When Michael shows up at the dog track, he VOs, "Every kid who ever went to a new school knows the secret to fitting in: copy everyone else." That would explain the tacky threads that both he and Tommy are currently rocking, in a look that a less culturally sensitive commentator than myself might describe as "eighties Guido." Tommy is currently cursing out his dog from the front rail. "Spies do the same thing," Michael's VO continues. "Tailor their wardrobe, their movements, and their behavior to imitate their targets. All the little things that say, 'I'm your kind of guy.'" Satisfied that he's got Tommy down after a few seconds of study, he approaches him, just as Tommy watches his dog finish losing and throws his betting slip down. Michael does the same, fakely lamenting his own fake luck in a fake Jersey accent to match Tommy's. "You're Tommy D'Antonio, right?" Michael says. Tommy goes all cagey, and Michael waves his Sharpied arm around, introducing himself as "Milo" and saying he has "friends" who told him he should talk to Tommy if he ever comes to Miami. They bond over Allandale for a minute, and Tommy asks if they talk about him there, all sad and desperate. Michael tells him just what he wants to hear, saying Tommy's like a rock star up there. He spins a story about how he came to Miami to "earn," and then started running out of money when his "girl" came down. They share a chuckle of casual misogyny (Michael even doing a little snort), and Michael makes his pitch. "Hey, Mr. D'Antonio, you think I could--" Tommy tells him to use his first name, and Michael acts all honored as he says he's looking for tips. He claims he's even got a small "crew": "Me, my buddy, and my girl. It's not big time like you." Tommy is so flattered he invites them to dinner that night. Flattered and with an empty social calendar.
At Madeline's, Stacey is set up in the sunroom with his laptop, adding machine, and a big box of Sam's files that he's going through. He disallows a bunch of drinks, because apparently "classified" deductions don't count. "And then there's this," he says, pulling a big ol' Desert Eagle or something out of the box, lifting it with a pen through the trigger guard. "You wanted documentation of my trip to the Middle East," Sam says. "That's it. That's all I got. Got it off this guy who was in this group we were targeting." Stacey thinks that means Sam stole it. Sam amends that the guy was "...done with it." Still not getting it, Stacey thinks it's a gift. Sam further clarifies: "There was this thing... and then... the gun didn't have an owner any more." Stacey finally catches the snap, and says he'll put it down as a "windfall income." What, there's no "corpse-looting" classification? He says they're up to 17% of disallowed deductions, and if they hit 25%, they'll have to go back through Sam's records another three years. I'm going to take his word for that, because the alternative is to admit that I have yet to be audited, which would be a jinx of Fi-like proportions. Madeline appears with a plate of fresh chocolate-chip cookies, which Stacey declines, pleading allergies to chocolate, wheat flour and eggs. Sam snags one for himself, and quickly regrets it. Stacey gives Sam his homework for tomorrow -- a breakdown of gifts from his "lady friends" -- and takes off. "I have a headache in my eye," Sam tells Madeline. She offers him another cookie. "I'm good," he says quickly. He should ask her for some Imitrex-chip cookies instead.