Original subtitles

Oh, my God!

It looks like the mustache boy's been at it again.

That's the way it looks, boss.

So some loser gets his ticket punched.

What's the big deal?

Pete?

Tracy?

Lieutenant, this is patrolman Peter Orsini.

Tell him, son.

This DOA was a classmate of mine at the Academy.

It's Grimaldi.

Tony Grimaldi.

Ralph G.'s kid?

Could be.

Raffaello only had one son named Antonio.

You check for I.D.?

Driver's license indicates the victim was Giovanni Falconetti.

174 Houston Street, Apartment 3C.

You can put it through escrow.

This is Luciana Grimaldi.

Ralph G.'s widow.

I'd appreciate it if you'd redball that autopsy report.

This one's family.

Get to a phone and turn out the troops.

I want a door to door the entire neighborhood.

Yes, Lieutenant.

Right.

The deceased apparently expired as a result of a

bullet fired at point-blank range into the heart.

The absence of blood stains tends to suggest that the homicide occurred elsewhere.

How's that for openers?

Terrific.

Lieutenant, who's Raffaello Grimaldi?

Living legend, Crocker.

A squeaky, clean, straight arrow with more guts than smarts.

You know, I rode shotgun with him once.

We were both still in blues.

So what happened?

Well, maybe nine years ago.

Ralph's tooling home from the old 2-6.

When he spots this Lincoln Continental doing figure eights on the FDR,

checks his hot sheet and gives chase,

flagged him off to Parkway just below the Queensborough Bridge.

When his two teenage cockroaches file out pitchin' lead,

Grimaldi evidently gave as good as he got.

The meat wagon collected three corpses.

That would have been it, only it turns out the

boosters are Carmine and Roberto Donatello.

Franco's kids?

When they hit him with the news, the old man freaked out.

He swore he'd never rest until he buried Grimaldi's son.

Who knows, maybe he was grief-talking.

We told his mama we wasn't taking any chances.

She shipped the boy out to be raised by some relatives out west.

We all figured he'd be safe there.

Well, then how... Yeah, cracker, how?

Here comes the brass.

Who's the kid?

Over here, Captain.

Who's the Barracuda with McNeil?

Captain Boratucci of the Organized Crime Bureau.

What I want to know is what he's doing here.

Well, how do we hack this?

Let's grab some coffee.

Yes, Saperstein. The lieutenant wants us to torch the apartment.

You've got the address. He'll meet you there in an hour.

He asked in.

You think we'd run a nationwide recruiting program?

Ever since the Vallachi Songfest, we've been scratching for a fail-safe method

of stiffing an undercover cop into the organization.

Four months ago, we got lucky.

One of our most reliable stools was nailed on an ADW.

With his yellow sheet, if he didn't scratch our backs,

he knew he'd be spending his twilight years trimming the warden's hedges.

Being a sensible man, he caved.

We had a passport. All we had to do was elect a candidate.

We combed the list of applicants currently in line for training at the Academy.

And finally narrowed it down to the one kid who came closest to filling the bill.

Of Sicilian descent, raised out of state,

and an honor student in this class at UCLA.

The son of a dead cop.

His mother already gave Bonaduce. He wasn't once enough.

Enough for her, maybe, but not for Tony.

That kid could have been anything he wanted,

but what he wanted was to be a police officer, so we obliged him.

He was enrolled at the Academy given a special course of training,

a brand-new identity and a bogus rap sheet.

We did not send him down the rapids in a paper canoe, Kojak.

We gave him the best we had.

Hey, wasn't enough.

His stool managed to bring him into the mob?

As an apprentice butcher at the Palestrina Meatpacking Company,

which is owned by Franco Six Bits Donatello.

That was two months ago.

Since then?

We've learned the hard way.

You want results, you gotta practice patience.

Officer Antonio Grimaldi learned an even harder lesson.

Damn it, Kojak, he knew the risks!

Something else is bugging you. Tell me, please.

Tony was in double jeopardy.

If his cup had been blown out, it's why they'd simply cut him loose.

You know, the syndicate tends to think long and hard before wasting a cop.

But the kid wasn't just another police officer.

He was Ralph G's boy.

No way, they burned him nowhere.

If you wanted an audit, I'd say he was off by La Valmont.

Oh, and where'd you get that?

Because of where they dumped the body.

That warehouse is leased by Umpire Realty, which in turn is owned by Franco Donatello.

