Gilroy returns Michael to the boatyard, and Michael's kind of pissy about being used as a decoy. "Honestly, Michael," Gilroy lectures, "if you couldn't survive a go-round with Duke and Jimbo, you deserve to get killed." He covers up the BFG in the back as Michael fishes for clues on what Gilroy wants it for. "I find that .50-caliber rounds," Gilroy muses smugly, "have a delightful way of making one's problems... die." Gilroy promises that Michael will get everything he needs to know at tomorrow's dress rehearsal. "Until then, ta-ta." I'm not sure the "Killer Theater Geek" persona Gilroy's cultivating here is as scary as he intends it to be. But at least it's original.

Back at the loft, Michael finds Sam washing dishes to work off his nervous energy, and just generally being a bigger mom than Michael's actual mom: "You have any idea what you put me through, getting in that car with Jack the Ripper?" He asks what Michael found out, and Michael admits that all he did was help Gilroy steal a BFG. "Well, forgive me if I don't pat you on the back," Sam grouches. He might if he knew who Michael helped steal it from. Michael asks if Sam can get him in touch with his old FBI contacts. "You know, the ones you used to inform on me to?" Sam is just saying yes when Fi bursts in, bitching about not having been able to reach Michael and ganking the beer right out of Sam's hand. Fi wasn't actually worried -- she was just hoping Michael might come along for a meeting with a low-level but well-paying hustler named Coleman, whom she calls a "harmless weasel." Michael says he's meeting with the FBI instead, even though it's not actually on his schedule yet, and pawns her off on Sam. Who must already be plenty tired from washing all those spoons and empty yogurt cups.