Impolite

[first lines]

Jack Yeats:
[answering the phone] Obits, Jack Yeats speaking.

Beth:
Paris, it's Beth!

Jack Yeats:
Even paranoids have enemies. How do letterbombs work?

Weinfield:
They blow you to bits when you open them. Jack, relax, none of the guys that would like to kill you know how to make a letterbomb; much less write a letter.

Jack Yeats:
[after being chewed out by his boss] Since when do obituary writers have deadlines.

Gloria Sardone:
[taking notes] Catherine Sienna... Any relation to the saint?

Jack Yeats:
The same that way you're related to the poet.

Catherine Sienna:
May I offer you a beverage?

Jack Yeats:
Please. Double Jamesons, two cubes.

Catherine Sienna:
[relaying order] Magdalena, Double Assumptions, two Holy Ghosts.

Catherine Sienna:
You have sorrowful eyes Mr. Yates.

Jack Yeats:
I haven't been sleeping well.

Catherine Sienna:
I like that in a man.

Jack Yeats:
Insomnia?

Catherine Sienna:
In the art is a flimsy mortal bastion. I like the evidence of ruins to your soul. It suggest intriguing possibilities to the physician.

Jack Yeats:
The Garden of Eden was no great shakes.

Catherine Sienna:
I'll defer to your experience.

Naples O'Rorke:
Do you know the parable of the Prodigal Son?

Jack Yeats:
Some would say too well.

Naples O'Rorke:
Consider this, killing the fatted cow could mean there's going to be an autopsy before there's going to be a feast.

Jack Yeats:
How do I know you're not Paris?

Naples O'Rorke:
Oh come now, Mr. Yates, if I were him, do you think I'd want to be me?

Jack Yeats:
The dead are being very uncooperative.

Jack Yeats:
Happiness *is* possible Beth. As long as all the parties make sure their inner-children are in bed before the streetlights go on, and spend the rest of the evening as adults.

Jack Yeats:
Here's $150. Don't spend it all in one place.

Beth:
I may only be going to one place...

Kenny Lum:
You're an obituary writer and I'm a pathologist, what else but death would bring us together? Still an excuse for a party is fine with me.

Kenny Lum:
Paris moved in mysterious ways.

Kenny Lum:
We all respect the living, for the dead we have only the truth.