[at Bloomingdale's]
Jonathan:
Happy anniversary.
Sara:
When did you get to be so unimaginably romantic?
Jonathan:
I think that it's good luck that we return this year to the scene of the crime. [pours a paper cup of champagne]
Jonathan:
Cheers.
Sara:
Cheers.
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
Oh, I don't think so, no beverages on the premises, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.
Jonathan:
Hey, how are you doing? Don't you remember me?
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
Yes I do.
Jonathan:
This is her, This is the girl!
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
Ms. Carbon-copy.
Jonathan:
Yes.
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
I see.
Jonathan:
This is the guy who helped me find you!
Sara:
Oh, hi!
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
If you're not going to purchase anything, please make room for paying customers.
Jonathan:
We do, we want some gloves, some cashmere gloves. [closing bell rings]
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
Oh, I'm sorry, that would be the closing bell. Perhaps tomorrow...
Sara:
You're not serious...
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
Store hours 10 to 7 except Sundays and holidays.
Jonathan:
He warms up...
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
At the discretion of management or with the possible visit of dignitaries... [Sara goes behind the counter]
Bloomingdale's Salesman:
No, no, no, no, please, on the other side of the counter! You cannot come back here, this is for authorized personnel only, please stay on your side of the counter, thank you very much!
Mr. Grocer:
Ya sure Oregon doesn't ring a bell? The Pacific Northwest, couple of months ago? Something about you doin' some wonderdog named Cujo...
Martin Q. Blank:
Ah, *Budro*, yes, Budro, Jesus Christ! Yeah, I was out there tryin' to whack these junk bond fuckos and these idiots were flushing game with sticks of dynamite! And the dog that they borrowed, little Budro, was a retriever, get it? Budro was never a target, Budro was acting on instinct. I would never hurt an animal and I'm offended at the accusation...
Mr. Grocer:
Whoa, whoa, whoa, Chatty Cathy! Clip yer string, I don't need to know! But, just for the record, here's what I heard: the marks borrowed your client's prize hunting pup. So, bad luck for Budro and bad luck for Blank. Poodle pumper. Hound hitter. Pooch puncher!
[Dave Moss explodes at Ricky Roma and shouts]
Dave Moss:
You're fucked, Rick. Are you fucking nuts? You're hot, so you think you're the ruler of this place.
Shelley Levene:
Now wait a minute, Dave.
Dave Moss:
Shut up!
Shelley Levene:
Okay...
Dave Moss:
You want to decide who should be dealt with how, is that it? I come in the fucking office today, I get humiliated by some jag-off cop. I get accused of... I get the shit thrown in my face by you, you genuine shit, because you're top name on the board?
Ricky Roma:
Is that what I did, Dave? I humiliated you? Oh my God, I'm sorry.
Dave Moss:
Sitting on top of the world. Sitting on top of the world, everything's fuckin' peach fuzz.
Ricky Roma:
And I don't get a moment to spare for some bust-out humanitarian down on his luck lately?
Dave Moss:
Oh, fuck...
Ricky Roma:
[cutting him off] Fuck you, Dave. You know you got a big mouth. You make a close, this whole place stinks with your farts for a week - how much you just ingested. Oh, what a big man you are! "Hey, let me buy you a pack of gum. I'll show you how to chew it." Whoof! You're pal closes, and all that comes out of your mouth is bile. Ooh, how fucked-up you are!
Dave Moss:
Who's my pal, Ricky? Hmm? What are you? And what are you, Ricky? Huh? Bishop Sheen? What the fuck are you, Mr. Slick? Who - what the fuck are you, "Friend to the working man"? Big deal! FUCK YOU! You got the memory of a fuckin' fly! I never liked you, anyway.
Ricky Roma:
What is this, your farewell speech?
Dave Moss:
I'm going home.
Ricky Roma:
Your farewell to the troops?
Dave Moss:
I'm not going home. I'm going to Wisconsin.
Ricky Roma:
Have a good trip.
Dave Moss:
Aw, fuck you! Fuck the lot of you! Fuck you all! [exits]
Ricky Roma:
[to Shelley] You were saying?
Shelley Levene:
Huh?
Mr. Blonde:
Listen, I appreciate what, you guys are doin' for me, but I was wonderin' when I can come back and, you know, do some real work.
Joe:
Well, that's hard to say, It's kind of a strange time now. Things are a little...
Nice Guy Eddie:
They're a little fucked-up is what they are. Listen we got a big meetin' goin' down in Vegas right now.
Joe:
Just let Eddie for now set you up in Long Beach, get you some cash, Get this Scagnetti fuck off your back, and then we can start talkin' okay? Huh?
Nice Guy Eddie:
Listen daddy, I got an idea. Now just, hear me out. Now, I know you don't like usin' the boys on jobs like these, but Vic has been nothin' but good luck for us. The guy's a fuckin' rabbits foot for cryin' out loud. I'd like to have him in. You know he's reliable and you damn well know trust him.
Joe:
[pause] How would you feel about pulling off a job with about five other guys?
Mr. Blonde:
I'd feel great about it.
Margo Green:
What's that?
Lt. Vincent D'Agosta:
Good-luck bullet.
Margo Green:
I forgot, you're superstitious. So, does your bullet have a story?
Lt. Vincent D'Agosta:
I was on the beat my rookie year. One night I see this guy who's locked his keys in his car with his motor running. He's bent over the car, trying to unlock the door with a coat hanger. So I go over, try to help him out, and what I didn't know was that he'd just robbed the liquor store ten blocks down. And he doesn't notice me until I'm right on top of him. He turns around... [makes a gun with his finger and "pops" with his mouth]
Lt. Vincent D'Agosta:
Point-blank range. Doesn't pop, though. Doesn't go off. This bullet.
Margo Green:
So what did you do?
Lt. Vincent D'Agosta:
Took the gun away from him and beat the shit out of him. Later, the forensics people tell me, uh, bullet's perfect. Should have fired. I should be dead.
Margo Green:
So, a miracle of physics?
Lt. Vincent D'Agosta:
Maybe just plain, old-fashioned good luck.