You honestly believe he would deliberately deposit a corpse in his own doorstep?

I want to talk to your stool.

That's privileged information and you know it.

If you're noodling with the notion that he rolled over on Grimaldi...

On my drift, I'm thinking if Franco didn't order the hit,

he's gotta be waiting, wanting some answers, too.

And if I know Sixpits, he'll be asking the

questions at the business end of a blowtorch.

All right, yeah, pull my man in as soon as I can find him.

You splitting?

I've got to see a dog about a man.

I'm Captain Marvel of the New York Police Department.

Okay, let him in.

Tracking his dirt all over my living room.

What am I, some kind of a lousy street punk who can't blow his nose without a diagram?

Eliana, upstairs.

Papa.

Come on, already it's past your bedtime.

I ain't gonna pay no fancy tuition to St.

Theodora's so you can nap during your French lessons.

Good night.

And you, too.

No wife of mine is gonna play hostess and no cop.

Yes, it would be rather dare class, eh?

Good night, darling.

And you, the fox,

with all the high-priced dances.

So tell me, consigliere,

how come Kojak is shaking my tree?

I don't know.

I'll let him in.

Lieutenant, I wanted to understand that my client

will receive you against the advice of Councilman quite frankly, this unwarr...

Spanky and Alfalfa guarding the gate outside.

Williams, Jenny and Brian here greeting us at dawn.

No surprise to see you, right?

If it's any of your business, cop,

Mr. Carver is here on a social visit.

He did me a favor and hauled my wife to the ballet tonight.

Frank, you're under no obligation to explain anything to him.

He's here, Annie.

He sure as hell didn't drive all the way out here to read the gas meter.

And as for those dum-dums at the gate,

I don't need no hired cannons to run pushy cops off, Kojak.

I can rent a chihuahua for that.

It's my family living out here in Atulis.

I want to protect my loved ones.

Protect, okay. What about a vengeance?

Oh, don't give me no smoke.

Now, if you got a package for me, let's have it.

Antonio Grimaldi, a.k.a. Giovanni Falconetti,

employee of the Palestrina Meatpacking Company and undercover cop.

Found dead outside a warehouse on the Lower East Side, a bullet in his heart, period.

Raphaello Grimaldi's kid?

On my mother's grave, Kojak.

It's the first I hear of it.

Frank, as your attorney, I've got to advise you... -You won't believe this,

but this news gives me no satisfaction.

Nine years ago, yes, two boys dead.

My wife dying of cancer can make me no more sons.

Yes, I wanted to see Antonio in his grave,

but time has changed.

I changed.

I got a young wife.

She could make me more sons.

And you thought... Yeah, you did, didn't you?

If you suspected me, you would have come with more than your nose.

It was on your payroll.

The body turned up on your piece of turf.

Nobody had a stronger motive.

If Raphaello's son was executed,

it was not by my orders.

I couldn't buy that.

We'd be having our conversation in the squad room.

The Iceman, that's all I want.

Now, you got ways of prying loose information I can't get at.

I recommend you do so,

because until I have the answers, Sonny Boy,

this town won't be fit to live in.

Oh, please, don't bother.

Either I'm being set up or somebody's sending me a message.

Now, I want action.

I want real intelligence.

But first, I want the guts of that double-dealing Luchatola

who finessed Grimaldi into that backing plant.

Frank, I think that would just prove kind of productive.

Because you know,

the organized crime bureau are just going to be laying in wait.

They're going to be anticipating you're making that exact move.

See?

Yeah.

Okay.

But I'm not going to take your advice.

But still, I got to make a move.

Now, you heard Kojak.

I know that hairpin.

Until he closes his case,

I'm going to be wearing him like a depending scarf.

Frank, listen, I've got an early filing in the morning.

If you don't need me all.

No, go on. Drift.

Aunt, darling.

No, look, look.

He was a cop.

Darling, relax.

Darling, just relax.

No, look, look.

Three miles from here, there's an old mill pond.

And all you have to do is take the camera and the

blanket and the gun and just get rid of them there.

We'll be home free.

Rubbing on on Donatello just like that.

Somebody die and leave you to your own police department.

No wonder I can't flush my snitch.

Thanks to your skinheaded squad commander, I'll be lucky to recover his bones.

Dan, do you think I'd give Sixpits anything he

wouldn't have routinely collected from the grapevine?

