Deadwood (2004–2006): Season 3, Episode 10 - A Constant Throb - full transcript

Ooh!

Jesus Christ!

What's wrong?

What's wrong?
It fuckin' hurts, Doc.

What do you
think's wrong?

As the particular mix
of stupidity

and self-pity that moved you is
of no interest to me,

I will not put
to you the question

of why you would
abrade a healing wound.

I was examining myself
for fuckin' pus.

Bullshit.



I have a patient

whose shattered foot
is going gangrenous.

I'll likely amputate.

He's a salesman.

His livelihood

depends on walking.

I'll return tomorrow.

If I see any further evidence
of self-mutilation,

that will be the last day
I treat you.

One wonders, sir,

if last evening installed
in your hostel

a woman
of exotic appearance,

not perhaps gypsy
by extraction.

What would your
business with her be



if she had?

To hear my fortune told.

There'll be none of that
on these premises.

Nor were those
my true intentions.

Your query
is impertinent.

Is the lady here?

- 2-C.
- As your faith

must proscribe
receiving bribes,

credit the five
toward her stay.

- Thanks so much, Aunt Lou.
- All right.

You know I'll notify
you first word

from the freight office
about your boy's remains.

All right.

There's a stout woman,
the Countess Berman,

fires and hires
for the troupe.

You will meet her at the theater
should you appear and apply.

The devout Shaunessey
has a week in advance to your account.

Take it back
from him.

I won't take money
from you.

Are you not being
quite absurd,

in the self-serving way
of your sex?

You come here penniless,
a supplicant.

- For learning.
- Well well well...

and to learn,
must you not live?

And how will you do so
amidst the thoroughfare's depravities?

Let me stay
in the theater.

At a minimum, for the career
to which you aspire

you show the requisite
presumption.

No small part,
the hotel's amelioration

under your regime.

The nigger cook,
no small part.

I heard you.

Hmm, a tenant
when last I was resident

in the previous regime.

I thought the evening
went well.

- Wonderful.
- Very much to our purposes...

the idea of us
in the camp.

And what about that

beautiful harem dance

by that darling little
dark-haired prostitute?

My God.

Make yourself fuckin'
small, Mrs. Ellsworth!

My goodness.

I believe someone's shooting
at the former tenant.

Keep your fuckin'
head down!

Get to the fuckin' schoolhouse!
Particular attention to the foundling

and send fuckin'
Trixie over here!

Oh, just some nonsense among
the ordinaries, sir.

Getting Mrs. Ellsworth
under cover.

Excess of fuckin' caution, but you
yourself, sir, are absolutely safe!

Absolutely safe, sir.

Wire Bullock
in Sturgis.

"Return's urgently
required."

In fuckin'
generalities only,

otherwise that maniac'll
come back shooting.

No, not that way.
Don't want that cocksucker

knowing nothing of our business.
Upstairs and fuckin' around

you'll find the fuckin' telegraph.
Johnny.

Oughtn't someone look out
for who fired?

Richardson,
look into who fired.

- What was it?
- The business of others.

Shall we review the bidding
in my fuckin' office?

- Oh, I need to take off my corset.
- No one objects to that here.

Easily as it could have
been some hooplehead,

not knowing who or what
he was shooting at,

it's likely prudent
to credit you as the target.

Yes.

If I'd been aimed at,
of course,

dozens of authors would
need be considered.

- Yes.
- So I know someone's in there,

vary your replies,

such as, "Yes...

and I'd be one
of them."

That wouldn't be
very grateful of me.

It's horrible being shot at.
Never gets no better.

- Yeah.
- What the fuck?

Assuming she ain't got

the smell of gunpowder
on her fingers,

I'm leaving you
to her.

Thank you,
Mr. Swearengen.

Who the fuck shot
at her?

Who the fuck knows? Hearst?
Her first husband's family?

They both work
with the fuckin' Pinkertons.

Maybe they're now allied.

Someone should see
to the child as her fuckin' heir.

Being looked to. Just you fuckin'
look after that one

till matters clarify.
Don't think of tossing the place.

Every fuckin'
valuable's inventoried.

Get Tom Nuttall!
Cheyenne's off.

God damn it! Second-rate
deployment, Dan,

sending you off
for reinforcements

- to come back to a camp in ruins.
- I'll pack, unpack, repack.

Whoever you intended to fuck,
send monies to bring her here.

Who I intended to fuck won't ride
a stagecoach. Makes her puke.

