Roy: You like the fight game, Phelps?
Cole: I did a little boxing in the Marines. I found it a pretty humbling experience.
Vendor: Fix you a sandwich, buddy? Corned beef and egg salad, twelve cents. Bologna, ham, and cheese, ten.
Roy: It's strictly a mug's game. You'll like this fight though. A plucky limey is about to take a beating from an up and coming negro.
Cole: You sound pretty sure about the result.
Roy: I ought to be. I got fifty bucks on the black kid. Let's get a ringside seat. That son of a bitch Hammond made a run for his dressing room! Let's find out what's going on.
Carlo: Goddamn you, Albert! You get out here right now!
Cole: Step back. LAPD. What's going on?
Carlo: That son of a bitch Hammond has jammed the door.
Cole: And who are you?
Carlo: Carlo Arquero. I'm his manager.
Trainer: I'm his trainer.
Cole: Interesting attitude to have towards a victorious athlete.
Carlo: Victorious? We had an arrangement. We had a goddamned arrangement!
Roy: That limey bastard was paid to take a nap. He reneged.
Cole: And you're out of pocket?
Roy: Damn right. Me and a couple of hundred other people.
Cole: Stand aside.
Roy: He squeezed out the window. I'll put an APB out on him.
Cole: Why would we do that? He won the fight fair and square.
Roy: To prevent him from getting clipped. He was paid to flop. There was big money riding on this fight.
Cole: So are we here because you lost money, or because we're investigating a prizefighting racket?
Roy: Very funny. Look around and see what you can find.
Cole: Which is Hammond's locker?
Trainer: Over by the pinboard. Second from the end.
Cole: There's a phone number we can run by R&I. Plus, a bunch of names and odds. You're not the only one who likes a flutter, Roy.
Mickey: You better find that cocksucker, and you bring him to me.
Carlo: I feel bad too, Mickey. He guaranteed me he would take the flop.
Mickey: I guarantee that you will be fish food if you don't bring me... Roy, you out of pocket too?
Roy: Mickey. Seems that way.
Mickey: Don't worry about it. My boys are out looking for him.
Cole: Well, you had better call them off. This is a police matter now. If anything happens to Hammond, I'll testify that you made threats against him.
Mickey: Who's the greyhound? He's a frisky one, isn't he?
Roy: Cole Phelps. Mickey Cohen.
Cole: I know who he is, Roy. I met his brother-in-law.
Roy: I think you had the Mickster pretty scared back there.
Cole: Operator, give me dispatch.
Operator: Putting you through now.
Cole: Cole Phelps, badge 1247..
Dispatch: How can I help, detective?
Cole: I need an address for the following phone number: AL345.
Dispatch: The address for the phone number is the Hotel El Mar, 6294 Leland Way, Hollywood.
Roy: You know the place?
Cole: Flophouse. Quarter a night and no questions asked. You seem to have a pretty cozy relationship with Cohen and Stompanato.
Roy: Do I note a hint of reprimand in your tone, detective? Talking to gangsters comes with the turf. You should try out Mickey's place. He's got a haberdashers up on Sunset. See if he can get you of those old man's clothes that you slink around in.
Cole: It's a front for his illegal activities.
Roy: It is that, but he does carry some very sharp suits.
Cole: If it's okay with you, I'll stick with Brooks Brothers.