The darkness of the film is a gloom that permeates every aspect of script and plot. Clouds loom in the sky, every shade of monochrome from sliver though storm grey leaving gaps only for the black night. Against the cars with their running boards lean the men, faces partially obscured not only by the lack of light but by the rims of their fedoras. The only glint in the blackness comes not from the moon, but from cigarette tips like crazy red fireflies born to die.

In just minutes there will be a reason for the homicide cops to cordon off the area, but not yet. Soon more dark painted classic cars will crawl out of the black night. After some wise-cracks and a negotiation that was never destined to succeed, the shoot-out will begin.


“Who's the kid?” Mac nods toward a teenager, a stringy boy, yet to gain bulk for his bones.

“None of your business... if you know what's good for you.” Every muscle on Jule's face tightens, eyes narrowed, chin jutted outward. He reaches up to adjust his fedora, placing it at a jaunty angle on the back of his head.

“I make it my business. This ain't no place for kids.” Mac slumps his weight onto one hip, bending the other knee just slightly, lighting up a smoke before turning his head to the docks. “Send him home or loose the deal.” Wide-eyed, the kid turns his head from Jules to Mac, taking a step backward and flinching as his boss pulls out a revolver. The moonlight plays only upon the wind rippled water and the steel of the barrel. “I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jules.” A single shot rents the air, echoing through the maze of shipping crates and accelerating into the horizon. A dull flash of recognition washes over the face of the kid's boss before he slumps to the rain-washed dock, a "red carnation" growing on his dinner shirt. “Get out of here, kid. Scram.”