Toast and eggs
or toast and bacon...

she can choose
or she can mix 'em,

- whatever she wants.
- Why the fuck are you telling me?

Every step
a fuckin' adventure.

Collect fuckin' Ellsworth.
Nothing of her being shot at.

What am I to say
I'm collecting him for?

- Just knock him out and bring him in.
- Do you want to close?

No, I don't wanna close.

Fuckin' Hearst's to see
not one single sign

on any fuckin' front that he's had
half a cunt hair's effect

on any of the comings
and goings in this camp.

Telegram's sent
to the sheriff.

Blazanov's helping
Merrick dress.

Why the fuck would
you say that to me?

Merrick... that was
beat up yesterday...

is being helped

to dress by Blazanov.

Now Blazanov
sent the telegram

to the sheriff,

so's Merrick could
come do his part.

All right.

Should I relieve Adams
at the schoolhouse?

Please.

Let Adams
come back here,

be available
for whatever nefarious

fuckin' carryings-on
you assign him,

'cause I do not
take orders from you.

Before she eats,
she somersaults

and don't want
no one to see.

In fact, I rarely
eat before noon.

Well, maybe you just ain't found
what you like to eat yet.

Get out, Jewel.

Did you ever
have bacon?

- I very well might.
- Goodbye, Jewel.

Thank you.

That was so considerate
of her.

Fascinated by you.

If you saw who it was
and want to say,

I wouldn't
have to tell Al.

I didn't see.

And I'm very grateful

to be under Mr. Swearengen's
protection.

Yeah, he's a prince.

In the sheriff's
absence, I mean.

Good a place as
any for you to be...

in the sheriff's
absence.

She somersaulted
and ate

and says her entire fuckin'
dietary outlook has changed.

What plate
did she eat from?

She ate
from them fuckin' both.

What a world.

A woman
in innocent transit.

A wayward shot
from some watering hole,

do you suppose, prompted
by a surfeit of spirits,

exuberant punctuations
of some sort?

Do you believe
anything you say?

I am hypothesizing.

And have you some private hypothesis
as to my possible role?

- In the shooting at Mrs. Ellsworth?
- In the rising of the sun.

I would hypothesize

as to the latter possibility, sir,
before imagining

- you involved with the first.
- Come, Jarry.

My holdings butt up
against hers.

I value efficiencies
and economies

of consolidation.

Haven't I reason to nudge her
toward a sale?

Men of a certain caliber

cannot allow
fastidious morality

to distract them from the exigencies
of commerce,

can they,
Mr. Hearst?

And did you heave up
your responsibilities

upon broad and
reconciled shoulders?

- No.
- Perhaps then, rather,

at this moment
you are Socrates

to my Alcibiades,

taking it upon yourself
to edify me.

Are you saying you want
to fuck me?

What?

Well, you keep calling yourself
Alcibiades to my Socrates.

Are you proposing some sort of
a homosexual connection between us?

I forgot that part
of the story.

Wait.

But if I were courting you,
Mr. Hearst,

I claim no allure of my own,

suggesting only the mutuality
of our interests

concerning the upcoming
elections grants my suit

some small virtue.

As you gaze upon me, sir,

recall that some unions
of convenience

may outlast those
conceived in passion.

Get up off your knees.

Of course.

Elections cannot
inconvenience me.

They ratify my will
or I neuter them.

- Compelling perspective.
- Time to go back to Yankton.

- For me?
- Yes.

Locked.

The troops in Sturgis
will await your instructions.

Thank you very much.

"I like winter

when snow and ice
cover the ground."

"I like winter

when snow and ice
cover...

- What are you doing here?
- Too afraid.

If you were too afraid,
you wouldn't be here.

Too afraid to explain.

He's got a note pinned
to him, Al.

Take it off him.

Then stick him in the eye
with the fucking pin.

He don't mean it.

Tell him, "Nothing."

- I'll just keep quiet.
- No.

Tell E.B.,
"Nothing's going on,"

and then tell him, "If I wanted to tell
you anything,

I'd have told you. Don't send
the imbecile over with no more notes."

I can't remember all that.

Can you remember,
"Nothing's going on"?

- Yes.
- Tell him that then.

Thank you.

The Mrs. Ellsworth
was shot at?

Got her upstairs.

I figured...

we'd hunker down
till matters clarify.

Lovely.

What did the geek say
walking past you?

"The girls in here
are pretty."

The fool husband
ought soon appear.