You and that surprise visit put him on formal notice.

He wouldn't go near him now if you'd dipped a slob in platinum.

Hey, I didn't jeopardize your stoolie, baby.

I bought him a life insurance policy.

Then where is he?

It's not the only question in chopping for an answer.

Like why was Grimaldi's apartment tossed?

Forensic dusted the pad.

You know what they come up with?

One alien palm print on a window sill.

They also found a case for a mini-camera with

the guarantee that came with its purchase.

But no camera, no film.

Yeah.

Excuse me, gentlemen.

The squad is all present and accounted for.

Grimaldi's coworkers at the packing plant should be

grilled, forthwith determined who the victim hung out with,

how he spent his leisure hours,

did he have any lady friends.

Crocker, you spent anything we can use?

The autopsy indicates that the deceased dined before expiration.

Now, his stomach contents are being analyzed.

If they find out what he ate,

maybe we can find out where.

Are ballistics able to give us a make on the murder weapon?

A slug was fired from a .32

with European bore characteristics.

So far we don't have anything on a matchup.

Stavros,

what's with Forensic?

Well, wolf fiber was found clean into the decedent's apparel,

suggesting he'd been bundled for transport in a blanket.

Additionally, there were traces of face powder and perfume.

Okay.

From all that was your boy, Captain,

don't you think it's time you contribute a little something to the pot

like maybe a name of your informant?

Scruffy Sutherland.

All right. You got that, Stavros? Got it.

Pull this mug shot from the .

52 file and run off a few hundred copies to put out on the streets.

One final note.

Words going out to every command back with the full way to the PC's office.

Until otherwise notified,

all available pressures,

however petty,

are to be brought to bear on known or suspected mob operations.

Translation.

That we should start to build fires under their tushies?

Right.

Zap the wise guy's word hurts right in the cash register.

Now, same goes for your stools.

Squeeze them till they sing Madam Butterfly.

You know,

everybody takes it for granted that the kid was snuffed because of who he was.

Why?

He was there to gather intelligence, right?

Now, has it occurred to anyone that

he might have hit Payne Dirt?

Excelsior!

We got us a witness!

Would you come in, please?

Just step right in this way.

Thank you very much.

Just right this way.

I don't think there's anything to worry about, darling,

but if you're worried,

I'll cancel the hairdresser.

Oh, what for?

Seraphina can take care of Ileana.

Just because she's staying home with an upset stomach

don't mean that you have to spoil your day.

Ha ha.

Seraphina,

it was that third lady helping those abiglioni.

You know,

she can't handle that rich stuff.

She's delicate,

like her mama.

Thank you.

Bye-bye, darling.

Well, Seraphina, I'll take that upstairs.

Well, how is our invalid?

Nothing?

I'm not going.

Going? Going where?

Away to finishing school.

You think you'll wear Papa down?

Well, Papa is a rock.

It's for your own good.

No, Cleo.

I think it's for your own good.

You just want me out of this house.

You don't love Papa.

Not the way my mama did.

Not the way I do.

You're just... -You better take two aspirins and drink lots of liquid.

That's some temperature you have.

You are...!

Move!

That's okay, Seraphina.

Please continue.

I've got to see you.

What? Are you insane?

After last night?

If I wanted a sedentary life, I would take a dog

breeding and have Franco buy me a station wagon.

Yes, Alfredo.

Um, three o'clock, a wash and a set. Thank you.

It's a dark, continental car.

It's new from the looks of it.

From the window, I couldn't see the other driver.

The other guy, though, the one that dumped the stiff, you know, he was, uh. ..

He was about six feet tall.

Neat head of hair,

good fit on the clothes, which he didn't buy out of no rack.

We'll show you some pictures, okay?

Maybe he can pick out a face.

It's pretty dark in the alley, man.

Well, I was looking down, you know.

We'll try.

Let's give it a try.

Would you come with me, please?

Right this way.

Thank you.

Uh, Captain, your stoolie's on line two.

Scruffy, where the hell are you?

What could he know, how to put pants on a lamp chop?

I'm telling you, Cap,

that kid was onto some inside skinny.

It's news to me.

Somebody must have made him.

Don't ask me how.

You must have some idea.

I got just one idea,

but a whole lot of geography between me and this town.

When they stopped from Aldi's clock, my life expectancy dipped to zip.

I got a cousin runs this car wash in, uh, Grand Rapids.

