A little slow tonight, isn't it?
Yes it is, Mr. Torrance.
What will it be?
l'm awfully glad you asked me that, Lloyd. . .
. . .because l just happen to have two twenties. . .
. . .and two tens right here in my wallet.
l was afraid they'd be there until next April.
So here's what:
You slip me a bottle of bourbon. . .
. . .a little glass and some ice.
You can do that, can't you?
You're not too busy, are you?
No, sir. l'm not busy at all.
You set them up. . .
. . .and l'll knock them back, one by one.
White man's burden, Lloyd, my man.
White man's burden.
Say, Lloyd. . .
. . .it seems l'm temporarily light.
How's my credit in this joint, anyway?
Your credit's fine, Mr. Torrance.
l like you, Lloyd.
l always liked you.
You were always the best of them.
Best goddamn bartender. . .
. . .from Timbuktu to Portland, Maine.
Or Portland, Oregon, for that matter.
Thank you for saying so.
l never laid a hand on him, goddamn it.
l wouldn't touch one hair on his goddamn little head.
l love the little son of a bitch.
l'd do anything for him.
Any fucking thing for him.
But that bitch!
As long as l live. . .
. . .she'll never let me forget what happened.
l did hurt him once, okay?
lt was an accident.
lt could have happened to anybody.
And it was three goddamn years ago!
The little fucker had thrown all my papers all over the floor.
All l tried to do was pull him up.
A momentary loss of muscular coordination.
l mean. . .
. . .a few extra foot-pounds of energy. . .
. . .per second, per second!