The Lost Pearl of the Mojave – Episode 6: Medicinal Whisky

OVERLAY: “OASIS PALMS 1919”

The neon “Scooter’s Saloon” sign flickers against the darkness. The street is eerily silent—until the distant rumble of engines breaks the calm. Headlights slash through the dust as a convoy of black FBI vehicles roars down the main street, tires screeching to a halt.

The place is humming. Locals packed at the bar. A fiddle plays from a corner stage. The crowd is loose, laughing — passing flasks and toasting full pints of beer. SCOOTER (57) is standing behind the bar cleaning a beer mug. CURTIS SMITH (44) is standing at the register tallying the receipts.

Suddenly, the swinging saloon doors BURST OPEN. Two FEDERAL AGENTS in trench coats and fedoras step in, flanked by LOCAL DEPUTIES. The room falls silent.

Curtis raises his palms slowly, nods at Scooter to comply. One agent moves to the shelves — cases of Scooter’s Old No. 5 Rye — and starts yanking bottles down. Another agent grabs an axe from his belt.

CRASH. A bottle shatters on the floor. Then another. Then a whole case. The agent moves with fury, slinging glass and liquor into the sawdust. The other agent heads behind the bar and CHOPS into a beer barrel. Golden foam erupts and splashes across the floor.

The patrons are ushered out. One man grumbles — he’s thrown against a table and cuffed. The fiddle player slips out the back, silent as a ghost.

He leans in, nose to nose with Scooter.

He spits on the floor and turns. The agents walk out, boots crunching on broken glass. Outside, engines rev as the black government cars roll away into the desert night. Curtis watches the wreckage. Whiskey pools around his boots. He kneels, picks up a soaked label — barely legible: “Old No. 5.”

They both stare at the mess — the smell of rye thick in the air, lantern light dancing on the broken glass. Somewhere outside, a coyote howls.

SMASH TO BLACK.

A makeshift field hospital stands amid a war-torn French landscape. Smoke curls from distant artillery fire as wounded soldiers are hurriedly tended to under canvas tents.

OVERLAY: “Two years earlier France 1917”

Dim light filters through the canvas. Amid the organized chaos of medics and the moans of pain, CURTIS SMITH (mid-40s, rugged yet gentle) lies on a cot with a bandaged shoulder and a fresh battle wound. Despite the pain, his face shows quiet determination.

DR. MARY LEFèVRE (38-years old, striking beauty, poised and compassionate), a French doctor with quiet strength, leans over him, her gentle hands carefully cleaning the wound. Her whispered instructions blend with the ambient clamor of the tent.

Curtis winces as Mary applies a sterile dressing. Their eyes meet—hers warm and kind, his filled with resilience.

Mary pauses, her hand steady. A brief silence lingers, punctuated by the distant thunder of artillery.

Mary offers a gentle, knowing smile but looks worried as she finishes her work.

The camera slowly pulls back, leaving the intimate scene in the tent as the harsh reality of war recedes, replaced by a budding hope and a love that defies the surrounding darkness.

Curtis Smith 44 years old sits at the bar with his Father’s business partner Scooter 57 years old, who has seen better days. The saloon, once the heart of Oasis Palms, now feels hollow. The piano in the corner is silent, and only a few scattered patrons nurse their drinks under dim, flickering gaslights. Dust settles on the once-polished bar, and the scent of stale whiskey lingers.

Scooter takes a slow sip from his glass, the weight of the words sinking in. He sets it down and looks around at the near-empty room. The walls, once alive with laughter and music, now seem to close in on them.

Curtis nods, his fingers tracing the rim of his own untouched glass. He doesn’t need to be reminded. He remembers the town bustling. Now, with the liquor hiding and no one to drink it. The only sound is the occasional shuffle of the bartender wiping down already-clean glasses.

Curtis sighs, rubbing his temples. He knows Scooter is right. He also knows that operating outside the law isn’t an option—not if he wants to keep Oasis Palms alive for the long run.

Scooter scoffs, running a hand through his thinning hair.

Curtis leans back, staring up at the wooden beams above them, deep in thought. There has to be a way. He just doesn’t know what it is yet.

