5 minutes in Little Italy

Walking down the street from Mama Santa's to my apartment with an old and dear friend, we overheard this conversation between old friends, which we immediately reenacted which is probably the only reason I remember the whole thing. Classic little italy, even with that Italian-American accent. You know what I mean, the stereotype, like Joey from Friends:

An elderly man, large, maybe 300 lbs, in an overcoat and smoking a cigar walks away from a group of his peers.
"I'm gonna kill myself," he says.
"Hey Tony, why you goin' home?"
"I'm not going home! I want to kill myself."
Tony keeps walking, and either his friends don't try to stop him because this is a usual threat, or they don't care enough to pay more attention to Tony than to Rocco, a very well dressed man in his sixties, who has just arrived.
"Rocco!"
"Hey Rocco! How's it goin?"
"Hey Rocco! How's the guy with 8 million bucks?"
"I'm doin alright. I was in the hospital this week though."
"Aw, Rocco, what happened?"
"Another heart attack."
He lights a cigar and the group enters the bar, leaving Tony and the warm afternoon outside.