What I mean – what I believe… is that you killed his father… like the stories I heard go. Now, if somebody killed my father… I would feel the need to do something. The stories I heard – you know, stories get around – is that you used to be a hard-ass. You were a hard-ass and you took his dad out, Sydney. So you think – what? You can just walk through this life… without being punished for it? Shit, man. I know all those guys you know. Floyd Gondolli, Jimmy Gator, Mumbles O’Malley. They like to sit around in Clifton’s and talk, talk, talk. They love to tell stories. You can sit there and look at me sideways all you want. You probably think I’m some kind of asshole or something… but I’m not a killer… like you. You walk around like you’re Mr. Cool, Mr. Wisdom… but you’re not. You’re just some old hood. The other night in the bar, you asking me a question… like do I do parking lot security? Well, the answer is no! I’m trusted security inside the casino. I’m trusted with security, and I don’t fuck it up.
Don’t! Don’t! Don’t fuckin’ do that! You understand? I can see right through that shit! You look at me as some idiot, huh? I know you do. I know you. You old guys, you old hoods… you think you’re so fuckin’ above it… so high and mighty. What am I to you? Some loser? Not with a gun in my hand. Not with the facts I know. Bottom line, Sydney. No matter how hard you try… you’re not his father.