CURTIS and MARY stand before the front desk of the once-grand Hotel California. Mary is very pregnant. The tension between them is thick, unspoken words pressing in. The lobby, though still elegant, feels hollow—its glory fading under the weight of uncertainty.

Mary exhales, her eyes sweeping the lobby. A few guests linger, murmuring softly. She turns to leave—but stops. Seated nearby, a well-dressed guest holds up a Chicago newspaper. The back page faces her. In bold print: “WALGREENS OPENS ITS 500TH STORE.”

Mary stares at the headline. Her brow tightens. An idea, or maybe a warning, flickers behind her eyes.

FADE TO BLACK.

The study is dimly lit by a single desk lamp. The soft ticking of a clock underscores the late hour. Mary sits at the mahogany desk, breast-feeding her infant son, surrounded by stacks of open books and scattered papers. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she meticulously reviews the National Prohibition Act and related legal documents. The Chicago newspaper, its bold headline still visible, sits to the side of the desk.

She reaches for a worn law book, flipping pages with increasing urgency. Her eyes scan the text, and then—suddenly—she stops. Her breath catches as she reads aloud.

Her eyes widen as the realization hits her. Heart pounding, she grabs a pen and hastily jots down notes. The camera pans to a close-up of the book’s text, highlighting phrases like “medicinal alcohol,” “physician prescriptions,” and “licensed pharmacies.”

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Moments later, Curtis appears in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. Mary stands to meet him, clutching the newspaper and legal documents.

Curtis takes the book from her, scanning the highlighted sections. His expression shifts from skepticism to intrigue as the weight of her discovery settles in.

Curtis places his hands on Mary’s shoulders, admiration and gratitude evident in his gaze. They share a moment of renewed hope, the weight of their recent struggles lifting slightly as they embrace this newfound opportunity.

FADE TO BLACK.

The small wooden chapel is filled with devout townsfolk, mostly older women and a few stern-faced men. At the front stands MRS. WINIFRED ASHWORTH (60s)—a severe-looking woman with an iron spine, piercing eyes, and an air of self-righteous authority. She wears a black lace bonnet and clutches a well-worn Bible.

Murmurs of discontent ripple through the congregation.

The murmurs turn into fervent nods. One man, REVEREND DANIELS, a thin, nervous-looking preacher, clears his throat.

Gasps and nods of agreement.

The congregation erupts into murmured prayers and whispered schemes.

SCREEN OVERLAY: “6 Months Later”

Curtis Smith, now a sharp-minded businessman, stands behind the counter. A STYLISH COUPLE approaches nervously.

Curtis nods toward a door behind the desk. As he does, he shares a warm, knowing smile with Mary, who steps forward confidently. Their glance speaks volumes about their partnership both in business and in life.

The dimly lit room features a small examination table, medical books, and a locked cabinet of bottles labeled ‘MEDICINAL USE ONLY’.

The man nods.

The woman nods. Mary scribbles on a prescription pad.

She hands him the slip. The couple nods and smiles.

FADE TO BLACK.

The shelves are lined with glass Whisky bottles with official seals over the top and labels “Bottled in Bond For Medicinal Use Only.” The door SLAMS open. Mary startles as Mrs. Ashworth strides in, flanked by two other church ladies. Mrs. Ashworth mispronounces Dr. Smith’s name

Mary folds her arms, standing her ground.

Mrs. Ashworth’s lips press into a thin, disapproving line.

Mrs. Ashworth leans in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

She spins on her heel and marches out, her entourage trailing behind her. Mary exhales, but her resolve hardens.

Curtis paces as Mary relays the confrontation.

Curtis stops pacing, thinking hard.

Curtis grins.

They exchange determined looks.

FADE TO BLACK.

The hotel lobby is renovated, a doctor’s office is added where the manager’s office used to be. Scooter’s Saloon is rebranded as “Scooter’s Pharmacy”, and a “Pharmacy” sign is installed over the soda fountain in the Oasis Market.

SCREEN OVERLAY: “Five Years Later 1925”

The small downtown hums with energy, neon signs casting a vibrant glow on the streets below. Oasis Palms’ nightlife thrives under a loose interpretation of Prohibition laws. An elaborate theater marquee flickers, advertising the latest Hollywood film, while a saloon disguised as a “Pharmacy” buzzes with activity.

