Man: Yeah, what do you want?
Phelps: LAPD. We're making inquiries into the whereabouts of an Albert Hammond.
Man: No one here by that name.
Phelps: You sure?
Man: Sure, I'm sure. This isn't the sort of place where people use their real names. Take a look at the register if you don't believe me.
Earle: Okay, so look for prominent Tommies, that should narrow it down.
Phelps: Winston Churchill. A very patriotic Englishman is staying in Room 207.
Earle: The old bulldog. Even at a flophouse, Attlee can't get out from his shadow.
Phelps: He must be heading home. You know, I hope he makes it.
Earle: That crooked son of a bitch? No chance. Looks like he's had a broad up here.
Phelps: Does Albert have somebody special?
Earle: I didn't seen anyone in his corner at the fight.
Phelps: I guess a fighter has plenty of time on his hands between bouts. Instaheat, Adrian Black's product of choice. Seems like a lifetime ago. Candy has expensive taste. Albert has his work cut out for him.
Earle: Who's Candy?
Phelps: Candy Edwards. The lady who filled out this coupon. Looks like Albert has been doing some homework. Eleven grand would be a nice little nest egg.
Earle: All right, let's go after his girl, see if that gets us any closer. Hammond is over the hill. He's a punching bag for the up and comers. He should know his goddamn place.
Phelps: I think he knows. I think he worked out the place isn't L. A.
Earle: He's punchy. His brain's going to mush. Winston Churchill? Give me a break.
Phelps: Churchill's a fighter, Roy. Hammond didn't just scribble down the first name he could think of.
Earle: So you boxed in the Marines?
Phelps: We all did. Standard training.
Earle: I can't imagine you ever played dirty.
Phelps: The only prize for taking a fall was a thousand push-ups.