Some small number
to deal

with his dudgeon,

main force in reserve
for Bullock.

Okay.

How did sentiment
incline in this joint

when Bullock
and Harry spoke last?

- Glad when they finished.
- As to who had the upper hand?

Fucking cross-legged pose
your man struck, Tom,

may have swayed
the diarrhea faction.

Creek was having
its way with Harry.

The fuck was the logic

when he sent that giant
captain to fight you?

- Get me killed.
- It wasn't to get you killed.

His man finally kills you after
a more or less equal fight?

I gotta go reassure
my Jew.

Out of boredom's why he
put that fight together.

Same with this too.

Fucking shots
at her fore and aft.

Wants to see he's made people afraid,
so he knows he's a fucking big shot.

Exactly fucking
correct, Tom.

If this was overture
to an onslaught,

he'd have let them
pistoleros loose by now

to start
the actual killing.

That's the keenest
of fucking assessments.

Mightn't that argue
for my trip to Cheyenne?

He ain't waiting
no fucking week, Dan.

I leave here full of confidence knowing
you're all thinking in concert.

But I'd as soon
not die fighting

25 against four...
you being my missing fifth,

the equal of 10 of Hearst's fucking
mercenaries, and Bullock,

who's no fucking
slouch either,

if he ever gets
the fuck back,

bringing the odds
closer to even.

Well, her Jew's got sand

if you tell him
where to point the gun.

I'd trust a fucking wire to Cheyenne
if I knew someone to send it to.

Far as that,
there's Hawkeye.

You were told never
to say his name.

Well, now I did.

And I'd trust him
to hire the guns.

And the hiring
to take place where?

Up that squaw's cunt
he's fucking?

Squaw's in Lead,
not Cheyenne.

Did he take vows
of abstinence in Cheyenne?

Do they let him have wires
in his monastery?

I'd trust Hawkeye...
once he learned the situation...

to hire the guns
without stealing,

to herd 'em back here
to help us out,

not stopping
to get laid in Lead.

- Can Hawkeye read?
- He can,

and I can put my words
such in the wire,

he'll take my meaning and
prying cocksuckers won't.

Go get the fucking Russian,
send the fucking wire.

- Out the front or by the stairs?
- By the stairs,

by the fucking stairs.

We want his piss pot's
play hours

occupied by confusion
and grievance.

We want him sitting,

sulking like
a three-year-old

whose toys won't
do his bidding.

I had a fucking
jack-in-the-box.

I'd turn and turn

and turn that fucking
handle, and the jack,

he'd never jump.

If she'd complete
her walk to the bank...

she'd confound
this motherless cunt.

Tea for two, Jewel,
on a fucking tray!

When did you start giving that
cocksucker Swearengen

a "by your leave"
and "if you fucking say so"?

Jane.

All's I asked, Jane,

did he know you
was relieving me?

Maybe Swearengen's
coordinating strategy

'cause the sheriff
being gone campaigning

his deputy didn't jump
to take charge.

We just thought we
could release you

to other responsibilities,
Mr. Utter,

and I could run get you
if they hetted up.

Assuming
the unlikely need.

All right.

That's how you have to
fucking deal with him.

Cocksucker.

Um...

how you doing,
Ellsworth?

What the fuck
did you hit me for?

You realize
that was me?

You think I'm asking
out of general suspicion?

All right, I'll, uh...
I'll tell you what happened,

fill you in on the full
fucking circumstance.

Now, uh...

Mrs. Ellsworth
is completely safe.

Calm down or I will hit you over
the fucking head again,

maybe use some more
of them spirits

- under your goddamn nose.
- What happened?

Well...

there was some

completely-no-fucking-
damage-done gunfire

taken at Mrs. Ellsworth
fore and aft.

- But she... she couldn't be no better.
- I'll kill that cocksucker.

You get out of my way,
or I'll kill you fucking first.

Put up a struggle, Ellsworth...
it's stupid goddamn thinking.

Why would they take shots
at Mrs. Ellsworth fore and aft

when they could have just blowed her
fucking head off?

- Goddamn it.
- Calm down and think about it!

They took shots at her fore and aft
so that you would come running,

so they could do to you what they
could have done to her but they didn't.

And to Bullock too,
maybe.

So do you see how goddamn irresponsible
it would have been of me

to allow you full fucking
conscious movement?

Do you see?

Now...

I'm gonna cut loose
them throttles,

but you best not
make me regret it.

Them shots were meant

for maybe rethinking
your tenure here, huh?

