In the bank basement, Robber #2 tries to board the elevator with a duffel, and reports that it's busted. Meanwhile, Michael has resumed tending to Prescott's hand and is telling him he's lucky it wasn't worse. "Use the word 'lucky' again and I'm gonna put a bullet in your head," Prescott snarls. Michael distracts him with a splash of booze in the wound, which allows him to slip a wrench from an equipment bag into his first-aid kit. Prescott is starting get a little superstitious, wondering aloud if the bank is cursed. Instead of answering, Michael says he needs to go upstairs to find something to use for tape and a splint, and asks if Prescott needs any meds. "Blow your hand off and find out if you need something for the pain," Prescott bitches.
Out in the car, Fi has taken over the channel-surfing on the walkie-talkie so Sam can call up Beer Lady to smooth things over. "Is your friend okay?" she asks from a lounge chair somewhere. Sam admits, "He's still trapped inside, but it's kind of a quiet time, so I thought I would just call and say hi, so... hi." He's about to arrange a date for later, but when Fi finds the frequency he has to hang up quickly. "Sounds encrypted," he says after a moment of listening to the scrambled transmission. Fi displays some excellent comic timing as she says, "So I was wasting my time while you were buttering up your b.....imbo?" Sam says that at least they know that the marina has to be in walkie-talkie range. Which they knew before, too, but whatever. Just then a uniformed police officer pulls up, which Sam realizes could be very hazardous to the health of the hostages. "One of us needs to distract the cop and the other one needs to track down the getaway boat," Fi smirks at Sam. Sam smirks right back, "And here I forgot to shave my legs." Fi stops smirking.
The cop notices Prescott's truck, illegally parked outside the bank. It looks like he's about to go write a ticket when he's distracted by Fi, who has manufactured a contretemps with a street vendor by stealing his tip jar in retaliation for some alleged ogling. The cop goes over to mediate, and Fi keeps trumping it up until the cop gets a domestic disturbance call and has to leave. Whereupon Fi gives the tip jar back to the vendor and orders "una cortadito, por favor." Nice of her to make it worth his while.
In the downstairs conference room, Michael flops down next to Bly, who asks, "We win yet?" Michael says he's still working on it, and slips Bly the wrench he stole earlier, in case things get bad. Bly slips the wrench up inside his remaining sleeve as Michael leaves with the meds he claimed to be coming in here for. As he returns to Prescott with them, he explains in VO, "Life with a hypochondriac mother gives you a useful knowledge of pharmaceuticals. In low doses, philocarpine cures dry mouth." Michael hands three fat yellow pills to Prescott, who says, "I'll take 'em after you do." Michael smiles and swallows a few himself as he continues in VO, "In high doses, it has roughly the same effect as a Sarin gas attack." Well, that certainly sounds like something he would have picked up from Madeline. Prescott still holds off on taking the pills, preferring to wait and see what happens to Michael. In the meantime, Michael's off to get a splint, and Prescott brings one of his men upstairs with him while leaving another behind to watch the hostages.