The Monkey's Mask

Jill...

how much guts have you got?

We've got Mickey Norris coming up.

Mickey?

Put your hands together for Mickey Norris.

Love is a torture.

Love tortures me.

Does love torture you?

If it does,

why are you laughing?

I feel you in the room like a knife.

You cut out my cunt. So why not cut out my heart?

Your prick is a knife that hurts me.

You grunt like a beautiful pig.

I wish my cunt could hurt you.

It was really dreadful!

But your stuff, high energy, high impact.

- You should be in print. - I'll see you guys later, okay?

Yeah, see you later, Mickey. Bye, Mickey.

Bye.

I came for the quiet.

I don't mind the cold.

But thick mists, thick neighbours and involuntary celibacy...

are as inductive to hard drinking as high rent and corrupt cops.

I can't remember what adrenalin tastes like.

I need Sydney.

I need a new job.

Hello.

Yes, this is Jill Fitzpatrick.

Yes, I do missing persons.

My place is my car.

Action.

Business.

And pleasure.

My window my work.

I spy with my little eye the cheating world.

- Milk... sugar? - Both, ta.

Two weeks.

Look.

Photos.

She's pretty. She's sweet.

She's too good to be true.

Perhaps she went off with a boyfriend.

Mickey doesn't have a boyfriend.

She has friends, but not a...

She doesn't drink.

She doesn't even smoke.

She's going to be a journalist.

She's flatting, but she still comes home Sunday nights.

Tea, darling?

Never tell them where the kid is until you get paid.

When the tears have dried, no one wants to part with money.

It's open.

Hi, I'm looking for Mickey.

I'm her old teacher.

Look, her parents are worried sick.

Tianna!

Just a minute.

- Who was that? - Someone looking for Mickey.

- Why? - I don't know.

Probably wants to fuck her like you did.

Poetry.

Tony Brach.

Bill McDonald.

"Jesus loves me" shit with the odd nature poem thrown in.

Another Tony Brach...

autographed lovingly.

To my darling Mickey, all my love.

Was this Mickey's life?

Books, raving, drugs, gorging and anorexia.

It was never mine.

19, I was in the force baby-sitting female juveniles.

No gun.

Now 28, all muscle, street smart, no education.

"Finally the teenage girl's tits,

like newborn kittens,

furl me in animal bliss".

I have to confess a bias for that last poem.

Tony Brach is a friend of mine.

I can't claim Ezra Pound as a friend. He died some time ago.

But listen to the same emotions in his words.

It travels.

It's pure feeling sensual, physical of the language.

Examine each word close up...

as if you're fingering the wrists...

the neck...

of your lover.

"In her is the end of breeding.

Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

She would like someone to speak to her,

and is almost afraid...

that I will commit that indiscretion. "

May I help you?

Mickey Norris.

I mean, I'm Jill Fitzpatrick.

But I'm looking for Mickey, she's missing.

Let me get rid of these.

She's gritty. She's bright.

Oh, Christ help me!

She's a bit of all right!

I can't really talk here.

How about lunch?

Sure.

I've transmogrified from a Classicist...

into someone who feeds off popular culture.

There is no culture otherwise. Nostalgia isn't culture.

Once we start enshrining customs, they're gone.

When did you last see Mickey?

Her poetry tutorial a fortnight ago.

Did she mention going away?

She was her usual self.

And what's that?

Intense and shy like most poetry maniacs.

That's quite a combination.

Her flatmate told me she's having an affair with a married poet.

Very probably.

Does Tony Brach or Bill McDonald mean anything to you?

Of course.

I like to taste a new job.

I like to follow its flavour. And this one?

Alcohol.

A smooth red.

A taste I'm not used to. A taste going straight to my head.

Is she...

gorgeous?

- My car's that way. - Well, it's nice to meet you.

Yeah.

I need to know if a cheque I wrote two weeks ago has been presented.

Mickey Norris. Norris.

N for Nancy, O for orifice.

No, I don't remember my password.

I'm blind, but that's hard for you to imagine there...

in your cosy little office how it is to li...

No transactions? Thanks.

- Hello. - Tony Brach? Tracked you down.

How's the weather up north? - Who is this?

I'm a friend of Mickey Norris. I think you do know her.

Just send her home. Her parents are worried.

Hair of the dog.

Oh, great.

Dad... you're incorrigible.

Yeah.

Oh, great.

Know your problem?

- You've got no feminine compassion. - Yeah, right! Get out of here!

Yeah.

You've got a client.

We keep meeting for coffee.

We don't talk about Mickey.

Could it be she fancies me?

Christ, what's the time?

I'm happy all right. Fucking hysterical.

Where is she?

Sorry I'm late.

I just had to nip home.

I haven't nipped anywhere for a long time.

You've changed. It's nice.

How can you stand living so far from the city?

I couldn't hack Sydney any more. I had to get out.

Go it alone.

And anyway my work isn't trendy.

It's mostly in the western suburbs.

I live in the Mountains, Blacktown or Penrith would kill me.

How many women have you slept with?

Am I your freak show?

How many have you slept with?

Concentrate.

Diana Maitland? I know her.

Poetry in crowd,

post-modern parasites all fucking each other.

She's gorgeous, Lou.

Wrinkles round her eyes and great legs.

And she's smart like a steel trap.

Too bad about her husband.

If you ask me, that woman's big bloody trouble.

- I want you trouble on the rocks. - And what about the missing girl?

Your mind should be on your job, not on your cunt.

- I'm doing my best. - To get into that bitch's pants.

Lou, go write a dirty poem.

I can get you some leads in the poetry scene.

Even failed New Age dyke poets like me...

rub shoulders with tortured Catholics and faded intellectuals.

Just stop thinking about that fucking woman.

In love I've got no style.

My heart is decked out in bright pink track suit pants.

It weaves its huge bummed way through the tables to Diana.

I think you saw her too. She was all...

Hi.

This is my husband, Nick. Jill.

Most of the Pls I get to meet are big ugly pricks.

Ex-cops too bent even for the force.

- I'm an ex-cop. - Weren't you too short?

How's your nose for tracking down brats?

- A waste of a smart woman's time. - This smart woman needs the money.

I knew you two would hit it off.

You have to excuse me. I've got a hearing.

Aggravated assault. He crushed her face.

Doesn't the thought of the victim get in the way?

The victim isn't paying me.

He does well.