— For your information... a lot of people think I'm very funny.
— Yeah? Well, go live with them.
— Don't tempt me.
— To Alex, the accountant.
— Your accountant's name is Alex?
— No... but he could have been. Alex was my son. I used to be married. One Sunday, I'm away in Miami. She couldn't come because she was eight months' pregnant. Walking down La Brea Boulevard... out of nowhere a pickup truck jumped a curb. Pow. Never knew what hit her. She died. But Alex lived for 17 minutes in an incubator. He fell asleep... had time for one dream... and then he died. I think about him all the time, man. You know, I threw for 300 yards that day. While my wife and kid were dying... I had the game of my life. Life sucks.
Chet: — I think he's awake.
Pablo: — Make sure.
Joe Hallenbeck: — I'm awake.
Chet: — You nearly broke my wrist, man.
Pablo: — Milo warned us to watch out for this guy.
Chet: — Fuck that! Fuck you. Fuck that. Look at him. He's nothing. Guy's a piece of shit.
Joe Hallenbeck: — You got a cigarette?
Chet: — A cigarette? Yeah, sure. I got a cigarette.
Joe Hallenbeck: — You got a light?
Chet: — Yeah. I got a light.
— Listen, Joe. You still taking charity?
— What do you got?
— Stripper. Excuse me, exotic dancer. She's got some weirdo hassling her and I'm booked solid. She's hot, Joe. She rates a three on my finger scale. That means I'd cut off three of my fingers if God would let me fuck her. Ha-ha.
— Make her a one on your nose scale. Improve your looks.
— Who's the guy in the closet?
— Excuse me?
— That's right. Sometimes you forget I'm a detective. All this steam in the shower, like somebody was just in there. Only your hair is dry. So it must be
somebody else we're talking about. A male somebody because the toilet seat's up. Not under the bed, must've stuck him in the closet... when you heard my key hit the lock a day early. So who's the guy in the closet?
— You told the cops...
— I told them Mike came by to farm out a surveillance job this morning.
— That's all? You didn't mention...
— No. I didn't mention it.
— You knew, didn't you?
— I suspected.
— Goddamn it. Why didn't you say something?
— What do you want me to say, Sarah? "Fuck you, Sarah"?
— Yes. Yeah. Or anything to get a rise out of you. How about, "You're a lying bitch"? How about, "If there weren't cops here, I'd spit in your face"?
— You want me to spit on you?
— It would show you had some pride left. Fresh out, honey.
— You know what? Fuck you, Joe. You were never around. I was lonely!
— Buy a dog.
— You're just gonna put that in the trunk?
— No, we should just leave it for the neighborhood kids to play with.
— Pull up next to them, I'll yell at them.
— That's the lamest plan I ever heard! Bulletproof glass. They won't hear you. What are you doing?
— Drawing them a picture.
— What is that?
— A bomb.
— Looks like an apple with lines. They'll say, "Don't open the briefcase, it's full of fruit."
— You wanna draw the damn thing? Happy?
— Are you kidding me?
— Always criticizing my shit. I can't do nothing right.
— I forgot to tell you.
— "Bom" means "fuck you" in Polish.
— That's not funny, man. I almost bought it.
— Tragic loss to the art world, let me tell you.