Maybe too,
in the aftermath,

the shots' author
designed

Mr. Ellsworth would be moved
to take steps, or Sheriff Bullock would,

that'd justify
a violent answer.

The author being
Mr. Hearst.

Him, or him
having made cause

with your first
husband's family,

Pinkertons presiding
over the vows.

We've wired Bullock
to counsel restraint.

We've Ellsworth
trussed up downstairs.

Little in the past
commends me to your trust.

I'd ask you,
accepting the premise

that you were bait,
not quarry...

complete your walk
to the bank.

Get that fucking
angler fulminating,

tangling his fucking tackle

- and the fucking like.
- Mr. Swearengen.

I'm sorry.

I'm quite all right.

I thank God for it.

And I'd be glad
to keep you company

the rest of your day.

I'd be glad if you'd
join me at the bank

in a few minutes' time,

having made my way
to the bank alone.

Why in heaven's name
would you want to do that?

To demonstrate

his tactic's failure

and to bid defiance
to him who shot at me.

I got an idea
who had you shot at.

Wouldn't mind killing him,
even if I'm wrong.

If the shots meant not to harm me
but to provoke certain others,

wouldn't attempting that
be playing

into our adversary's
strategy?

If it ends with one
between Hearst's eyes,

let me play to his
strategy and welcome.

I hope instead you'd
have dinner tonight

with Sofia and me,

all of us
having passed

the interval
uneventfully.

In any case,

please accede to my walking
to the bank alone.

I'd not have you step

one more foot forward,
Ellsworth.

As I fucking
understand.

For Mr. Swearengen.

Last man took a note
for you to Swearengen

wound up dead.

The man you refer to
knew the note he bore

might bring about
that outcome.

This note's import's
more innocuous.

Will it make you less afraid
to read it?

I ain't afraid.
I guess I made a poor joke.

- You do read.
- Sure, sure I do.

Read the note then.

- It's good.
- Out loud, so I know you can.

- I made a poor joke...
- Out loud, to prove you are lettered

and not a liar
unfit for my employ!

"Thanks from all
for your rescue

of Mrs. Ellsworth.

Who could have shot
at her?

Do you wish
her guarded

at the bank
with the sheriff away?

I saw you
let her walk alone.

Answer via bearer."

You don't read easily,
do you?

Why don't you come
to my office

while I compose
my reply?

I'd have asked
Jewel ask her,

if I thought to ask,

if I'd foreseen
in time.

You'd have only put
Jewel in a position...

She talks to Trixie, the bank woman.
Why wouldn't she talk to us?

'Cause she has something
to say to Trixie.

We'd just be asking
conversation

that she wouldn't know
where to begin with.

Philadelphia's
where she's from.

It's what we could've
had as a subject.

Got beautiful gracious
manners there.

Philadelphia, its many
gracious attractions.

Her dress,
her comportment.

She'd have fucking
talked to us.

May we speak?

You stand in the hallway
addressing me in my room.

Yes.

The girl who danced
last evening,

- vagabond sort, hodgepodge costume...
- I know who you mean.

She'll be staying
in the theater,

possibly joining
the troupe.

Knowing precious little
at all events,

of the course now charting
I know absolutely

- nothing at all.
- You seem to know what it means for us.

Knowing you,
I suppose I do,

swearing I've laid

no carnal hand to her.

What does installing her accomplish
acknowledging me could not?

Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.

That I'm old,

that I've lost
my belly for sham.

Every drawing I made
in this sketchbook,

every one I've dreamed
of painting from,

near a home
where we'd live.

Say at least

I never asked it
of you.

You'd have me say that

on the day you ask it
of someone else?

Shall I have these?

No.

Paint every
fucking one, Mary.

How well do you
know the other guy?

Who would that be?

That my man Dority killed...
the captain.

We served in the 69th
in New York.

- Was that a Mick regiment?
- Mm-hmm.

- What were you doing?
- Cutting throats.

I was asking whose flag
you were under.

The famous
Cocksuckers Brigade.

Is that so?

Command of
the All-Whore Detachment.

Distress you

when my man downed
your friend?

Let me tell you something,
Mr. Swearengen:

You don't scare me,
and you don't fucking know

what happened
with the 69th New York.

I will tell you this:

I didn't like what
happened to Joe Turner.

Mr. Hearst came to him

and said,
"Make it last,

even if you gain the upper hand
and can kill him."