Dominating the street, a grand multi-story brick hotel, just off the main square, stands proudly. A large awning extends over the sidewalk, offering shelter to guests arriving in luxury automobiles. Through its tall windows, passersby catch glimpses of an opulent Art Deco lobby—polished floors, crystal chandeliers, and well-dressed guests enjoying cocktails in the lounge. Next door, a well-lit barbershop caters to gentlemen in suits, one reclining for a close shave while another adjusts his tie in the mirror. Above the shop, a glowing sign marks the entrance to a lively second-floor pool hall, where finely dressed patrons ascend the stairs.

In the center of the square, a Civil War hero statue stands tall above a lighted fountain. Across the street, there are two more brick buildings the OASIS MARKET with a soda fountain visible from the street and SMITH’S HARDWARE store with drygoods and tools on display out front. Both businesses are humming with activity.

A doorman in a sharp uniform tips his hat and welcomes the STYLISH COUPLE as they step out of their automobile and enter the lobby of the HOTEL CALIFORNIA.

Inside a dim, smoky second-floor casino, the muted clack of chips and the spin of one-armed bandits set a clandestine rhythm. A neon sign that reads “Fast Eddies” flickers against baroque wallpaper.

Dim lantern light flickers over a small group of men huddled around a poker table, their faces shadowed by the brim of their hats. Curtis leans against the bar, sipping whiskey while DEALER JIM, a grizzled old card shark, shuffles a deck. Coins, pocket watches, and crumpled bills litter the table.

A young miner, sweating under his cap, pushes a small leather pouch forward.

The man across from him, BILL GORDON, a rancher with a mean streak, sneers and tosses down his own bet.

The miner flips over his cards—a straight flush. The room erupts with whistles and groans.

Curtis grins, stepping forward.

The tension thickens. Curtis watches carefully as Bill Gordon reaches for his belt, but before anything happens, the front door SLAMS open. MRS. WINIFRED ASHWORTH strides in, flanked by SHERIFF HOLBROOK (50s)—a rugged lawman with a weary patience for local squabbles.

She gestures wildly at the poker table. The players freeze, looking toward Curtis.

Curtis glances at Sheriff Holbrook, who sighs complacently and adjusts his belt.

Curtis smirks.

Ashworth gestures to the row of slot machines along the wall as the patrons are frozen watching the intervention unfold.

Curtis and the Sheriff exchange a look—both knowing that a state crackdown could mean real trouble.

She turns on her heel and marches out. Curtis watches her go, his expression darkening.

FADE TO BLACK.

The street outside Scooter’s Pharmacy is alive with the hum of late-night revelers. Neon signs flicker in the warm desert air, casting an eerie glow on the faces of the patrons spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, the energy is palpable—laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses fill the saloon-turned-pharmacy. But the atmosphere takes a sharp turn as the sudden screech of tires pierces the night.

FBI agents spill from their black sedans, their coats billowing as they move with precision. Their polished badges flash under the streetlights. The crowd outside freezes, and the once-bustling room inside falls eerily silent. Patrons quickly push their glasses aside, feigning innocence.

The lead agent, a hard-eyed man with a no-nonsense demeanor, strides through the doorway, flanked by uniformed officers.

Curtis and Mary step forward, calm but unwavering. Mary clutches a stack of paperwork, her knuckles white against the paper. Curtis squares his shoulders, his voice steady.

The agent smirks, unimpressed, and gestures for his men to begin searching the premises. Officers push past Curtis, opening cabinets, pulling bottles from behind the counter, sniffing the contents. A young agent inspects a row of carefully labeled prescription bottles.

Mary takes a step forward, her voice unwavering.

She extends a thick ledger to the lead agent, who hesitates before taking it. He flips through the pages, his eyes narrowing as he scans the meticulous records. Silence thickens the air as tension builds.

The tension in the room slowly dissipates. The agents exchange looks, some clearly disappointed at the lack of evidence for a takedown. The lead agent exhales sharply, snapping the ledger shut.

He hands the ledger back to Mary, nods curtly to his men, and turns to leave. An officer picks up a case of Scooter Rye and the officers file out, and the sound of boots against the wooden floor echoes as they disappear into the night. The saloon-turned-pharmacy exhales collectively, tension giving way to murmured relief.

