Louis: "No, his wife. I hate that people our age are starting to die. It's the worst."
Alicia: "Mortality and such."
Louis: "He was my roommate in college, Ian Keyes. Smartest dude. Did you ever give a eulogy?"
Alicia: "Yeah. My father."
Louis: "Paydirt. I mean, sorry. How old was he?"
Alicia: "Oh my God. He was like sixty."
Louis, verbatim: "Am I upsetting you?"
It's not her dead father that's so upsetting. It's the fact that he's created a situation in which half-measures won't cut it. Death is a big deal. Illness is a big deal. And either he's trolling her for lulz, which is tacky when it's about this, or she needs to really feel bad about it, on his behalf. The compassion of St. Alicia, the cynicism of S4 Alicia: Which one wins? Because if he is fucking with her...
Alicia: "You're good. Let's call Ingersol, okay?"
Louis: "I promise you he's coming. I'm not playing you this time."
Alicia: "Okay, fine. I know. I know you're leveling with me. Unless you aren't."
(Ring-ring, guess what?)
Louis: "So yeah, two o'clock."
Alicia: "You little cocksucker. Fine, let the record show that once again, this dude has refused to attend a court-mandated deposition."
Somehow, she ends up being the one who is ashamed. Just like she kind of knew she would be.
GOLD & LOCKHART
Diane: "Eli, I realize you're feeling ruffled both as a man and as a professional, but do you really want to bring suit against the DOJ for harassment?"
Eli: "What could possibly be the downside to that?"
Diane: "Honey, I know you don't want to hear this, but you're not a huge priority right now. You'd basically be asking to be upgraded..."
The lights dim, the floor shakes on the edge of subwoofer perception. Shadows drip down the walls like puddles of molten night. A murder of crows dances outside the window, wheels within wheels, an orchestrated madness. One of them -- eyes white, blind -- taps a cruel beak against the glass, in a syncopated rhythm: Krik-krik. Krik-krik. Eli Gold throws his windows wide, sash fluttering in a sudden muggy breeze, and the crows enter, swirling around him, kissing him softly with decay before they land on the berber carpet and assume the pant-suited form of Wendy Scott-Carr right before your eyes.
Wendy Scott-Carr: "Am I late for our meeting? Did you spend the time in consideration of your mortal futility? Sands through the hourglass, sapping your vital forces and turning all future into ash-strewn tragedy. A child becomes a man becomes a withered creature and is forgotten. So it goes. For you!"