San Francisco

Happy New Year!

Hey, there's wine in Lotta's Fountain!

Free wine!

Hey, Mr. Duane. Mr. Duane!

You want any more?

- Sure, all of it. Empty the warehouse.

- You bet.

- I'll take a dozen pints at the same price.

- Hello, Blackie. Happy New Year.

- Hello, Duane. Happy New Year to you.

- Yeah.

- Some sight, huh?

- Yeah. Some advertising.

Hello, there, Blackie!

- Happy New Year and many of them.

- Happy New Year, Della!

Happy New Year, girls!

- You know everybody, don't you?

- Everybody that's worth knowing.

Hello? Fire!

Where's the fire?

- Where's the fire?

- On the Barbary Coast.

Maybe it's my joint.

Stand back. Keep clear.

Give them a chance to work, boy.

Clear out for the hose!

- It ain't your joint, Mr. Norton.

- No. It isn't hot enough for my joint.

Oh, God, the kids!

Help! Save us! Please, save us!

Up pressure, up pressure.

Hurry! Hurry!

- Is everybody out of there?

- Okay. They're all out, Mr. Norton.

- Well, happy New Year.

- Same to you.

- Hello, Blackie. Happy New Year.

- Thank you. Thank you.

Hello, Romeo!

- Hello. Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year to you, Blackie.

Happy New Year, Blackie.

- Hiya, Blackie, happy New Year.

- Hi, Blackie, happy New Year.

- Where's the fire, boss?

- Dupont Street. The old Bristol house.

- Happy New Year, Blackie.

- Happy New Year, honey.

Gee, I want it to be happy.

- That fire was at the Bristol.

- Oh, that trap.

- Hey, Blackie, your shoes are all muddy.

- Yeah, I know.

- Here, put them up here.

- You know, that makes...

the third fire we've had in one week.

- Hello, Blackie.

- Hello, Jim.

Yeah, if it keeps up, we'll have to

get ourselves some asbestos suits.

Yeah. I'll say so.

I thought I told you not to wear that thing.

Gee, honey, I think it's nice.

Yeah?

Well, I think it makes you look cheap.

Now, don't wear it anymore.

Blackie doesn't like it.

Say, Blackie...

Mrs. Forrestal's here

with a party of swells.

She's been asking especially for you.

- That so?

- Yeah.

- Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year, Blackie.

- Oh, I want you to meet my husband.

- How do you do? Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year to you.

- Thanks.

- Mark this on the house.

- Okay.

- Happy New Year.

- Thanks.

- Throw him out!

- Come on, pal. Let's go.

- I don't like his singing.

- But you mustn't hurt the artist's feelings.

His feelings? Who is he against so many?

Say, where are you from?

- Los Angeles.

- I thought so.

I beg your pardon.

Are you the manager here?

Well, I kind of run the joint.

What do you want, sister?

- I'm looking for work.

- Oh, just get to town?

Oh, no. No. The place I've been living at

was just burned down.

- Oh, yeah. That trap on Dupont Street.

- Yes.

Well, that's tough.

Yes. I've been looking for work uptown,

but there doesn't seem to be anything...

so I thought I'd try the Barbary Coast.

- I've been to several places, but there...

- How about a little drink?

Thank you, but if you don't mind,

I'd like to see the proprietor.

- Oh, you would?

- Yes.

All right.

This is The Paradise?

I'll say it is.

The hottest spot on the Barbary Coast.

- Hello, chica!

- Watch yourself, brother.

Wait here a minute, honey.

Say, Blackie, there's a little lady out here

looking for a job.

She was burned out in that fire

at the Bristol.

- Yeah?

- She's not bad.

All right, bring her in.

- This is Mr. Norton. He owns the joint.

- How do you do?

- Well, sister, what's your racket?

- I'm a singer.

Let's see your legs.

I said I'm a singer.

Well, all right. Let's see your legs.

Come on, come on, come on.

Let's see them.

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