Jennifer Eight

- Three Mics, Susie.
- A couple of shots.

Look at those amazing bosoms.
- Want another beer?
- No. Gotta go. I'm nights.

- Give me a ride?
- Sure.

How's that hand job coming along, John?
We're not talking the "talk" tonight.
No one's gonna make that dude.
Six months investigation and the nearest
we got, we thought he was a sailor.

- A sailor?
- Yeah.

In and out of Frisco on the big boats.
Every lead pointed to the sea.

Night Freddy T, John.
How come he's suddenly so forthcoming?
- I'd kick him in the fucking ass.
- Stop it.

If he'd told me, I might have got
somewhere. I never heard that theory.

He might have
the one thing I need in his files.

Have a fucking lemonade.
Let it go.