Time for a now-clad Sam to head over to Casso's club to confront Adrienne. Hey, man -- she was just doing a job. That's her story, at least, and she's sticking to it. Well, then maybe she can hand over the negatives of any photos she took. No can do, Sammy -- Casso's got them now. The good news, though, is that no one's going to invent Photoshop for another 17 years or so, so it's not like he can doctor the photos so that Sam's having sex with a gaggle of clowns. Sam decides to change his approach: "You know, as merchandise goes, you're worth every penny. Casso'd be an idiot to ever let you go. Then again, what's another dead hooker to him, right?" Before Sam can leave to allow Adrienne to contemplate the high mortality rate of her co-workers, Casso walks in with Hunt and Profaci in tow. No need to exchange pleasantries here: Sam tells Casso he's going down, Casso suggests that he bring it unless he doesn't want those photos of him and Adrienne falling into the wrong hands, and Hunt is dragging Sam to a friendlier part of the world.

Once outside, Hunt would like to know what's eating Sam Tyler. Or as he puts it: "What the hell are you thinking?" Sam is thinking that Hunt's a crooked cop and that Casso basically runs the 125. Hunt snorts at Sam to knock off "the self-righteous crap" -- any money he gets from Casso goes back into the street to pay off informants. It's called circulating cash flow, and it's the hallmark of a strong economy. Sam reminds Hunt that his sometimes-you-gotta-get-your-hands-dirty philosophy is of little consolation to the dead women fished out of the East River. Perhaps, Hunt counters, Sam would care to dig up some evidence to support these unsubstantiated accusations. In the meantime, Hunt will merely content himself with the 8-by-10 glossies of Sam's close encounters with Adrienne -- Casso handed over the duplicates just now. Sam protests that he's been set up. Well, it will certainly look real enough to Internal Affairs, Hunt helpfully notes, should Casso ever decide to pass those photos along. "I came here to clean up your bad mess, Tyler," Hunt gripes. "Show some gratitude." I sense a lucrative line of Hallmark cards coming out of this -- the "Thanks for convincing the local mob boss not to blackmail me" collection. It'll be bigger than the Administrative Assistant Day!