Curtis places a protective hand on Mary’s back as they watch the agents retreat. He turns to her, his eyes full of gratitude. Mary exhales, finally allowing herself a small, victorious smile. Around them, business slowly resumes, a few patrons daring to raise their glasses once more. A train whistle echoes in the distance.

FADE TO BLACK.

The FBI agents slam their car doors shut. Engines rumble to life, and headlights cut through the darkness as their black sedans roll away from Scooter’s Pharmacy. Inside, Curtis and Mary remain framed in the window, their tense silhouettes bathed in the glow of the streetlamps. Their expressions are unreadable, but the weight of the night lingers.

As the FBI cars pass down the street, the camera follows, gliding past the brand new brightly lit OASIS THEATER. The marquee flickers, illuminating the damp pavement: “The Gold Rush – Starring Charlie Chaplain.” A line of moviegoers in fine evening wear file through the gilded doors, their laughter and chatter spilling onto the street.

The camera continues its sweeping motion, drifting back past Scooter’s Pharmacy again, lingering just long enough to catch Curtis, his silhouette swallowed by the darkness inside.

It glides further, up the street to the grand facade of the Hotel California, where affluent patrons arrive in chauffeured cars, stepping onto the sidewalk. A doorman tips his hat as guests disappear into the lobby’s golden glow.

The camera then pans right and upward, revealing the neon sign of Fast Eddie’s Pool Hall, buzzing softly in the night. The sign flickers once, casting a jagged shadow across the sidewalk before stabilizing. The camera focuses on a second-story window. A warm haze of cigar smoke and laughter leaks through the green-tinted glass.

A pair of dice tumble across a green-felt craps table, landing with a dramatic pause. A voice, smooth and theatrical, chuckles softly. The camera shifts upward, revealing a man standing at the head of the table, flanked by two stunning women in evening gowns. His trademark mustache twitches into a smirk. The twinkle in his eye confirms what we already know.

Charlie Chaplin rolls the dice again. A cascade of cheers and groans fills the room as the game continues. The camera lingers, taking in the scene—Chaplin, basking in his element, seemingly untouched by the troubles brewing in the streets below.

FADE TO BLACK.

A sleek, black steam locomotive with a distinctive Warbonnet paint scheme—the Midnight Limited—roars along the desert tracks. The train’s satin black Pullman cars gleam under the moonlight, bold yellow lettering and glossy black, yellow, and red stripes catching the eye. The silver-painted roofs shimmer, reflecting the Mojave moonlight at night.

A sumptuous dining area exudes elegance. Well-dressed passengers share laughter over a gourmet dinner. In the rear-facing observation car, guests gaze out the windows at the desert’s starry expanse. A passenger holds a folded copy of the Los Angeles Herald newspaper.

The train’s signature whistle blows—a clear, piercing sound echoing over the plateau. The vibrant resort below is bathed in neon, a testament to Oasis Palms’ irresistible allure.

A party-goer from the train is sitting next to a PRETTY WOMAN at the Lobby bar and hears the train whistle. Patrons are mingling when they are interrupted by the train whistle.

• A pair of black crepe armbands hang from the corner of a framed photo: EMMET, JACKSON, and SUSAN SMITH at the opening of Oasis Palms Resort. A candle burns below it.
• The Resort bar terrace once filled with laughter is empty now. Dust has settled on the tables. A faded sign reads: “Whiskey by the Springs – Closed.”
• A FORD MODEL A rolls past the town sign. “Welcome to Oasis Palms – The Pearl of the Mojave.” Behind it, a FOR SALE sign creaks in the wind.
• Inside Scooter’s Saloon, crates of unused glass bottles collect cobwebs. Scooter sits at the bar, silently polishing a glass, staring off at nothing. The stillness is heavy.
• A train whistle echoes faintly… but the station platform is deserted. No passengers. The timetable board is blank.
• Curtis stands in the distillery warehouse, staring at aging barrels stacked floor to ceiling. He picks up a ledger, runs his finger down rows of unpaid accounts.
• A map of the U.S. with colored pins. Curtis pulls one pin from “Chicago.” Then another from “Kansas City.” He drops them in a jar labeled “Closed Territories.”
• Empty gas pumps at the gas station. The attendant leans against the garage wall, smoking. His overalls are stained, his eyes tired.
• A family of drifters in a jalopy pulls off the highway, begging for water. A child clutches a cracked porcelain doll. Curtis brings out a jug.
• The theater marquee with a few lights out promotes “Hell’s Angels Featuring Jean Harlow”. The girl in the ticket booth stares off into space from boredom. 
• Outside the saloon, tumbleweeds roll across the street. A painted advertisement for Scooter’s Old No. 5 Rye fades in the sun.

