Back at the port, Nat meets with Frank in the trailer, telling him that "we" can let Frank try to get the dredging project going: "But now, you're asking too much." "One more year, Nat," asks Frank jovially. "Not for me -- for the fucking union." Nat reminds him that the election has been scheduled, and that Frank knew when he won the previous year that it would be Ott's turn next. Frank says that Ott can just run next time, and serve the next two consecutive years. "It's our turn, Frank," says Nat firmly. "Black, white -- what's the difference, Nat?" asks Frank, as only a white guy can. "Until we get that fucking canal dredged, we're all niggers, pardon my French." "Or Polacks, pardon mine," Nat shoots back. Not that the two words are really of equal weight, but neither man seems offended by the other's slur, so...okay. Anyway, Frank says that this isn't about Ott: "I just want one more year to finish what I started here. One more year. Then Ott stays Secretary-Treasurer for the next two -- no problem." Nat frowns a bit, but Frank presses, "Think about it." Yeah, who doesn't like taking minutes through every meeting? Frank tries to smile ingratiatingly, but (per usual) he ends up looking gassy, and Nat gets up and walks out without another word. As he leaves, Frank calls DiBiago. Sure, let's resolve all these issues by bringing a wop all up in this bitch.

Gold Club. Prez and Kima watch as a guy walks out, trailed by several scantily clad ladies, and then another guy, and another crowd of women; each set of ladies and minder climbs into a bulletproof-looking silver SUV. "Lotta girls, lotta muscle," comments Kima. She turns to Prez, who still mostly looks worried that his wife might catch him checking out the talent.

Clement Street Café. Ziggy is pawing all over some girl, who asks him, without much force, to get off her. Nick is at the bar, still looking at the papers, and asks Ziggy when he got served with them. Ziggy says that they came in the mail that morning. Nick, no fool (or possibly no stranger to paternity suits), pointedly repeats, "In the mail?" Ziggy doesn't get it, and Nick, squinting at the papers, says that when Pokey Barber was hit with a paternity suit, he was served the papers at his house, by a sheriff. Ziggy shrugs -- perhaps thinking he's such a bad-ass that a sheriff would be too scared to try to mess with him in person -- and a boisterous laugh goes up again from old-timers' table. Nick looks over, watching Maui carefully not meeting his eye, and we hear that the jukebox is playing "Love Child" again. Ziggy still doesn't seem to have twigged to what's going on, and doesn't react as Nick asks Dolores to use the bar phone. Ziggy asks who he's calling, and Nick tells him "the lawyer on this fucking piece of bullshit." Ziggy incredulously yelps that there won't be a law firm open at this time of night, and as Nick intensely listens to the ring on his end, we hear the tinny electronic ring of a cell phone in the bar, because of course, Maui was behind the whole thing, and picks up his phone to chuckle, "Shyster, Shyster, and Shyster." The guys at his table all erupt in laughter, especially Maui. Nick hangs up, smacks the papers back down in front of Ziggy, and looks over at Maui, smirking despite himself. Ziggy is still oblivious as to the situation, so Nick has to chuck him on the shoulder and point out, "He got you, Zig." Surprise! Ziggy doesn't get it, and Nick looks over at Maui, losing his shit, and soon singing along with the chorus of the song. Even Nick, despite his loyalty to Ziggy, starts cracking up at the bar, while, next to him, Ziggy bitterly pinches his nose and stews ineffectually -- pretty much the only kind of stewing he knows how to do.