I'll spread some shade on me.

Just give me the bus fare, and I'm off and running.

Come on, Badaduchi, don't jerk me around.

Ain't my fault the kid buys a harp.

You put me in the toilet.

Don't pull the chain.

That's all I got with me.

Whoa.

It's better than a walking ride to Hart's Island.

Anybody got a spare smoke?

Keep your nose clean, Scruffy.

In Grand Rapids, yeah, they bust you for chewing gum on Sundays.

Any luck with our witness?

Strangaglia.

Nothing.

I ran him from every picture in the house.

Not even a marginal I.D.

If that honcho is mobbed up,

either we're not carrying him on our books or he's a pilgrim father.

Yeah.

Lieutenant, got an update for you.

The perfume is an astronomically expensive French import.

Alain de Anges.

It's handled exclusively by La Petite Boutique,

237 East 56th Street.

The face powder is an equally precious commodity,

blended especially for the woman that wear it.

Now, based on the law of probabilities,

I figure there's maybe

a couple of hundred dollies in a New York area with similar skin tones

who might be using the same skin blend and who could afford the tariff.

Wonderful, Prince.

Is there anything on the blanket?

A cashmere shedding like a 12-year-old air deal.

Find me someone who's handled it and, provided they haven't schlepped their clothes

to the cleaners yet, I'll nail them

with my trusty spectroscope.

Stavros!

All right, thanks, Moskowitz.

Stavros!

What is it? Grocery list?

No, pathology's analysis of the contents of Grimoldi's stomach.

Cloud-ear fungus, preserved turnip,

agar-agar,

Szechuan pepper,

fermented bean paste,

five-star anise,

coriander, sesame.

Chinese food, right, Skipper?

Yeah, but definitely not Cantonese.

All right, dig up some manpower.

Start canvassing every Szechuan Mandarin-Hunanese

restaurant this side of the Boston Post Road, okay?

You gotta be kidding.

You know what you're asking?

On Mott Street alone, there are more than a couple of doubling joints

than all of Shanghai put together.

Yeah, Stavros.

You know, Wednesday afternoon, the mayor's giving Antonio Grimoldi an inspector's funeral.

I'll be there.

And so will his mother.

And when she asks me, Stavros,

are we making a headway in this case?

What do I tell her?

May I help you?

Say,

is there another way out of here?

Right this way.

We traced Grimoldi's camera back to the dealer.

It turned out he left some film there for developing.

It was picked up first thing this morning.

You got a description of the claimant? Little guy.

Grizzle mostly,

faded jeans,

black turtleneck, sheepskin jacket.

Dirty beard with pimples?

Yeah, but how did you...

Oh,

we've been eight balls, baby.

Now, you grab a photo of Scruffy Southern.

Hustle your butts back to that camera shop.

Pull that creep's prince from C. I.B.

and match him with the posher we left at Grimoldi's bed.

Well, go on. Move!

Hold him off, little termite.

He sells us ten acres of swampland and cons me out of his seno for getaway money.

What's he up to?

In case of prickly heat,

I scratch him one place and already it itches in another.

It cuts

into the receipts.

Pretty soon, the only people making any profit

will be the bail bondsmen.

It'll go away.

The cop is dead.

If it was one of ours, would we let it go away?

I give you the action.

You're supposed to keep everything nice and tidy.

You can't do it!

We have to hand them somebody.

That's why that goes.

Maybe that somebody...

is you.

Don't hang up on me, pal.

Another dime and mother's little help in some movie spring.

I see I got your attention.

Tell you what else I got.

A handsome photograph

suitable for framing.

50 G's is what it's gonna cost you to buy yourself out of this jackpot

because otherwise the next dime I drop puts me right through to the lady's husband.

Well,

now I'll need some time here now, you see,

to come up with that large an amount.

You got it.

Two hours.

I'll call you later at the office and tell you where to deliver the bread.

You couldn't wait.

That kid's body isn't even cold.

We're back doing business in the exact same stall.

Because of you,

we're gonna be paying black bail for the rest of our lives.

I killed that kid

for nothing.

Who would ever possess me to think you were a man?

Franco's 20 years, you're a senior and you couldn't even wear his hand-me-downs.

Tell me you're not scared.

Of course I'm scared.

But I'm also a survivor

and you can just sit there and wallow in your hysteria.

I propose to do something.

Last night, around 8, 8. 30,

he was alone.

