Al Powell

If you're what I think you are you should know when to listen, when to shut up... and when to pray.

— Going in? That's crazy! There could be over 30 hostages in there for all we know.
— We don't know shit, Powell. If there's hostages, how come there are no ransom demands? If there's terrorists in there, where's their list of demands? All we know is that
somebody shot your car up. It's probably the same silly son of a bitch you've been talking to on that radio.
— Excuse me, sir... but what about the body that fell out the window?
— Who the hell knows? Maybe a stockbroker got depressed.

— Oh, God!
— Roy! Roy, you all right?
— Just trying to fire down a thousand-year-old Twinkie. What do they put in these things, anyway?
— Sugar-enriched flour, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil... polysorbate 60 and yellow dye number five. Just everything a growing boy needs.

— Something had to get you off the street. What's the matter?
— You don't think a desk job is a noble effort for a cop?
— No.
— I had an accident.
— The way you drive, I can see why. What'd you do? Run over your captain's foot with the car?

— Powell, has it occurred to you he could be one of the terrorists or some nutcase in there?
— I don't think so. In fact, I think he's a cop... maybe not LAPD, but he's definitely a badge.
— How do you know that?
— A hunch... things he said like being able to spot a phoney ID.
— Jesus Christ, Powell! He could be a bartender for all we know!

— Can you identify yourself?
— Not now. Maybe later.
— Listen fast. This is a party line, and the neighbors got itchy trigger fingers.