My First TV Script, On Spec
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
I’m sure some of you remember Dragnet from the 1950s; if you don’t, you won’t have a clue what this is all about. Picture Jack Webb and Harry Morgan (Col. Potter of MASH fame)
April 1st, 1958.
I’m a detective. My name is Lieutenant Joe Friday. My partner is Ben Romaro. We work the day watch for the Los Angeles Police Department, City of Los Angeles, State of California.
The Chief called us into his office –
“Chief.”
“Joe.”
“Chief.”
“Ben.”
“There’s been a kidnapping in Beverly Hills. Better get on it!”
“Chief.”
“Yes, Joe.”
“Your fly’s open.”
“Thanks, Joe. I’ll just . . . No, it isn’t.”
“April Fool, Chief.”
“You got me there, Joe. Now get on the case.”
Beverly Hills is the richest part of Los Angeles. The place reeks of money. There’s a 77–111 on every corner. I felt like a poor cousin driving by the BMWs and Bentleys in our cruiser, a 1955 Ford Fairlane.
“Joe.”
“Ben.”
“Why did you tell the Chief his fly was open?”
“It’s April 1st, Ben.”
“So?”
“It’s an April Fool’s joke. I’ll tell you later, Ben. Here’s the house.”
House was hardly the word for it. The house was a 30-room mansion surrounded by a 12-foot, white, wrought iron fence. There were Japanese gardeners working the flowerbeds, Mexican groundskeepers mowing the lawns and a Jewish mohel was nipping the tops off the shrubs. I flashed my badge. The gatekeeper let us in.
“Your fly is open.”
“What? Thanks officer, I’ll get it right awa . . . No, it isn’t!”
“April Fool.”
“Good joke, sir. Things are a little tense around here. There’s a kid missing.”
I watched him through the rear-view mirror. He looked worried and walked over to a gardener. I could see they were in an excited conversation. The gardener was looking down at his pants. As we pulled up to the front door, the gardener had the gatekeeper down and was repeatedly hitting him on the head with a garden trowel. That’s a 6-0-4 of the criminal code, using an agricultural implement for other than digging in the dirt. I’ll let him off this time. It might just be an April Fool’s joke.
The butler answered the door. It was obvious that the man had been weeping. He pointed to the drawing room where a man and a woman were waiting. Ben stayed behind to ask him a few questions. I could see the butler looking down at his pants. A moment later he was hitting Ben repeatedly with a garden trowel.
The man and the woman were crying. I called Ben and we entered.
“Good morning, I’m Lt. Joe Friday. This is my partner, Ben Romaro. We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Thanks for coming boys. I’m Lance Reventlow and this is my wife, Gloria.”
“Gloria.”
“Joe.”
“Ben.”
“Gloria.”
“Lance.”
“Joe.”
“Lance.”
“Ben.”
“Gloria.”
“Lance.”
Gloria seemed distraught and Lance took her over to the sofa. They talked quietly for a moment, and she calmed down and began to speak.
“Joe.”
“Gloria.”
“Our boy, Cedric, has disappeared.”
“He’s dead, ma’am.”
“What?”
“April Fool, Gloria.”
Lance seemed upset. “Friday, I’ll have your badge for this. I play bridge with the commissioner.”
“In that case, good morning, we’re from the Los Angeles Police Department. My name is Ben Romaro and this is my partner, Joe Friday.”
“Thanks for coming boys. I’m Lance Reventlow and this is my wife, Gloria.”
“Gloria.”
“Ben.”
“Gloria.”
“Joe.”
“Joe.”
“Lance.”
“Ben.”
“Lance.”
“Joe.”
“Lance.”
“Mom.”
“Cedric.”
“Cedric.”
“Dad.”
“What’s going on? I was in the john. Did you know there’s a cop car in the driveway? Who are you two bozos?”
“We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m . . .”
“Never mind. The boy is home. Thanks for coming.”
“We’ll be getting back to the station. Good morning. Gloria.”
“Ben.”
“Joe.”
“I thought he was Joe.”
The butler quietly ushered us outside and slammed the door.
“Joe.”
“Ben.”
“Your fly is open.”
“I know, Ben, I know, April Fool.”
“No! It really is. I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you with indecent exposure.”
“I guess you’re right, Ben. That’s the law.”
“Joe.”
“Yes, Ben.”
“I can see now why your wife left you.”
“Bugger off, Ben.”
(Image Supplied)
