"Don't worry, kid. You're still on the clock." -- Horseface. Yeah, only chumps get horribly injured on their own time.
Homicide. Jay: "You cloned a what?" Hi Jay! Nice haircut! Bunk says that they cloned a computer, and Beadie elaborates that it lets them watch the cargo come off ships in real time so that they can follow the contraband. Jay, exasperated, says that they're "running a twenty-five-murder-a-month MASH Unit," so it doesn't make sense to him for Bunk and Beadie to "slow things down a bit, and do a little bit of brain surgery." He says that if Rawls sees Beadie and Bunk "playing videogames" on their fourteen open murders, "he's gonna fucking blow!" Uh, I think that if Jay could actually see an example of how the database works, he would realize that, as videogames go, it is no Halo. Bunk leans forward, angrily cluing Jay in on the fact that they're going to be doing it at the detail office. Jay doesn't even seem to have known until this moment that Daniels was leading a detail, and suggests that maybe Daniels could take the murders, too, like Bunk didn't fucking think of that until Jay was holding his hand. Bunk exhaustedly tells him that he tried, and no dice. Jay can't even manage to bitch about this, and just scowls at Bunk before stalking out of the room. Bunk sighs, and Beadie checks, "That was approval, right? He gave approval to go ahead with this." Bunk flaps his hands, saying he doesn't know. He sits down across from Beadie, who asks what's next. Bunk tells her that they need to "get them dock boys back to thinking that" the cops aren't on them anymore: "If we're gonna set up on them, they need to think we ain't gonna be a problem no more." "How are they gonna think that?" asks Beadie. I'm no cop, but I think it could probably require Beadie to put her uniform back on and resume patrolling around the docks like the gormless wage slave she used to be.
Nick meets with Frog, who -- with maximum douchery -- is explaining the terms he requires to work Nick's package. (Not like that.) (Probably.) Frog wants an even split, and says that he'd pay Nick his cut on Friday after he and his "niggas" had sold it all. Nick, playing it like he's Stringer Bell, beckons Frog over. Frog resists, but finally comes over. Nick: "First of all -- and I don't know how to tell you this without hurting you deeply -- but first of all, you happen to be white." Frog elaborately rolls his eyes -- which I don't get, since that can't possibly be the first time someone's told him that. Nick: "I'm talking 'raised on Rapolla Street' white, where your mama used to drag you down to St. Casimir's just like all the other little pisspants on the block." Frog does not care to recall those times in his life before he became a cool-ass G. Nick goes on: "Second, I'm also white. Not 'hang on the corner, don't give a fuck' white, but 'Locust Point I.B.S. Local 47' white. I don't work without no fucking contract, and I don't stand around listening to horseshit excuses like my cousin Ziggy -- who, by the way, is still owed money by you and all your down, streetwise wiggers." Frog chuckles, maybe because there is a level on which he finds himself as ridiculous as Nick finds him. Nick tells Frog to give him $500 in advance, plus the $210 he owes Ziggy, and then Nick will let Frog work the package. Frog confirms that this was the same supply Nick had someone named Moochie selling last week; it was, and Frog, sounding impressed, says that it was good shit, and that Moochie sold it out quick. Nick shrugs casually. Frog agrees, and pulls out his fist to dap, but Nick conspicuously leaves him hanging, and Frog tries to play it off by wandering away as he promises that he'll send someone to get Nick the money, and leaves with a parting "Keep it real." "Whatever," enunciates Nick. "Yo." Yes, Nick, you're so superior. Now tell me how a digital camera works. He watches the drug trade trading in front of him for a moment, and then turns to see an older lady in the next house watching him, all intimidated, and is moved to get up off the stoop he's sitting on and try to let her know he's not really part of everything that's ruining what probably used to be a perfectly nice neighbourhood.
A gigantic Range Rover fills the entire frame. That guy from D.C., Tracksuit (though he's now in matching super-faded and super-giant jean jacket and pants, making me nostalgic for the tracksuit), gets into Stringer's car. "Everything to your satisfaction?" asks Jeansuit, as Stringer hands him an envelope full of cash. "Yeah, you on it," says Stringer flatly. Jeansuit checks that the "prison people" seem to have fallen for the suicide ruse. Jeansuit says that his "cousin always works clean." He adds -- acknowledging that it's none of his business -- whether Avon ever knew anything about it. Stringer looks at him for a long moment, but finally looks back out the windshield without responding. "You're on your own here?" asks Jeansuit. "You right," Stringer rumbles. "It ain't none of your business. And if I were you, I wouldn't want a word of this mess up in Avon's ear." Jeansuit comments that "Baltimore niggas" are "off the hook." He leaves the car in a cloud of self-righteousness -- because, I guess he doesn't need any repeat business.