But we know! And Daniels has the perfect opening for a friendly conversation: "Orioles won last night. Bullpen stood up to Boston." Okay, enough already with the baseball talk; some of us don't care. Day-Day turns, obviously recognizing Daniels, but shifts in his seat without responding. "You get that money cracking cribs, or what?" asks Daniels genially. He's clearly loving this; happy is a look for him we so seldom get to see. Day-Day says that he wants to speak to his attorney. Daniels smirks and leaves, closing the door after him, even though it's more than likely he'd like to stay and break the guy's balls some more.
Out in the cube, Daniels is explaining about the party, saying that Day-Day was driving for a politician in attendance. McNulty asks which one, and Kima guesses that it was someone at the state level, based on his ID. Carver asks what they can charge Day-Day with. "[Does] he say the money's his?" asks Daniels. "He doesn't say shit," replies Kima. Daniels thinks for a moment, and then says, "Keep the cash. Write him a receipt. He wants to put a claim in to the city solicitor, he can. But they're gonna ask him where he got the pile." Before they can laugh about the brilliant simplicity of this solution, McNulty sees someone come in and mutters, "Uh oh. The angel of death." Carver looks up, but can't tell who it is. Daniels identifies him as "Major Reed, IID." Reed goes for Daniels's door, and Daniels gets up to get a better look, as does McNulty. Reed opens the door a crack, just long enough to confirm that it's Day-Day sitting in there, and then closes it again, calling out to Daniels for "a word." That word probably isn't going to be "Yay."
Orlando's by night. Orlando lets himself into a back room, where Avon and Stringer are waiting for him. If he can tell that some bad shit is about to go down, he doesn't let on; however, it's possible that, since he was dumb enough to take his back-door coke-dealing scheme to the boss's nephew, Orlando's also dumb enough not to notice Avon's and Stringer's distinctly vulture-like poses. "What's up?" says Orlando. He paces around the room, and Avon watches him carefully, finally asking, "How you doing?" "Me?" asks Orlando. "Yeah, you," smiles Avon disarmingly. "Everything good?" Orlando sits, saying that he's all right. Avon gets up and reaches into his pocket as he asks whether Orlando's set for cash: "'Cause if you need a little something --" He throws a couple of bills at Orlando, who sees where this is going, at last, and starts to look worried. "Really, the thing to do is just to ask for it. That's all I do, anyway, is put money in your fucking pocket and make sure you don't stray away from the nest!" Orlando starts to sit up straighter to defend himself, but Avon hisses at him to sit down, and then grabs his face and leans in close: "The last motherfucking thing I need is for the clean name on my liquor license to be dirtied the fuck up by you -- do you understand that?!" "Avon, come on, man," says Orlando hoarsely. Avon looks like he could go either way with this confrontation; from his seat, Stringer flares his nostrils, possibly wanting to break off a piece of Orlando's ass himself.