Bekowsky: Get them over here. I'll cover you. Come on. The calvary's here! Get him, Phelps. I'll cover the exits.
Phelps: Those Bastards are at the base of the elephant column. They're full of gasoline! Shoot them, quickly!
Mark: There's an army of them. We're done for.
Phelps: Put you weapons down and your hands in the air.
Bekowsky: Follow me. We need to get him to the car.
Phelps: Stay down.
Manrk: This way! Come on, let's keep moving.
Phelps: Get him to the car. I can cover you from here. You're almost there.
Bekowsky: Let's go! Stay with me! Follow me. Come along.
Phelps: Weapons on the ground, now.
Bekowsky: All right, lets go.
Captain: Now this is what I call a result. Mark Bishop, erstwhile film producer and all around piece of shit, catches a fast ticket to Quentin for statch rape and attempted murder. So he gets to spend the next 15 years playing sissy instead of sticking it to little girls. That is justice with a capital J, Detective Phelps.
You've developed such a reputation, I'm not going to be able to hold on to you any longer. You're getting promoted. Go on, get your new assignment. It was good working with you son.
Roy: Phelps, Bukowski, this your work?
Captain: Can I help you, Detective?
Roy: Sorry, Cap. Didn't see you there.
Captain: Yeah, I'll be you didn't. This is a Traffic case. You need something?
Roy: I'm here to buy a drink for the two LAPD Traffic cops who broke the back of Guy McAfee's private army. You don't have a problem with that, do you, Captain?
Captain: Go right ahead.
Roy: Get in. I'm buying. You'll like this place. A lot of movie people hang out here. Do you like Jazz, Cole? The hopheads love it.
Phelps: Sure, I guess.
Roy: Big bands and swing I can understand, but this bebop palaver? How are you supposed to dance to that? This is Phelps, Leroy. Be nice to him. You'll like this place. They treat you right.
Alfonse: Would you like a table, Roy?
Roy: What do you think we want to do? Stand at the bar like Chumps?
Alfonse: I'll get a table ready for you then.
Roy: Don't looks so happy to see me, Alfonse. I might get the wrong impression. Cole, this is Alfonse. He's a French negro from Africa. Can you beat that?
Alfonse: The Congo.
Phelps: A pleasure to meet you, Alfonse.
Roy: Is Elsa singing tonight?
Alfonse: Yes, she is. She has the next set.
Roy: Come on, Cole, you can meet Elsa while they're fixing us a table. You'll like her. She's something else.
Alfonse: Maybe another night, Roy. She's pretty beat up about something.
Roy: Get your hands off me. Don't ever tell me what to do and what not to do, Alfonse. You got a nice club here. Don't spoil it.
Alfonse: If you'll follow me, Detectives. Just through the door.
Elsa: He was my only real friend, Harlan. We went through it all. Do you realize what he meant to me?
Harlan: Of course I do, darling.
Elsa: You have no idea. You said it was construction work.
Harlan: It was an industrial accident, Elsa. How can I be held responsible?
Louis: Elsa, are you going on?
Elsa: No, for God's sake. He was my best friend. The only man how ever loved me without putting his hands on me.
Roy: Hi, Elsa. Here's someone I'd like you to meet. Cole Phelps, war hero and crime fighter extraordinaire.
Elsa: Why would I want to meet another fascist from the LAPD?
Roy: Sorry about this, Cole. What an evening I'm having. First a negro puts his hands on me and then this. Who do you think you're talking to, you German junkie whore? Don't you ever forget your place with me again. Do you hear me?
Evening, Doc. How's business?
Harlan: Sanguine. Louis, help me here. I'm going to have to giver her something before her performance.
Roy: Blow it off, Cole. These artsy fartsy types always get a little flighty. Meet Dr. Harlan Fontaine. Doctor to the start. Mr. Fixit to the mental wreckage of Hollywood. So what about that drink, boys?