’s time to get a good look at Mr. John James Toomey.
SCENE FIVE:
Exterior: of an immaculately cared for home on a quiet street. We crane through the window of the dining room to reveal a scene of serine all American family bliss; mom, dad, and kids all sitting around a beautifully appointed dining room talking casually. We join them mid conversation.
Toomey:
(Playfully to his son, talking over the excited chatter of his three children)
You.. No you bring me two A’s. Two; on the math and the English tests this week, in my hand graded by Friday and we might go skiing. We might.
Son:
C’mon!
Toomey:
Two.
Mrs. Toomey:
John James you haven’t skied a day in your life.
Toomey:
Neither has he. I’m hoping he makes the grade because I want to see him fall on his ass. I’ll be at the bottom with a coffee looking for a little black spot rolling down the mountain.
Mrs. Toomey:
Stop it! (Laughing)
Son:
I make it. I’ll make it down.
Toomey:
I hope so. A ski trip is expensive. I don’t want to have to pay for a trip to the hospital to fix a broke leg. You got training in the spring.
Youngest Daughter:
Daddy I wanna go.
Toomey:
Baby girl, you know I’m gonna take you too.
Oldest Daughter:
I’ll stay right here. Watching that little fool embarrass himself is just gonna make me look the fool for being with him.
Toomey:
You don’t have to go. But you staying with your Auntie Julia if you don’t. You’re not having any parties up in this house, I know you.
(Looking at his watch)
You don’t have to go, but Daddy does.
(He gets up from the table and goes down the line kissing each of his children, then leaning over to give a lingering kiss on the lips to his wife.)
You gonna make them help you with the dishes, right?
Mrs. Toomey:
I will, baby.
Toomey:
You made this fine supper least you can do is take it easy tonight. Put them to work! That's what we had them for.
(With that he bounds upstairs)
In his bedroom Toomey grabs an expensive black wool overcoat and a suit vest and jacket. He looks in the mirror as he knots his tie, looking every bit the legitimate successful business man. Before slipping on his suit coat he opens a small humidor on his dresser and removes two cigars then lifts the upper tray off to reveal a customized nickel platted Colt Commander .45. He loads the weapon before sliding the gun into the small of his back and pocketing an extra magazine. He finishes dressing and as an afterthought returns to the humidor to grab a small pocket pistol, a H&K P7, and places the humidor back as it was. He then dashes casually downstairs waving to his family as he grabs his keys and bounds out.
Cut to the view of the outside of the home as seen from the inside of a black 1983 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS half a block away. Frank sits in the driver’s seat. His eyes follow Toomey’s every move.
PWJ:
Family man. Successful. Happy. On the surface he’s Cliff Huxtable.
Toomey walks to a black BMW 6-series parked on the curb outside his home and pulls away.
Frank watches as an identical vehicle pulls away a few spaces down from the original and pulls quickly behind Toomey, a third BMW pulls ahead at the intersection.
PWJ:
Playing a shell game.
Frank pulls away to trail the small convoy which has been joined by two more vehicles as they drive toward the BQE. Frank keeps his distance, watching as the cars dance around one another on the expressway. Two of the BMWs break off onto off ramps, Frank continues to follow the one he picks as Toomey’s as it heads east on the LIE. It is rejoined by one of the BMWs and a support vehicle, the reformed smaller convoy then exits onto north bound Queens Boulevard back to the BQE and then on to the Grand Central Parkway and then over the RFK Bridge and on into the South Bronx.
The convoy pulls into a side street and all disembark. Frank parks around the corner and dashes for the alley running down the center of the adjoining block. He carries a large duffle over his shoulder and an AK-47 slung under his coat.
The bodyguards are gathering as Toomey exits his Beemer. He takes a moment to light his cigar before waving for the group to follow along. His demeanor has altered, gone is the jovial family man in his place a man that exudes confidence and ego, his walk a near swagger.
Frank reaches the rear of the alley in time to see Toomey and his men going into a beaten down brownstone. Three of the twelve body guards stand watch outside.
PWJ:
Where are you going? Too many for a fire fight in close quarters. Good thing I brought the fun bag.
(Frank strains to see the group through the small windows that flank the door. The men approach the stairs at the back of the foyer. He notices them go down toward the basement.)
Frank moves once again at top speed back down the alley, rushing down the spur leading alongside the building diagonally across the street from Toomey’s brownstone.
Frank slows and then walks calmly across the street. The guards eye him suspiciously as he casually walks to the door of the adjoining brownstone. He slides his lock pick into his hand, appearing to fumble with keys, and then enters the building. He glances sheepishly at the men on the street.