And I think that was halfway selfish
of Mr. Hearst,

whereas Joe could have killed your man
and didn't,

and look how
it wound up.

But that's as much
I feel like saying,

and that's neither here
nor fucking there.

Fair enough.

All right then.

All right.

But I'll
tell you this:

you don't seem halfway like
such a halfway bad fucking person.

So should I tell Mr. Hearst
that there's no messa...

So you'd shoot
at a fucking woman?

Beat that poor
newspaper bastard?

Scare that Chinese
with your fucking horses?

How many ribs you
think you broke?

Aw, I feel like I broke
two or three ribs.

I'm talking about that
newspaperman's ribs,

you fucking cunt.

I prayed it would pass!

But it's a constant

fucking sore spot
and throb.

"You are a constant vision
before me,

you and your
fabulous bosoms.

I beg you, release your
man stallion

from his he-stable

for another gallop
round the ring."

Not today, Con.

- Tomorrow?
- Come back tomorrow.

- Any particular time?
- Late in the day.

Perfect!
We'll be waiting.

Listen to me,
listen to me,

and I'll tell you one fucking thing.
Do you hear me?

I don't hear nothing.

I'm telling you that I'm gonna tell you
one fucking thing.

- All right.
- Do you hear me?

What the fuck?
I'm not fucking deaf.

I want...

I want to know that I'm
gonna be fucking heard,

that what I have to
fucking say will matter,

will have some result.

'Cause if not...

then what's
the fucking point?

All right...

then I'm not gonna
say fucking anything.

What do you think
of that?

He sent for more guns.

He wired
for more Pinkertons.

They're on the way,
and I told you that.

If he finds out
I told you...

- Don't worry.
- You won't tell him?

You might want
to close the fucking door.

Who the fuck are you?

Janine, that's Sara's
friend from Cincinnati.

Hmm.

That's a stupid name
for a whore.

Makes the tricks feel
like they're stammerers.

Ja-ni-ni-nine-nine-nine,
like they're in the fucking Alps.

You can call me
whatever you want.

Well, let's call
you Stupid

until we can think
of something better.

You miss Cincinnati,
Janine-nine-nine-nine-nine?

Are you afraid
of fucking Deadwood?

Do you miss
your mom and dad?

Do you have one
of each?

Are they aboveground,
do you know?

Oh...

do I see the beginnings
of a tear

in the corner
of your left eye?

- I'm all right.
- For the purposes of our discussion.

As much as anyone cares,
is my meaning.

All right, Stupid.

Con'll advance you $5
against your first evening's fucking.

Don't do no dope
with Leon.

Welcome
to the Bella Union.

Close the fucking door,
Stupid!

He's got 25
more guns coming,

25 Pinkertons.

When they get here,
he's gonna move on the camp.

Before the elections?

25 Pinkertons already.

He had 25 on the way,

and 100
at his operation.

Before or after
the elections?

I don't know.
I don't know.

Please don't hurt me.

It's all I fucking know.

Come on, come on.
Don't give up hope.

Passing a little wind.

Yes.

Yes, come in.

Mr. Hearst.

Have you enjoyed
yourself today, Farnum?

For reasons
I find elusive,

the day has quite
displeased me.

What will help you find
a name for your feelings?

Shall we cut open your belly for you
to wrap your guts around a pole?

- You seem distraught.
- I am not!

I await an outcome!

- And the readying for it wearies me.
- Oh, dear.

Have you smelt human
flesh on the spit?

- How would I have?
- I know the smell.

You have been to
and fro in the world.

It pleased me
to find out.

Well then, fine.

- Don't you want to wipe that off?
- No?

You would regret
my coming back

and finding that you
had cleaned your face.

I understand.

Dan, Johnny.

He doesn't want you
to dirty your hands.

All that shouting...

"You're a cunt for hire
to shoot at women" and the like...

just trying
to frighten you a little,

encouraging you
to chat.

Who amongst us hasn't wanted
to shoot at women once or twice, hmm?

Anything you want to say else
before I let you rest,

knowing I don't sit
upon you in judgment?

Did he come to you by a different path,
Mr. Hearst?

Did he somehow
circumnavigate

to bring my reply
to you without me seeing?

What are you
talking about?

Your man went out the back
of my fucking place,

and I've been hoping against hope
for reasons beyond my understanding

that it was to return
to you unseen by me.

He has not returned.

Jesus Christ, maybe he was
telling the truth...

that he was lighting out
for fucking Bismarck.

