Prison. D'Angelo walks along an upper tier of cells, ending up at Avon's cell; inside, Avon is playing a basketball videogame on a little wee monitor when D'Angelo appears in the doorway, crosses his arms pissily over his chest, and pouts, "Could've been me the other night." "True," says Avon frankly. "Except for all of a sudden, you up and tell me to stop doing that," adds D'Angelo. "Avon to the rescue. How'd you know?" Avon chuckles a bit, saying he figured D'Angelo would be coming by to thank him for getting D'Angelo on the wagon. "Five dead," spits D'Angelo. "More in the infirmary. How'd you know?" Avon, trying to remain calm, says he did as an uncle should, because he was concerned about D'Angelo fucking himself up. "You knew," accuses D'Angelo. Avon doesn't deny knowing, but claims he had nothing to do with it: "I might could know who did, though." D'Angelo says that, with Avon "practically running" the prison, "who else could it be?" Avon says that it's about using what happened to the organization's advantage: "You can play, or you can get played." D'Angelo says that he needs to know Avon didn't orchestrate the drug casualties. Avon says that he already said so: "You ain't gonna believe it, fuck it. You can tell yourself that I spiked it, but be grateful that you still standing. And then once you done with all that, we can talk about how we start shaving some of these years off. And not just for me -- for you, too." He explains that they're looking for the "motherfucker" who brought in the tainted package; Avon can give D'Angelo the culprit's name, which D'Angelo can then relay to the assistant warden, so that D'Angelo and Avon can get some of their lives back: "You dig?" The camera pushes in on D'Angelo's face as he knits his brow, considering. Avon says, "We got it all covered." D'Angelo nods, crossing his arms, and announces, "I don't want no part of what you do no more. You hear me? So you can just leave me the fuck out of that. Whatever it is." He turns and stomps out -- certain, no doubt, that Avon will be very understanding and respectful of his choices.
Bad part of town. McNulty, in civvies, gets out of his car, writes a note, and leaves it under a wiper of Omar's good old burned-out van. He turns to see a passel of grade-school kids walking through the vacant lot, and asks if any of them has seen Omar. No one even bothers to deny it as they stare him down. Survival skills are learned early in this neighbourhood.
Port of Baltimore. It's abuzz with activity; La La drives Nick up the dock, as they exposit that they've had six ships that day, and that the terminal hasn't been so busy in months. La La calls Nick's attention to "this pretty bitch" -- Ziggy, in a striped toque and, under his safety-orange vest, a reddish-brown knee-length coat. Nick asks what he's wearing, and Ziggy proudly announces that it's Italian leather. Oh, of course. Nick: "In the middle of winter? On the goddamn docks?" Seriously -- it still looks motherfucking COLD, you guys. Nick asks how much the coat cost, and Ziggy proudly tells him it was $2,000. Dude. EBAY. Nick, his voice getting choked, asks if he's out of his mind. "Fuck it," says Ziggy. La La is also fondly incredulous that Ziggy could have spent that much on one jacket: "Jesus, Zig, you need therapy and shit." Ziggy: "Now, I'd have figured an African-American such as yourself would understand how a player such as myself needs to take heed [sic] in the latest fashions. But apparently, youse ain't got no fucking style neither." Nick smacks Ziggy in the chest, and tells La La he's going to walk. Ziggy, unconcerned, says he'll see La La later, and heads off with an extremely irate Nick. Once La La's gone, Nick reminds him that he'd told Ziggy not to spread cash around. Ziggy defensively hisses that "it's a fucking coat," and that he can tell people he's paying for it in installments or something. And, really, Ziggy probably lives with his parents, definitely drives a crappy car, and doesn't have any dependents; whatever money he does make probably can go to fripperies like this stupid coat. Anyway, Ziggy says that Nick has to admit that Ziggy does look "pretty" today. Nick can't stay mad, and smiles a tiny bit before stalking off toward his next destination, telling Ziggy, "The Greeks wanna talk to us...We did good by them." "Yeah?" says Ziggy eagerly. Nick tells him again to "keep [his] shit quiet," so that the whole port isn't talking about them. Ziggy agrees, kind of pissily. They part, uncomfortably.