What about him?

Maybe an hour ago, but he was only here a minute.

He didn't order anything.

I see.

Thank you very much.

Thank you.

Gee, I'm sorry, pal.

I guess I must have boxed you in C'est la vie, right?

Give me half a second and I'll give you some room, okay?

Okay.

You know, Sutherland breaks into Grimaldi's walk-up last night.

The birds are hardly awake this morning.

He's at the camera shop collecting pictures.

Is it only me or does anyone else get a smell of shakedown?

According with that premise,

we got a figure of Grimaldi somehow stumbled across the stash of dynamite.

Yeah, but who's dynamite?

Scruffy might be shy a couple of aces, but he's not so dumb he blackmailed the mob.

Well, maybe it was something the killers wanted kept from the mob.

I'm afraid.

Face powder.

Cream shoulder.

Lizzo,

Hey, give me forensic. I want to talk to Sergeant Prince.

Would your report fail to state precisely where the

traces of face powder and perfume were detected?

I know what you're getting at.

He assumed it was in the region of the face, neck, collar,

and coat lapels.

Normally that would be the case.

Not so.

The residue is on all these pants covers.

Bye.

The trousers.

And how's it come to be on the trousers?

I'm helping to dump the corpse into the continental.

Wait, wait a minute.

What are you saying?

That the wheel man was abroad?

Well, you got a better fit.

Look,

that same Grimaldi had them under surveillance with snappin' pictures.

They caught on, took them by surprise,

that ba-dabba-doo, like that, and the rest is history.

Well, why move the body?

Why try to make it look like a gang line rubber?

Well, that part's easy.

The original crime site was too close to home.

We'll go with what we know.

We know the kid was killed shortly after eating.

We know he took his last meal at that Zeshuan

Pagoda and went away with a New York kid.

We know one thing else.

Scruffy Sutherland was seen hangin' around the Pagoda earlier this afternoon.

Fatso!

Hey, uh, we in business?

Crazy!

Okay, Battery Park,

near the ferry,

third bench from the entrance.

I'm wearing a sheepskin jacket,

black turtleneck,

and some whiskers on an honest face.

All right.

Now, what I want to know is,

what assurance do I have that you're not gonna come back later for more?

Man, my bags are packed.

How does this town look for you?

That's how hot it already is for me.

I'll see you later.

I don't think we're gonna have to kill him after all,

because he said... I don't care what he said, Lou.

We can't have him walking around knowing what he knows.

Now, don't forget, you're expected to get dinner tonight.

Not tonight.

But you must.

I mean, there are all sorts of guests coming.

Dignitaries,

civic leaders,

heads of state.

Franco's gonna be very uncomfortable in their presence without you to rely on.

And we don't want to upset Franco, do we?

Column A,

a list of all credit card accounts at La Petite Boutique.

Column B,

on the proposition that only a peasant

spends cash

at such a chic establishment.

The records of credit card accounts and checks received over the past year.

You know, Settler-Karger,

in the perspicacity sweepstake, you'd be a bookie's delight.

And furthermore,

forget it.

Aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye.

I brought the money.

Did you bring the merchandise?

Yeah, I got it.

It's good. Don't worry.

the officer was first on the scene.

He did recognize Sutherland, then notified our squad.

Gunshot point-blank range.

Two witnesses claim they saw him talking to some woman.

Middle-aged, about foot,

kind of dumpy, you know?

Carrying a shopping bag.

And that's it.

Miami and friends have gone their way.

Too bad, Scruffy.

Toss him.

No sign of the photographs.

Surprise, surprise.

Pocket comb,

handkerchief,

$94 in currency,

dress book,

and two matchbook covers.

I hope nobody gets trampled to death fighting over the estate.

Yeah, bag and tag him.

Now, wait a minute.

Why would he save an empty matchbook folder?

Jenny, I'll be leaving for the day.

Ready for this?

The license number scribbled on that matchbook checks out to a 75 Mercedes,

450 SL Sports coupe.

Registered owner?

Uh-huh.

This is Franco Donatello.

Thank you, Panky.

Hey.

Can you think of a better reason for icing Grimaldi and then Sutherland?

But who's the fox?

Much as it pains me to throw salt in your egg cream, Theo,

we check the list of clients that the Petit

Boutique and Cleo Donatello is not one of them.

Crocker,

here, check with the importer who distributes that perfume.

