Mr. Smith: There was this guy, big guy, Irish-Italian, red-faced, black-haired, jolly son of a bitch...
(Gene turns away slightly)
Mr. Smith: ...wait a second: nobody could make me laugh like him. He made a science of collecting jokes. We closed more bars together than I could count. And he was a pal. I loved the crazy mick, and I'm not ashamed to say that, but he was a fuck-up. He had this image of himself, he thought he was a con man. Always trying to shave the edge. Nickel and dime. I'll always miss him. Tell me why.
Gene Watson: Tell you why, what?
Mr. Smith: Tell me why I miss him.
Gene Watson: He's dead?
Mr. Smith: That's right. He is dead, but tell me why.
Gene Watson: How do I know? I don't ...
Mr. Smith: Tell me why he's dead!
Gene Watson: 'Cause you killed him?
Mr. Smith: That's right, I did. I killed him. He fucked up one too many times, so I put a bullet in his eye. Then, I put two more into him just to make sure. Now, that was somebody I loved; I loved him! But I got the call, I put him down like a sick animal. So, if you got doubts about what's gonna happen if you don't deliver, let me tell you something. I'll make gravy out of your little girl just to season that Black Irish cocksucker's meat. You do what you're supposed to do, young man. You do it now.