Once inside he rushes up the stairs for the roof hefting his duffle.
Frank emerges on the roof tossing the bag to the roof of the neighboring brownstone; a distance of about eight feet. He then takes a running start and jumps the gap himself. Below one of Toomey’s men hears the two thumps and sees the tail of Franks coat just before he clears the gap.
Guard 1:
I think I saw something.
Guard 2:
(A beat)
Well go check that shit out. Just [frick]in’ standing there like I’ma do it for you.
The guard blusters as he passes the fatter man and enters the building heading for the stairs. Frank, meanwhile, is making his way down the stairwell looking for danger as he goes. He hears the door below swing open and glances down to see Toomey’s man begin his trek up the staircase with gun drawn. Frank looks for an alternate route and then ducks into the hallway of the third floor. He takes position beside the door placing his bag on the floor. He hears the guard open the hallway door on the second floor. Frank sees the first door on the left is a broom closet. He leans forward and opens it slightly, pulling his K-Bar from its scabbard on his left breast as he leans back against the wall immediately beside the door to the stairwell. After a second the guard opens the stairwell door gun in front of him he begins to edge down the hall. Frank stands tensely, concealed by the open door.
The thug takes the bait as he begins to edge toward the open closet Frank has the chance to grab his gun pushing it up while at the same time tripping the safety lever so it cannot fire. With his right hand he slams the K-Bar into the man’s throat directly through his adams apple. He shoves the man hard into the broom closet before slashing the blade through his carotid artery, the arterial spay plasters the interior of the tiny room. Frank takes a moment to wipe the blood from his face as the man weakly thrashes about before losing consciousness. Frank places a few spare mop heads in front of the dead man to absorb the expanding blood pool before it finds its way under the door.
PWJ:
Going to need to make this fast, someone will come looking for him soon.
Frank continues climbing down the stairs before reaching the foyer. He peaks out to see the other two men looking outward at the street. He steps out into the lobby AK trained on the door in his right hand his silenced .45 in the other as he nudges open the door to the lower stairs. The way is clear. He holsters his Colt and picks up his bag. He hears the voices of Toomey and his men in a dimly lit room at the end of the hall. He progresses slowly entering a side room that once served as a custodians flop by the look of it. Once there Frank opens his bag revealing a sizable bundle of explosives.
PWJ:
A pound and a half of composition four to plaster these assholes all over the walls here in the basement’s confined space from the shockwave alone.
As Frank sets the explosive he listens in on what Toomey is doing in the next room.
Toomey:
…I pay you to handle this shit Joseph. A man steals from me and you call me down here to ask what to do about it?
Joseph:
John James, please. He my cousin. I can’t be killin’ blood man.
Toomey:
So what, you call me down here for absolution for the mother[frick]er? What the [frick] man?
Joseph:
He [frick]ed up, but…
Toomey:
Elvin, who are you to me?
Elvin Toomey, the younger of the Toomey brothers looks thinner in frame and more uncouth in disposition, he lacks the polished demeanor of his elder sibling, in its place is a hardened criminal’s stare and thuggish body language.
Elvin:
I’m you brother.
Toomey:
And what would I do to you if you stole from me?
Elvin:
Cut my mother[frick]in’ heart out.
Toomey:
Damn straight. So I expect nothing less from you Joseph. Now I want you to shot this simple mother[frick]er.
(Toomey kicks the prone figure of Joseph’s cousin. His head covered with a bloody pillow case tied at the neck with a dog chain.)
Joseph:
I…can’t. I…
Toomey pulls his Colt and and yanks the man upward by the chain around his neck bringing his head flush with the muzzle of the weapon before shooting the hooded man through the head several times and letting the body drop harshly to the floor. He then aims the gun at Joseph.
Joseph:
John James, c’mon now we been doing this shit since the beginning. We…
Toomey:
(Lowers his weapon.)
Elvin, shoot this mother[frick]er.
Without hesitation Elvin shoots Joseph in the back, dropping him to his knees. He then delivers a coup de grace through the back of the head blowing off most of Joseph’s face.
Frank pauses briefly listening to the shots, he then finishes wiring his bomb, attaching a radio detonator. He prepares to slip back out before the group leaves when he freezes in his tracks at Toomey’s next statement.
Toomey:
The Colombians are coming less’n two weeks. I don’t need this shit right now. Scrape these sumbitches off the floor and dump them in the sound on the way back.
Elvin:
What about the money?
