— Don't you try to get me.
— Not me, no. You're the one who wants to get yourself killed, not me. Always happens with you guys, you know? The last minute you always want to... grab onto somebody, take somebody with you. Down you go. Not me, brother.
— Aren't you gonna try to grab me?
— A friend of mine was up about 20 floors with a jumper a few years ago. The jumper grabbed him and they went off. And 20 floors down, just mashed all over. Couldn't tell which legs were with which, which arms were with which. And it was a terrible mess. I tell you, I almost threw up myself. I'd just like your name and address, that's all.
— Why?
— Like I said... it's such a mess down there afterwards. It makes identification impossible. Even if they find your driver's license, all that blood and everything...
— I think... I think I'm gonna puke.
— Oh, now don't do that, son. I mean, all those people down there looking up. The fire chief looking up. His face...
— You rotten bastard.
— I don't want any more trouble like you had last year in the Fillmore district. Understand? That's my policy.
— Yeah, well, when an adult male is chasing a female... with intent to commit rape, I shoot the bastard. That's my policy.
— Intent? How did you establish that?
— A naked man is chasing a woman through an alley with a butcher knife and a hard-on... I figure he isn't out collecting for the Red Cross.
— I think he's got a point.
I know what you're thinking: «Did he fire six shots or only five?» Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being this is a.44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off. You've got to ask yourself one question: «Do I feel lucky?» Well, do you, punk?
— There is one question, Inspector Callahan. Why do they call you Dirty Harry?
— Now, that's one thing about our Harry. Doesn't play any favorites. Harry hates everybody: limeys, micks, hebes, dagos, niggers, honkies, chinks. You name it.
— How does he feel about Mexicans?
— Ask him.
— Especially spics.
— It's my fault, you know.
— What?
— His leaving. I thought I could take it.
— Don't ever say that.
— What?
— Just don't ever low-rate yourself.
— What I meant was, whatever it takes to be a cop's wife... I'm just not sure I'm making it. He really tries, and these bastards... you know, «pig» this, «pig» that.