FADE OUT.

A dusty Midnight Limited pulls into the well-worn Oasis Palms station. Curtis and his son LOUIS SMITH, late teens in a suit and tie wait nervously on the platform eying the smattering of passengers disembarking from the evening train. A few well-dressed railroad executives disembark. Curtis encourages Louis to stand up straight and Curtis walks over extending his hand to the group of men, his expression a mix of pride and steely resolve.

Curtis Smith ignoring the weariness of the travelers feigns enthusiasm as if the meeting was planned ahead of time. Curtis waves his arm towards town to show the executives the way.

Curtis turns and again tries to entice the executives to follow him off the platform and into town.

As the train departs, the railroad executives turn and get back onboard. Just before embarking the Railroad Executive waves his hand toward the aging locomotive.

The executives look out the side windows as the Midnight Limited creeps through town. The once boisterous town is now a run-down and hard on its luck. The once-glowing neon, flickers on and off and the streets are empty with only a couple of bums standing on the street corner. As the train climbs the hill, the railroad executives look out the rear of the observation car with the dusty small desert town in the distance. 

FADE TO BLACK.

OVERLAY: “OASIS PALMS 1941”

Inside a dim, smoky pool hall, the muted clack of chips and the spin of one-armed bandits set a clandestine rhythm. A old neon sign that reads “Fast Eddies” flickers against peeling wallpaper. Curtis strides among the gamblers—construction workers, down-on-their-luck railroad passengers, and a few transient drifters—all clinging to this illicit spark of hope.

A distant echo of uniformed footsteps heightens the tension. Curtis glances toward the door, aware of the constant risk.

Curtis sits with his son, Louis who has graduated from college and is full of restless ambition. The low hum of dice and whispered wagers provide a backdrop to their serious conversation.

A dreary, rain-slicked street under a failing neon sign reveals the toll of hard times. The once-bustling resort now shows signs of neglect: shuttered storefronts, rusting equipment, and an air of desolation.

A cold wind sweeps through the dimly lit station. Steam hisses from the aging waiting Midnight Limited locomotive. A banner in the distance reads: “Support Our Boys – Victory in ’42!”

LOUIS, dressed in his crisp Army Air Corps pilot’s uniform, stands tall despite the weight of the moment. His mother, MARY, clutches his hands, eyes glistening—not just with tears, but with pride. His father, CURTIS, watches him with quiet understanding.

Nearby, MOLLY, a teenage girl on the edge of womanhood, fidgets with a delicate lace-trimmed handkerchief in her hands.

She lifts her chin, her voice steady despite the emotion welling in her throat.

He glances at CURTIS, who nods.

LOUIS grips his father’s hand firmly. A lifetime of unspoken words passes between them. MOLLY hesitates before stepping forward, her cheeks flushed. She holds out her handkerchief to LOUIS.

LOUIS kneels slightly to her level, touched by the gesture. He takes the handkerchief and tucks it into his jacket pocket with a soft smile.

The train whistle shrieks—a final call. LOUIS gives one last look at his family. Then, with a resolute nod, he steps onto the train. MARY wipes her eyes. CURTIS places a steadying hand on her shoulder. MOLLY clutches her empty hands, watching as the train pulls away, carrying LOUIS into the night—toward war, toward an uncertain future.

The camera slowly pulls back to reveal Oasis Palms—a town once vibrant, now a fading relic clinging to a tiny oasis in the vast desert. The neon lights are dim; buildings show their wear. In the distance, a lonely train whistle echoes—a reminder of a lifeline that may soon be severed.

The screen fades slowly to black, leaving behind the haunting image of a once-thriving paradise on the brink of collapse—and a young man, Louis, poised to seek his destiny beyond its borders.

FADE TO BLACK.