Jesus Christ Almighty!

Did you and he have some
kind of misunderstanding, sir,

that he took for pretext
the letter's delivery

to make his fucking
escape?

Well, then I say,
Mr. Hearst,

you are well the fuck rid
of that cocksucker,

that he'd show so little loyalty
or sense of responsibility

to the delivery
of communications.

Jesus Christ Almighty,
where do we find good help?

Oh, and in reply
to your letter, sir,

my opinion only, she don't need no
escort or guarding,

but it's the kind of generous inquiry
I'd expect you to make.

How's your back,
Mr. Hearst?

How's the fucking
back there, pal?

Wu.

Longest a rug's
lasted so far.

What's going on,
Charlie?

Some fucking day.

It was a good day.

I only wish some
of Hearst's pistoleros

had come
to test our mettle.

Once my Derringer was empty, you would
have been firing for the both of us.

And equal to the task,
believe you fucking me.

Not that I wouldn't have regretted
them children having to witness.

- Can I tell you something?
- Okay.

Some stupid
fucking thing.

Stupid fucking
dream I had.

Okay.

I dreamed last night

I was clamoring up
a fucking creek bank,

which is often required
of a drunk.

It was dark, and I couldn't
tell where I was

till I cleared
the bank

and come face to face
with Charlie Utter's ugly mug.

Now Charlie's, as usual,
on the lookout for Bill

that's, as usual too,

losing at poker inside
the joint we're outside of.

"Where are we, Charlie?"
This could be any fucking place

the last number
of years.

And he said,
"Jane, don't you know

this is the Number Ten
Saloon here in the camp

where Bill's gonna
fucking get killed soon?"

"Jesus Chri... how do
you know, Charlie?" I asked him.

He said,
"Don't you know,"

he says, "Some point we
know these fucking things?

Don't you know

the world says its
fucking name to us?"

"What the fuck?

What the fuck do I have to
dream about this for,"

I say to Charlie,
"Wasn't I miserable enough?"

"Jane," fucking Charlie
says to me,

"Don't you know
this is the night you couldn't look out

for that little girl
when you was at Cochran's,

and Swearengen come in
and scared you

and you went down
to the creek to weep?

That's where the fuck
you're coming from.

And don't you know,"
he says,

"this is the night you spirit that child
from Cochran's,

and to where our stock
was outside of camp,

and we watched out
on that little girl

and sung to her,
and you,

with the presence
of mind to continue

the fucking round when I was
too fucking stupid?

And you said
you would...

and I said...

and we had this..."

"Now," Charlie
says to me,

"don't you understand

what I'm trying
to tell you?

Any evenings in your life
you made mistakes,

remember where
even evenings

you was
as most ashamed

as you ever thought
you could ever be

are able to wind up,

and don't fucking only
remember the middle

of the fucking dream!"

If I wonder why
I dreamed that dream...

yesterday you sent Mose
to find me,

and I was nearly
dead-drowned drunk,

and Mose made me
get up,

and you and me walked
them kids to school,

and before I went
to sleep

you kissed me.

After Tolliver come,

and you found Mose
to help me.

And Charlie to help me
find that little girl

the very night
I got scared and run,

and the both of us

sung a round to her,

and then you went ahead
and kissed me.

To spare you surprise
on our advent

at the theater
in the morning,

I tell you
here and now

that you will come upon
a certain person...

a woman who will be
joining us.

Who is she?
Where has she performed?

I believe her name
is Joseanne.

- She is French?
- I believe.

- I know she's spent time in Paris.
- Where has she performed?

She has performed
nowhere

that we would have
knowledge of,

- to my knowledge.
- Joseanne?

- Yes.
- Living at the theater?

- Temporarily.
- To be installed thereafter where?

Shut up!
I won't have it,

this getting off
on the wrong foot.

So you commit us
to a long relation

- with Joseanne.
- You will find her

at the goddamn theater
in the morning is what I mean!

And I won't have this
goddamn wrong-footedness.

Thank you, Richardson.

Mean-spirited
is what I mean.

A lack of generosity.

Selfishness.

Don't you think
it all has an effect...

on your performance?

Does this performance
seem genuine?

Situation being fluid and not likely
to get less so for a while,

I went ahead
and reordered hames.

Steve, made imbecile
by that horse's hoof,

he couldn't authorize it.

But I went ahead
and assumed

whoever finally
takes the livery over

might want a restock of hames.
So I ordered 'em.

Let us give thanks.