Fleetwood: Help you?
Phelps: Detectives Phelps and Earle, LAPD. We're inquiring into the deaths of . . .
Earle: Hand over the popcorn, numbskull, before we kick the door in. Get that son of a bitch! Stay on him.
Fleetwood: Eddie, help me out, man. They trying to kill me, you got to help me out.
Eddie: What the hell going on here? Morgan, that you?
Phelps: You picked the wrong cop, you fucking animals! Take it easy. What's your name?
Phelps: Half an answer is no answer to me, asshole.
Fleetwood: Fleetwood Morgan.
Phelps: Keep an eye on him, Roy, while I take a look around.
Earle: Keep very still, Fleetwood. Don't give me an excuse to shoot you.
Phelps: These number slips might affect your tone, Fleetwood. It should be stamped on the reverse by the issuer. Maybe Morgan can give us something on this Jones character. Morphine, it might not be filling, but I'm sure it's satisfying.
Earle: About time we heard what Fleetwood here has to say, Cole.
Phelps: We're inquiring about the deaths of two men in an apartment across the street, Fleetwood. We want answers.
Fleetwood: Of course, I'll do my best, mister.
Phelps: You sold the drugs to Cornell Tyree and Tyrone Lamont.
Fleetwood: No, I sell fried steaks and black-eyed peas.
Phelps: You're lying, Fleetwood. We know that you supplied them.
Fleetwood: I don't know nothing about no drugs. All I do is my ten here, flipping burgers. Can you prove any different?
Phelps: Flipping burgers and strapping jolts of morphine to the bottom of popcorn cups, Fleetwood. Now I want the truth. Who supplies the drugs?
Fleetwood: Cat by the name of Armstrong Edwards, all right? He brings the stuff around about once a day.
Earle: I know Armstrong. He's a two bounce, strictly small time. Who's he working for, Fleetwood?
Fleetwood: Jermain Jones.
Phelps: We have you for the hop and resisting arrest. Tell us about the numbers if you want our help.
Fleetwood: The numbers are white men's tax on poor folk, all right? Now what else you want to know?
Phelps: We have an address on the slips. We're going to go down there now and rat you out, Fleetwood, tell whoever it is that you rolled over and gave them up.
Fleetwood: No, no, no. Look, I been cooperative, okay? Now you got to help me some.
Earle: Fleetwood, I'm going to speak personally to the judge on your behalf.
Phelps: A name, Fleetwood.
Fleetwood: Well, he's a real slick dude, wears a hat and swings a cane, goes by the name of Merlin. I ain't got a last name.
Phelps: See you at the station, Fleetwood.
Fleetwood: You're going to help me, right?
Earle: Of course, kid, you helped us out. We always like to repay a favor. Can you see that Fleetwood gets a nice cell, Wallace? One with a window and a nice, fresh pillow.
Phelps: Operator, give me Dispatch.
Operator: Putting you through now.
Phelps: Cole Phelps, Badge 1247.
Dispatch: How can I help, detective?
Phelps: I need an address on a Jermaine Jones Musical Booking Agency.
Dispatch: Just a moment, detective. Jermain Jones. The office is listed as 5528 Santa Monica Boulevard.
Phelps: Thanks. Can you drive to this one?
Earle: Fine, where are we headed? I heard you were in the Blue Room the other night. Shouldn't you have been at home tucked in bed with the wife and kids?
Phelps: Where I go is your business?
Earle: It couldn't have had anything to do with a certain delightful but damaged German girl, could it?
Phelps: I don't know what you're talking about, Roy.