Russ Millard:
All right, listen up. No reporters view the body. You photo men - finish taking your pictures now. Coroner's men - put a sheet on the body as soon as they are done. We set up a perimeter six feet back. Any reporter crosses it - arrest him. Now gentlemen, before this gets out of hand, let's put the kibosh on something. With publicity, you get confessions. With confessions, you get crazies, liars, and false leads. So, we keep some things quiet. The uh, ear to ear facial lacerations, disembowelment - you keep this information to yourselves. Not your wives, not your girlfriends, and no other officers, and I mean no... Bleichert, what the hell are you doing here? Where the hell's Blanchard?
Ofcr. Dwight "Bucky" Bleichert:
He's right here.
Professor Snape:
Potter, what's your hurry? Congratulations. Your performance in the Black Lake was inspiring. Gilllyweed, am I correct?
Harry:
Yes sir.
Professor Snape:
Ingenious. A rather rare herb, Gillyweed. Not something found in your everyday garden. Nor is this. [holds up a bottle]
Professor Snape:
Know what it is?
Harry:
[sarcastically] Bubble juice, sir?
Professor Snape:
Veritaserum. Three drops of this and You-Know-Who himself would spill his darkest secrets. The use of it on a student is, regrettably, forbidden. However, should you eve steal from my personal stores again, my hand might just slip over your morning pumpkin juice.
Harry:
I haven't stolen anything.
Professor Snape:
Don't lie to me! Gillyweed may be innocuous, but Boomslang skin? Lacewing flies? You and your little friends are brewing Polyjuice Potion, and believe me; I'm going to find out why! [shuts the door in Harry's face]
Frank Costello:
[after talking to Madolyn on the phone] Was that that shrink cunt that answered the phone?
Colin Sullivan:
Remember I told you that we were gonna... she was gonna move in?
Frank Costello:
Yeah.
Colin Sullivan:
She moved in.
Frank Costello:
You better get organized, quick.
Colin Sullivan:
Hey, last time I checked, I tipped you off and you're not in jail.
Frank Costello:
Are you listening to me?
Colin Sullivan:
Yeah.
Frank Costello:
Do you like Little Miss Thing suckin' on your cock?
Colin Sullivan:
[looks at Madolyn] Yes. Yes, I do.
Frank Costello:
So earn it. I'm getting the feeling we got a cop in my crew.
Colin Sullivan:
Yeah, I know. I'm kinda getting that feeling too.
Frank Costello:
He's one of yours. Inside. Have you seen anything?
Colin Sullivan:
Frank, I got no access to Queenan's undercover files. He and Dignam run the snitches. I'm doing my best...
Frank Costello:
Your best? What do you think we're in, the fuckin' haberdashery business?
Colin Sullivan:
Look, Frank, if you don't relax, if you don't relax, I can't relax. All right? Now what I need you to do is you get me information on the people who were with you last night. Your crew. Get me Social Security numbers, get me...
Alyssa:
I remember those guys used to come over to my house almost everyday after school. They'd bug my sisters, look through my dad's closet for porno tapes, raid the fridge. They really took advantage of my parents never being home. This one day, Rick pulled his dick out and started chasing me around the house with it! Right in front of Cohee, man! I couldn't believe it!
Holden:
Rick pulled his dick out? Really? What did you do?
Alyssa:
[yells] I blew him while Cohee fucked me!
Holden:
Excuse me?
Alyssa:
That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? That's what this little cross-examination of yours is all about? God! Well, next time, try not to make it so obvious, alright? There's subtler ways of badgering a witness! Am I right?
Bystander:
Jeez, man. Even I knew what you were getting at.
Alyssa:
If you wanted some background information on me, Holden, all you had to do was ask. I would have gladly volunteered it. You didn't have to go playing Hercule-fucking-Poirot!
Bystander:
[to his friend] I told you these were good seats!
Host:
Backstage after my performance at the Viper room. In walks, 16 of the hottest groupies that I have ever seen before, wearin' nothing but kimonos and body glitter. I mean were doin' zippers and zoomers, jalepeno poppers you name it. Suddenly one of the twins stars yelling at me, "Oh my God, your eyes are bleeding." So they rush me to the hospital, where I was legally dead for 17 minutes. Finally they shock me back to life, I say, "Thanks, doc, I've got a few ladies to entertain...” So eleven orgasms later, two and a half of them mine, the next thing I know I'm on fire, running through the Château Marmont. It didn't, happen, but man, that would have been a wild night.
Dave and Serge...played the Fiddler's Elbow as if it were Giants Stadium, and even though it was acoustic, they just about blew the place up. They were standing on chairs adn lying on the floor, they were funny, they charmed everyone in the pub apart from an old drunk ditting next to the drum kit...who put his fingers firmly in his ears during Serge's extended harmonica solo. It was utterly bizarre and very moving: most musicians wouldn't have bothered turning up, let alone almost killing themselves. And I was reminded...how rarely one feels included in a live show. Usually you watch, and listen, and drift off, and the band plays well or doesn't and it doesn't matter much either way. It can actually be a very lonely experience. But I felt a part of the music, and a part of the people I'd gone with, and, to cut this short before the encores, I didn't want to read for about a fortnight afterward. I wanted to write, but I didn't want to read no book. I was too itchy, too energized, and if young people feel like that every night of the week, then, yes, literature 's dead as a dodo.
(Nick's thoughts after seeing Marah at a little pub called Fiddler's Elbow.)
