"A lie ain't a side of a story. It's just a lie." So says Terry Hanning, to whom I don't think I've been properly introduced.
Dukie is walking down the streets of Baltimore, playing a one-man version of kick-the-can. Apparently, the job search is not going well. But perhaps things are looking up, vocation-wise -- Dukie's can-kicking wanderings have brought him to a local shoe store. Perhaps there's a job to be had here. I mean, since one of the salesmen is our old friend Poot -- hey, Poot! -- obviously the hiring standards aren't too stringent. Man, of all the people who've died horribly on this show -- Stringer, Bodie, D'Angelo -- who would have placed money on Poot being the one to outlast them all for a new life of asking people, "Can I show you something in a Size 11?" Poot asks if he may be of assistance to Dukie, who says he's there about a job. And how old are you, exactly? Poot asks with narrowed eyes. Eighteen, Dukie volunteers, which elicits a scoff from Poot. All right, all right, Dukie's fifteen, actually -- but if we were to go by life experience, he's easily fifty-three-going-on-dead. Poot comments that anyone under the age of seventeen isn't going to have much luck landing a job, and Dukie turns to leave -- dejectedly, of course, since that's his default mode. That's when Poot recognizes Dukie as part of the crew that used to run with Namond -- the other unlikely escapee from the fates claiming so many others around these parts. "I used to be on one of them Fayette corners," Poot offers. Good times, good times -- well, except for when Bodie got shot. That was a bit of a bummer. "Yeah, I just got tired," Poot continues. "Shit got old. So I guess you need to bang a while longer, then come back. See if we got something." That advice was...unhelpful. Dukie goes back to can-kicking, doubtlessly imagining that the can is Poot's head.
At the Western, McNulty has just finished tapping Carver to head up his surveillance team, and Carver is wondering what he did to deserve such generosity, seeing as how nary a homeless victim has turned up in the Western. McNulty looks around conspiratorially: "Well, there's a hitch," he says, getting up and closing the door to Carver's office. "This is some fucked-up McNulty shit," Carver observes. You have no idea, Ellis. You truly have no idea. Okay, so here's the deal: McNulty's got more resources than he needs, so he though, why not use some extra resources on a fresh line Freamon has on Marlo Stanfield. Yeah, Carver knows all about that fresh line -- he was the one who provided it, after all. "He's got a fucking wire up is what you mean," Carver says. Oh no, no, no, no, McNulty protests -- wi-re? Whatever do you mean, young man? All McNulty knows is that Freamon's got a bead on Marlo and needs surveillance teams. You in or out, Ellis? "Guy drops all those motherfuckers in the vacants," Carver mutters after McNulty tells him that the brass have not been forthcoming with investigatory resources for that case. So it sounds like he's in. McNulty handles the paperwork and the OT -- all Carver's troops have to do is straight police work. As for cars, the department has an account at Enterprise downtown -- so go crazy, Carv. Carver smiles -- it all sounds too good to be true. That is usually because it is.