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: 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.
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.