When we return, Carling is escorting Profaci out of the precinct house and taking advantage of this valuable face time to lay down some bets. Just think -- by the time 2008 rolls around, Internet-based gambling sites will have rendered the need for low-level street bookies obsolete and guys like Profaci will have to develop skills for a new century of villainy, like human trafficking and meth dealing. So... that's progress, right? Sam, returning from his abortive face time with Mom, charges up and demands to know what's going on here. Well, Carling explains, seeing as how the victim has left the building and there are no witnesses to the incident in question, Profaci is free to go. "Listen, take care of yourself, huh?" Profaci says to Sam, perhaps a bit too smugly for the latter's liking, as Sam grabs him by the lapels of his leather coat and shakes him like a British au pair putting the kids down for a nap. Sam requests that Mr. Profaci kindly maintain a respectable distance from Mrs. Tyler, though perhaps a bit more bluntly than that. Hunt quickly pops into view, intervening and sending Profaci on his way. "So this is the way it works around here," Sam sneers, as a chuckling Profaci heads out of view. "Look, it ain't news he's an unpleasant little scrotum," Hunt concedes. "But the man is a necessary evil, a devil-I-know." In other words, cops in the 125 allow Profaci to do his little gangster business unimpeded because he happens to be employed by Elliot Casso? Who's that, you wonder aloud at the same time that Sam does? "A local businessman with remarkable insight into the criminal mind," Hunt explains. A crime boss, then -- and one who's not above tipping off the cops to robbery crews, at-large killers, and other assorted n'er-do-wells in exchange for the police looking the other way as it pertains to his business dealings. Sam is horrified -- perhaps unrealistically so. Surely, one hand continues to wash the other in 2008, no?