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Bridge to the Prologue.

Pianoplayer: (v.o.)

A hanging.   How did we get to the hanging of a beautiful girl?    

The year is 1927.   There are the prostitutes: the Frankies’, the ‘Nellies’, and the ‘Lilas’ who roam the back alleys.

There are the hotel owners: the ‘Madams’.   There are the pimps: the ‘Johnnys’.   There are the ‘Sheriffs’ who look the other way while bootleg hootch is served by the ‘Bartenders’ in coffee mugs to the ‘Prizefighters’, the local bigwigs, the drummers, and, of course, the politicians.   

This is not a typical Sacramento speakeasy; this is Johnny’s Place: The fanciest speakeasy west of the Sierra.   It’s a Friday (Saturday) night and Johnny’s friends, harlots and hussies gather to amuse themselves and wait for Johnny’s ‘johns’ to arrive.

Prologue

(The Prologue opens with the beats of a funeral march.   At the scaffold/gallows, Frankie stands on a stool with a noose hanging beside her.    Below her are The Sheriff, The Madam, The Bartender, The Pianoplayer, a throng of harlots and loose gentlemen, standing in various postures of grief, with averted faces and downcast eyes.)

Sheriff:

Has the condemned anything to say before we take in the slack?

Frankie

I know I’m bound for a better land.

Sheriff:

Yes, ya’ are that Frankie, and we all wish ya’ God speed.

Frankie

I am not afraid, not even if damnation is my lot.   I know I’ve done wrong.   You can take up the slack when you have a mind to, Sheriff.

Sheriff:

Ya’ won’t hold it against us, will ya’ Frankie?    At least not me.   I’m just doin’ ma’ duty.

Frankie

My last breath will be a blessing on you, Sheriff.

Sheriff:

Do ya’ have a parting wish… a last request?    What should we do with your, ah, um … remains?

Frankie

Put me beside him.

Sheriff:

Next to Johnny?

Frankie

Yes, Johnny.

Sheriff:

You’ll rest there, I swear Frankie.

Frankie

God bless you, Sheriff.   There.   Six feet down.   Beside him, I may find peace.

Sheriff:

And since ya’ killed him, he can’t be askin’ nothin’ of ya’.

Frankie

I know.   But if he did, Sheriff, he could have whatever he wanted.

Sheriff:

I know.   Ya’ would give him all ya’ have.   But have ya’ no bequest, no testament to make?

Frankie

If you mean worldly goods, I have nothing.   I gave him all I had.

Sheriff:

Johnny?

Frankie

Yes.   But I have a testament, … a testimonial anyway… and I bequeathe it to those that need it.

Sheriff:

What is that, Frankie?     (Close to her, in an audible whisper.)  You’d best hurry, Frankie, time is getting’ short.

Frankie

I will the memory of me…  to those like me.

Sheriff:

Who are they Frankie?

Frankie

Whoever shall be born to love.   Let them hear my tale, how I loved and done wrong.

Crowd  (Together.)

(One of the crowd.)  Yes, Frankie.

(One of the crowd.)  We will.

(One of the crowd.)  You can bank on it, Frankie.

(One of the crowd.)  We’ll tell your story, Frankie.   

Frankie

Tell only what happened… What you yourselves saw.   Keep it straight.   Don’t add anything.

Sheriff:

The story can stand as it is.   It don’t need no trimmin’.

Frankie

I bequeathe my story to those that need it.   To the young and young at heart who will love and know heartache.   Let them hear my tale.   I loved and done wrong.   So…When the Sheriff cuts the slender cord, and my soul goes up to meet the Lord, tell them I didn’t die in vain. 

(The dismal cadence of the funeral march is distorted into the "Frankie and Johnny" tune.   The volume of the music increases as the lights dim and as The Sheriff “takes up the slack”.) (Lights out.)

End of Prolog