Bad part of town. McNulty cruises around, checking the corners for people who might know where Omar is. He finally pulls up at one that looks promising; one of the guys loitering there drops his stash in the sewer before McNulty's gotten out of the car. As soon as he does, McNulty pulls up the hem of his shirt to show the badge clipped to his waistband. The guys wearily line up against the wall, getting ready for him to pat them down, but McNulty assures them, "We don't need that now...I don't give a shit about drugs. Littering pisses me off, though. You can pick that up when I'm gone." The guys are suspicious, but listen as McNulty says he's looking for Omar: "Dark-skinned, thin guy with a scar right down his face. You boys would definitely know him if you saw him, because he's got a shotgun about yay long." The space McNulty marks off between his palms might actually be a bit conservative to indicate what Omar's packing. "He'll put it to your head and steal your shit without thinking twice," McNulty adds. He asks if any of them knows where Omar "hangs," "who he's running with," or "what he's driving." All he gets is one guy telling him, "Fuck you, Officer," as he stomps away. The group breaks up, leaving McNulty to work his jaw, all alone and useless.
In a stash-house basement, a guy toils away at preparing a package in the background, while an underling tells Stringer, "The second package came even weaker than the last. It won't take a cut like it did before." Stringer complains that the supply from Atlanta cost more and still isn't as good as what they were getting from New York. The underling shrugs that all they can do is "sprinkle it and bag it." "And lose my money?" drawls Stringer. The guy looks down. "I lose my money," Stringer repeats. After a moment, he orders, "Step on that motherfucker." How hard? Stringer sighs, shaking his head: "Make it ten." Ten...as in 10% drug, 90% filler? They could just call this package Hot Dog, if that's the case. Underling can't believe it: "It's shit now!" Stringer knows. The underling doesn't like it, but he moves off to comply.
Homicide. Bunk and Lester are reporting to Rawls on their progress with the Jane Does (short version: there's been very little). Bunk wraps up his recitation: "Bottom line is, we need to know more about cargo moving off that terminal. How to do dirt. And how to hide when you're doing dirt." Rawls takes a long, self-satisfied breath, and fusses with his tie as he drawls, "Bottom line for me is different. Bottom line for me is, you guys should've held that ship. For your crime scene, for your witnesses, for the whole damn case." Bunk tries to break in to explain about the witnesses, but Rawls interrupts him: "I don't care if they were speaking Mandarin Chinese with a cocksucker's lisp! They needed to see the inside of an interrogation room. They were the case!" Yeah, this is the dickhole I want armchair quarterbacking my case. Lester reminds Rawls that they were in Philadelphia, without jurisdiction, dealing with foreign nationals, and lacking probable cause. Rawls smugly says he can only tell them how it looks from where he's sitting: "And from here, the view is two of my detectives fucking the dog...So what can I tell you? If this case doesn't fall, we're all gonna be stepping on our dicks trying to explain what happened." Someone has a high opinion of himself. Rawls concludes by telling Bunk and Lester they should work the case as they see fit, but know that if Rawls needs a scapegoat to throw to Burrell, he's "got one to throw." And it's a scapegoat with a really nice ass.