I’m talkin’ about sex, boy, what the hell you talkin’ about? I’m talkin’ about l’amour! I’m talkin’ that me and Dot are swingers, as in “to swing.” I’m talkin’ about wife swappin’. I’m talkin’ about what they call nowadays open marriage.
Hello, handsome, is that a ten-gallon hat or are you just enjoying the show?
The cowboy look ended about 6 years ago.
Our orders are to make sure he does not die… but also to make sure he regrets the day he was born.
Mister, I’m already there!
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look for you. I will find you. And I will kill you.
Lighten up, Francis.
“Shush!” my great aunt Regret’s tail. You’re makin’ enough noise to wake up the whole Jap army!
You’re not only wrong, you’re wrong at the top of your voice.
I was already awake. How can I sleep? Nothing but problems. Problems, problems.
Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch!
Well, yeah, you know, 'cause 'cause he never appreciated you anyway. In fact, you know what - you kicked HIM out! And now that he’s gone you’re gonna go into town, you go to Bloomingdale’s and find some nice dresses, get yourself some shoes, you know, find somewhere, maybe you can get a facial. And, uh, oh - hire a decorator to come in here quick, 'cause… DAMN.
Shut up! You haven’t spent sixty seconds with me when you weren’t after something, so what is it this time? Buy, sell, or trade?
You ask too many questions.
That’s a fountain of conversation, man. That’s a geyser. I mean, whoa, daddy, stand back.
What, no small-talk? No chit-chat? That’s the trouble with the world today. No one takes the time to do a really sinister interrogation anymore. It’s a lost art.
Listen kid, I’m not gonna bullshit you, all right? I don’t give a good fuck what you know, or don’t know, but I’m gonna torture you anyway, regardless. Not to get information. It’s amusing, to me, to torture a cop. You can say anything you want cause I’ve heard it all before. All you can do is pray for a quick death, which you ain’t gonna get.
You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? A rube; a well scrubbed, hustling rube, with a little taste. Good nutrition’s given you some length of bone, but you’re not more than one generation away from poor, white trash, are you, Agent Starling? And that accent you tried so desperately to shed: pure West Virginia. Was your father a coal miner? Did he stink of the lamp? You know how quickly the boys found you, all those tedious, sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars, while you could only dream of getting out, getting anywhere, getting all the way to the F.B.I.
Don’t push me, Willy. I’m a grease monkey that won’t slide so easily!
You shouldn’t push me, Johnny. My mother pushed me once. Once.