Earle: Look at this place. I'm guessing not much talent comes out of this talent agency. Here we are, Jermaine Jones, 238.
Jones: Hey, who let you in?
Phelps: Jermaine Jones. Don't bother getting up. Your flunky Fleettwood Morgan just snitched you out.
Jones: I wasn't planning to. Now you think you could tell me who the hell you are?
Phelps: LAPD. We would like to take a look around.
Jones: The hell you will, motherfucker. You carrying a warrant?
Earle: No, do we need one? Search the place, Cole.
Jones: What do you think you're going to find, policeman?
Phelps: Scott Phantom. Fine radio. Shortwave, AM, and FM. My father has a Scott.
Jones: You ain't allowed to do this, I've got rights.
Phelps: No wonder this thing is sounding a little muffled
Jones: Vernon, Wilt, get over here! Take these assholes apart.
Vernon: You heard the boss.
Earle: Is this the best you've got?
Jones: Come on, come on!
Earle: Sit tight asshole. Pretend you're at the parlor getting your nails done. Cole, you had better search through that stuff in the radio before you brace our friend here.
Phelps: How many starving musicians pay with perfect, clean 50s? This must be how those two bums standing guard take their wages. Your friend Fleetwood was also a betting man, Jermaine. Ramez Removals. They must have take special care delivering this for you.
Lamort and Tyree are dead. At a stretch the DA could have you on felony murder for supplying stolen government morphine.
Jones: Tyrone and Cornell are dead?
Earle: They're on a slab downtown with the ME examining their last meal, popcorn washed down with morphine.
Jones: You offering me a deal?
Earle: I have a pet judge who hates blacks. He'll give you 50 years for your two buddies. Another 30 for stealing from Uncle Sam. You'll be out by the time you're 110. Imagine the changes you'll see.
Jones: I get the message. How much is this going to cost me?
Phelps: Who supplies the morphine?
Jones: I don't know anything about that.
Phelps: So we make you for all of it. You're the fall guy for Mickey Cohen.
Jones: In case you haven't noticed, I'm a colored man. You see any Jew boys running around here? I collect my cut. Lenny the Fink controls the action.
Phelps: Lenny who?
Earle: Lenny Finkelstein. Mickey's dipshit brother-in-law.
Phelps: Where's the link between the morphine and the number six?
Jones: There is no link. You're wasting your time here.
Phelps: You're lying to me, Jones. Tell me about Merlon.
Jones: Who? I don't know anyone named Merlon.
Phelps: Fleetwood Morgan will testify that you and Merlon are expanding out of illegal gambling and into drugs.
Jones: Okay. So I buy from a cat that goes by the name Merlon Ottie. Merlon runs the lottery for the Jew boy. Fink has a new line in drugs. You squeal me out, I'll deny ever telling you.
Phelps: Tell us about Ottie.
Jones: Ottie is a gambler. Fronts points on football games, fights, the horses, plumbers, chicken crossing the road. Motherfucker will take the odds on anything.
Phelps: What's the score with Ramez Removals?
Jones: I bought a radio from there. That's all.
Phelps: So when we visit Ramez Removals and tell them we want a special bookcase or wardrobe to hide our dope in, we're going to be copacetic?
Earle: And when we tell them their good friend Jermaine sent us and said they could do a nice deal for the LAPD...
Jones: I could use an act like you two. Those fucks Abbott and Costello are on the slide. Hollywood could use another couple of deeply unfunny whitebread humps like you.
Earle: Very good, Jermaine. You have character. Now cough it up.
Jones: Ramez is a good friend Lenny the Fink. You getting the picture?
Earle: Take them all in.
Jones: We have a deal, right?
Phelps: We're after the morphine. I'll speak to the DA on your behalf. You have my word. Phelps, 1247.
Operator: How can I help detective?
Phelps: I need an address for Ramez Removals. That's Ramez, R-A-M-E-Z.
Operator: Now checking. Ramez Removals. Corner of Sunset and Wilton. Owned by a Jose Victor Ramez.
Phelps: Thank you. You know the way, you can drive.
Earle: Where are we going?
Phelps: How is Hopgood doing, Roy?
Phelps: Marlon Hopgood. Your informer. He was my corroborating witness in the Bishop case.
Earle: Oh right. Marlon. Not still sore about that, are you? You made the case without him.
Phelps: He was the accessory to the abuse of a girl. As long as Hollywood exists, it's going to be chewing up starry eyed little girls.
Earle: Marlon was small time. You caught the big fish and look how much good it did your career.