The bishop then is called away to his next appointment, but he says so long as they share his concerns about unspeakable things, they have his blessing, and he wants to be kept apprised of their progress. Game, set, and MATCH. With the bishop gone, Landau turns to Margaret, still bewildered but clearly about to find his anger. Margaret's prepared: "I see you've finally trapped me," she says, with enough cheer to knock over an elephant. "We shall sponsor the clinic, as you wish." That's fancy 1920s speak for, "YA BURNT."
At Mickey's warehouse, Nucky's men are packing up Rosetti's month's supply of booze for transport. Rosetti shows up, grumpy as HELL, and starts giving Sleater attitude for Nucky not being there. (As you might expect, when Sleater says Nucky is "indisposed," Rosetti doesn't know what the hell that means.) Eli emerges, as if from the shadows, with kind of a preposterous "Well, you've got one Thompson" attitude that is pure Old Eli. Rosetti is very interested to see the man he's heard such stories about, but he doesn't go anywhere beyond that. Yet.
As Rosetti's about to go on his non-merry way, Sleater remembers that Nucky also left a message for Rosetti. Sleater pulls out his notepad and reads from it "Bone for Tuna." Bone for tuna. You know, "bon fortuna" but for idiots. Rosetti doesn't even see how it's written, so for all he knows this is just some lazy Irish pronunciation, but for whatever reason, he looks around the room like he's just been pantsed: a mixture of embarrassment and simmering anger. This guy's a piece of work. He storms out.
At the speakeasy in Cicero, George Meuller is having the good time you'd expect him to be having, which is to say he's sitting at a table with his hands folded, looking pained. One of his fat, bald, awful co-workers returns from the bar with a glass of whiskey, saying they were all out of sarsaparilla, on account of a Boy Scout troop having been there earlier. Okay, that's a pretty good burn, Patrice. He says he'll get a near-beer, which makes one of his lady co-workers drunkenly stagger up to him and offer him a "real drink," only to spill hers on him. Everybody is so boisterous and shitfaced and obnoxious in this scene, it's like a parody of what a drunken night out would be like. On Van Alden's way to the washroom, the familiar sound of police whistles rings out, and to his horror, the federal agents storm in. It's a raid, and they're all under arrest. This is the kind of thing that used to make him hard, once upon a time. Now it's what could land him in jail for murder (the reason he's on the run under an assumed name, you'll recall). Van Alden turns his face from the prohies and looks like he might be sick.