Mastrionotti: What do you do, Fink? Barton: I write. Deutsch: Oh yeah? What kind of write? Barton: Well, as a matter of fact I write for the pictures. Mastrionotti: Big fuckin' deal. Deutsch: You want my partner to kiss your ass? Mastrionotti: Would ...
Mastrionotti: Fink. That's a Jewish name, isn't it? Barton: Yeah. Mastrionotti: Yeah, I didn't think this dump was restricted.
Charlie: I sure do forget myself sometimes.
Ben Geisler: Okay Fink, let's chow.
Geisler: Mayhew, some help, the guy's a souse! Barton: He's a great writer... Geisler: A great souse! Barton: You don't understand... Geisler: Souse! Barton: He's in pain, because he can't write... Geisler: Souse! Souse! Can't write? He manages to wr...
W.P. Mayhew: Mister Fink, they have not invented a genre of picture that Bill Mayhew has not, at one time or other, been invited to essay. Yes, I have taken my stab at the rasslin' form, as I have stabbed at so many others, and with as little success...
Mastrionotti: Started in Kansas City. Couple of housewives. Deutsch: Couple days ago we see the same M.O. out in Los Feliz. Mastrionotti: Doctor. Ear, nose and throat man. Deutsch: All of which he's now missin'. Mastrionotti: Well, some of his throat...
Jack Lipnick: Look Bart, barring a preference we're going to put you on a wrestling picture, Wallace Beery. I say this because they tell me you know the poetry of the streets, so that would rule out westerns, pirate pictures, screwball, Bible, Roman....
Poppy Carnahan: I don't pretend to be a critic, but lord knows I have a gut, and my gut tells me it's simply marvelous. Richard St. Claire: And a charming gut it is. Poppy Carnahan: Oh, you dog.
Jack Lipnick: I run this dump, and I don't know the technical mumbo-jumbo. Why do I run it? Cause I got horse sense goddamit, SHOWMANSHIP! And also I hope Lou told you this, I am bigger and meaner and louder than any other kike in this town. Did you ...
Charlie: Hell you've got it made writing for the pictures, beating out that competition, and me being patronizing! Is the egg showing, or what?
Ben Geisler: What Ted Oakam doesn't know you could almost squeeze into the Hollywood Bowl.
Barton: W.P. Mayhew? The writer? W.P. Mayhew: Just Bill, please. Barton: [screaming] BILL! You're the finest novelist of our time.
W.P. Mayhew: You are dripping sah.
Charlie: The doctor, what's he gonna tell me? Can't trade my head in for a new one.
Charlie: Beery wrestling picture? Could be a pip, could be a pip.
W.P. Mayhew: I close my eyes I can almost smell the live oak. Audrey Taylor: That's chicken fat Bill. W.P. Mayhew: Well my olfactory's turning womanish on me, lying and deceitful.
W.P. Mayhew: Me I just enjoy making things up. Yessah escape. Its when I can't write I can't escape myself, I want to rip my head off and run screaming down the street with my balls in a fruit pickers pail.