See if there's a retail outlet on Long Island.

And if there is, find out whether

Donatello's wife is a customer.

Oh, and tell Lizzo I want to see him.

Traces of human blood turned up in the alley behind the Szechuan Pagoda.

Typo, same as Grimaldi's.

Why there, I asked myself.

Yeah, boss.

Now, get over to the Times.

Take out a photo of Cleo Donatello.

Turn it down to the Szechuan Pagoda.

Show it around the neighborhood, hotels, apartments,

houses like that.

Another lady's been shacking up somewhere.

And it damn sure wasn't the white WCA.

Yeah.

Just got the report on a slug we dug out of scruffy Sutherland.

Oh, hold on just a minute.

Go ahead.

It's a .38, Lieutenant,

so it didn't come from the weapon that killed Grimaldi.

But listen, that doesn't mean it's a dead end.

This bullet's no stranger to ballistics.

They've had its twin on file for 27 years.

The cannon that wasted Sutherland is the same job

that blew away two-ton Johnny Amata in the men's room

at the old garden.

Good luck.

Thanks.

There's no way that Mrs.Donatello is implicated in that hit.

She wasn't even out of diapers when it happened.

So maybe her boyfriend supplied the kill gun.

Maybe Mr. X is the dude who bushwhacked Johnny.

Quarter of a century will we carry their case in our books.

Two-ton Johnny will ask for the mustache beats.

You know something, troops?

We call her the owner of that . 38.

We're gonna close out a lot of the cons.

Well, thank you.

Judge Macklin signed a warrant.

You can swing by and pick it up on your way out to Long Island.

Where's Crocker?

He's down taking statements of the Traveler's Rest Motor Lodge.

All right, Fatso. Saddle up.

We're off.

Ain't that the pits?

It's about time somebody nailed them for something.

You know that dude, Lieutenant? -Oh, yeah.

He's Donatello's band-aid. Why?

Probably was that that safe one we'll go to today.

That part checks out.

That description we got from our eyewitness.

Now hunt the rest of me.

Tall, rangy,

nice set of hair, sharp dresser, lawyer-type.

What witness? What are you talking about?

Can I have the keys, please? I'd like to take a look at your trunk.

For what?

If you want to move a body, find another way.

That blanket was shed like a 10-cent Christmas tree.

Get in on the airwaves.

There's no sign of a peace of (...)

They must have stashed it.

The cover regrets you'll be unable to dine tonight.

Not that this is going to do a lot for your appetite, either.

As a matter of fact, we have bought two warrants,

Mrs. Donatello, and one for your arrest on suspicion of murder.

Together, an authorization to conduct a search

of the premises for incriminating evidence.

Specifically, a lady d'Orange perfume blend four scents 27275 and like that.

And any articles are worrying apparel to which

cashmere wool fiber will be found to claim.

You have the right to remain silent.

What the hell's going on here?

Oh, that's a reasonable question.

You want the answer here or in the library?

Well, your boyfriend, Mr. Cobb, he left his brains on a highway.

Lou's dead?

Huh.

Maybe he's the lucky one.

Okay, okay, it's true.

It's true we were having an affair,

but it was a ghastly mistake and one which I couldn't extricate myself from.

I pleaded with Lou.

I pleaded with him, but he was like a madman.

He swore that if I left him that he would go to Franco and confess everything.

Adultery, meritrice.

Franco, what could I do?

I was in fear for my life.

And then last night the unthinkable happened.

As God is my witness,

I did not know that that man was a policeman.

All we knew was that someone had found us out.

But then Lou panicked and

the next thing I knew,

the man was dead.

Beautiful.

You know, you put that on at two o'clock in the afternoon,

you're something more soaked than the guiding light.

Well, how about you, six bits?

You swallow that, huh?

Get that refugee out of here.

She's soiling my furniture.

You know something, sweetheart?

You just might swing in.

I mean, with Carver dead knowing to contradict your

testimony, you might peddle that snake oil to a jury.

But you left out one item.

Scruffy Sutherland.

And baby, if we can't send you up on the grimoire of the killing,

we can crucify you for that Battery Park job.

How do you propose to do that?

With this.

Guyana,

you know what you've done?

She betrayed you with your own gun.

I thought you'd be glad.

I don't understand.

What did I do?

But I thought she was right.

We're gonna close out a lot of accounts for this one.

Out of the mouth of Bambino's.