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Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips
-You coming in now? -Yes.
You ain't gonna let that shit ride, are you? After what he did?
Thanks, Mr. Diz.
-Johnson. -My ticket to the dance.
Lying to the wife's easy.
He'd dial that phone number.
I'll call you back.
But right now, this case feels like a lot more than Frank Sobotka.
Lieutenant, I was under the impression that when detailed against his will...
Drop it in the fucking street.
Oh, God!
Upstairs, gentlemen. Third floor, back bedroom.
What these motherfuckers think they looking at?
But I don't make it my everything.
Give me your phone. Fucking Polacks.
-Save some for the other customers, okay? -Pour it!
The answer is no.
She died.
you just gonna let all this shit fly out?
Now I hear Bea Russell's doing some shit with real police.
-Stay there. -Fuck you!
Damned if she didn't find her way back to Hull Street.
-Garage, probably. -Either they have a garage card...
In fact, he wants to be there to hear this shit.
1 2-08.
No problem, if you clean his garage first. Or wash his windows, maybe.
Okay, so I'm 90 days late on my cell phone, but they let me go...
He doesn't look like he'd have to pay.
-Nick. -Sobotka.
-This is Eve. -I'm looking to connect.
Whatever, okay.
No phone.
Assuming exhaustion, that's one tap on the warehouse phone.