Nick is walking, in what looks like bitter, bitter cold, to the docks. On his way, he passes a banner on a fence advertising a "Ships' Landing" condo development. Ooh, I hate those yuppies and their damn condos! Damn them and their unwillingness to shovel snow in winter or mow lawns in summer! Damn their appreciation for panoramic views! Boo!
So McNulty and Diggins have successfully brought Jane Doe to a pier, where they're met by Cole. He greets McNulty warmly; when asked how he is, he crabs, "I got nothing but red ink under my name this year. Landsman's become an asshole with teeth." See you in my nightmares later, that image. He leans in to see the deceased woman's face, framed by a cheap perm and cheaper acrylic sweater. Diggins repeats his theory that she was probably a jumper, since they found her so close to the bridge. "Probably," Cole agrees. "Pretty, though." He straightens up, and tells McNulty that he was in the men's room that morning: "Guess who's in the next stall puking his guts out." "Bunk Moreland," McNulty guesses immediately. "Useless fuck can't hold his liquor." Cole chuckles. And the secret of Omar's whereabouts abides.
Prison. A barred door slides open, and Avon heads into the visitors' room, dapping Stringer through the glass. Each picks up his phone. Stringer reports that he hasn't heard from Roberto, although Billy still has their money. Avon says that Stringer needs to get down to New York: "You sure of our people?" "I broke down all their stories and they came back clean," says Stringer. "Besides, I had some good people watching them." Avon asks who, and Stringer chuckles, "Tank. Country." "How long that motherfucker been home?" laughs Avon. Stringer says it's only been a month. Country (I guess?) is still on parole, but said, "Fuck that." Avon says that they know: "It ain't on us. It's on Roberto. Set it straight, you know what I mean? So when you go hard on the man, take it light, but be firm. They got our money and we ain't got the product. So, you feel me? The shit ain't right." Stringer squints his agreement, and asks how Avon's doing. Avon drawls, "This ain't no thing, man. You know what I mean?" Stringer nods as Avon goes on: "You come in here, man, you get your mind right. You get in here and you only do two days. It's the day you come in thi motherfucker --" "And the day you get out this motherfucker," Stringer concludes. "Exactly," says Avon. And then, in between, you get really good at cards. And at hiding things in your butt.
Still on his way to the port, Nick runs into Johnny Fifty, who says he'll be working the Atlantic Light today. Nick asks how it's looking, but it sounds like there won't be work for Nick today -- maybe half a day doing break-bulk. "Seniority sucks," Johnny Fifty concludes. "Yeah, if you ain't senior, it does," Nick mutters. Ziggy pulls up next to them in his Trans Am (or whatever), and hops out as Johnny Fifty takes off. Ziggy complains that Nick didn't wake him up. Nick can't believe that Ziggy's just getting up now, but Ziggy says he stayed for breakfast; Joan made him bacon and eggs. "No fucking way," says Nick. "You're going down to see the Greek, right?" says Ziggy. Nick smiles uncomfortably: "Ziggy..." "I ain't gonna fuck it up for you," promises Ziggy. He urges Nick to get in the car already, and Nick, his unwillingness to walk any further with his nosehairs freezing in his head, climbs in, telling Ziggy, "You open your mouth, I'll fucking kill you." You know, I feel like if something requires silence or discretion, Ziggy shouldn't even be in the same county.