Toomey:
[frick] it. It don’t matter. It was the principle of the thing. Thieves get dealt with and pussies don’t survive in my organization. Call Leroy and tell ‘em he wanted Joseph’s territory he’s got it. And tell him I don’t want that mother[frick]er hiring no family he’s too attached to to deal wit’. I’m heading home. Shootin’ a mother[frick]er’ll make a man hard as [frick]in’ granite.
The group shuffles past the open doorway as Frank waits along the unseen interior wall with his AK at the ready. After a moment he heads for the back room and exits through the recessed entrance that once lead to the now vacant and blood stained lower tenement. He loops around to the side alley to catch a final glimpse of Toomey and his crew. Only the two guards remain.
Guard 2:
Where the [frick] is Tyrell?
Guard 3:
Prob’ly taking a shit or found him some crack bitch'll [frick]'em up there.
Guard 2:
[frick]’em. He can call a cab we gotta go I ain't freezing my ass off waitin'.
The two men get into the remaining BMW and drive away trying to catch up to Toomey’s main group.
PWJ:
Toomey should be easy enough to take down when the time comes. His protection is a joke; a bunch of ignorant thugs and muscle, but why fry the little fish when I can use him for bait? Killing some of the cartel’s men could send more of a message; none of them are untouchable so long as I’m here. That, and paint a big [frick]in’ target on my back for some very dangerous people with deep pockets to throw knives at. I always wanted to live dangerously.
SCENE SIX:
Soap casually wanders into the 78th precinct thumbing through a wad of notices left in his box overnight by informants and tipsters. At the top of the stairs he bumps into a middle aged fat man. The two look at one another for a brief moment. The fat man seems flustered at the sight of Soap, he nods an apology and then hurries down the steps. Soap pays little mind as he emerges into the detective’s bull pen, wandering to his office door lost in thought.
Soap:
Shit. Shit. Bullshit. Crazy shit. Oops, real sighting.
(The last one he tosses into the trash.)
Shit. Shit. And bill…how’d that get in there?
Det. Hornsby:
Hey Soap, when’d you start workin’ with the feds?
Soap:
I don’t… what?
Det. Hornsby:
The fed. The one that came in at about three in the mornin’. Started goin’ through your files.
Soap:
Whatd’yamean?
Det. Hornsby:
You just passed him on the stairs. Didn’t he say nothin’?
Soap drops the tips on the nearest desk and then bounds down the stairs. Rushing by the front desk he fires off a quick question to the sergeant.
Soap:
Fat guy, forties, glasses, come passed here?
Sergeant:
Went out the door.
Soap clangs open the heavy wooden door and clambers down to the sidewalk looking about for the man. No trace. He heads back inside and stops by the sergeant again.
Soap:
Lenny, did you see if he was carrying anything?
Sergeant:
Yeah, briefcase and a some more papers stuffed under his arm. Same as always.
Soap:
What do you mean “same as always?”
Sergeant:
Comes in here about once a week. Fed Right?
Soap:
You don’t ask him who he is, why he’s here?
Sergeant:
He’s a [frick]in’ fed. What do I care?
Soap:
Does he sign in?
Sergeant:
Used to now I just waive him on up. Nice guy brings me coffee.
Soap:
Goddamnit, Lenny when was the last time you had him sign in?
Sergeant:
Couple months ago. Can’t remember his name; something common, Smith or Johnson, maybe.
Soap:
How ‘bout you look it up then.
Sergeant:
[frick]. Fine I’ll buzz ya when I find it.
Back upstairs Soap begins to thumb through his files looking for anything missing. It is a herculean task as the office is covered in more than twenty file cabinets stacked floor to ceiling all labeled “PUNISHER MURDERS” with dated tabs. Soap gives up the search as futile then checks the copier in the hall. There is the final page on the file of Elvin Toomey, a copy of which he gave to Frank in the Toomey files the day before. Soap goes pale. He takes the page and pulls the file. Sure enough it is missing. He replaces it, and then unscrews the mouth pieces and receiver on his phone to check for a bug. Nothing. He pokes hurriedly about his office looking for bugs, finding none. He sits down at his desk. The intercom buzzes, Lenny’s voice echoes through.
Sergeant:
James Jameson. FBI.
Soap picks up his phone and then realizing it is disassembled roughly screws on the two end caps and dials the number for the New York FBI offices switchboard from his rolodex.
Soap:
Hi. Yeah, this is Detective Sergeant Martin Soap, head of the NYPD's Punisher Task Force. I need to speak with Special Agent Jim Jameson. … He’s not. Can you have him call me at the 78th please? Thank you. (Sighs)Jesus.