Homicide unit. McNulty enters and sarcastically compliments Bunk on his shirt, which is an extremely bold salmon colour: "Takes guts wearing a pink shirt on the BPD Homicide unit." Salmon, bitch! "Yes, it does," says Bunk firmly. "Guts, or a familiarity with alternative lifestyles," adds McNulty. Yeah, the shirt is what makes Bunk a little gay. Anyway, Bunk changes the subject by asking what McNulty's chasing at the computer, and McNulty tells him it's a Toyota Camry. So, not American. Maybe American-built, though. Bunk asks whose car it is, and McNulty says, "It's listed to some woman with a County address, but Saturday, my man Stringer Bell was using it." "You were working the weekend?" asks Bunk, dubiously, and McNulty tells him the story of happening upon Stringer at the market and putting Sean and Mikey on him in a front-and-follow: "They're so fucking good, I lose track of them. Scared the shit out of myself." Bunk chuckles. McNulty concludes his tale with the triumphant discovery of Stringer's license-plate number. "Your kids know front-and-follow?" asks Bunk. "They fucking love it," says McNulty. "We play spy in the mall sometimes." And now he has the address of a woman in Woodmore who sometimes lends her car to Stringer: "It's a start." "The fucking family McNulty," says Bunk. "Jesus." It's not clear whether he's disgusted or impressed. Or thinking he's done his own kids a disservice by failing to teach them any useful policing skills.
A shaft of light falls across Wallace's sleeping face. One of his little kids, Sarah, shoves him, trying to wake him up. Wallace resists, but finally sits up, so that we can see his braids are half undone; Sarah wants help with some math homework. Wallace reads out a story problem involving a bus picking up and dropping off passengers, and whines, "Just do it in your head," flopping back down on his pillow. At this point, Poot enters to say that there will be testers today for a new package. Wallace says that he might be down later, and tries to get rid of Poot so that he can continue his nap. Poot's not having it, though, and turns over a crate to sit next to the bed and counsel Wallace, "You can't just lay up in here." "Seven, right?" asks Sarah about her homework. Wallace raises his head half off the pillow, but doesn't confirm the answer. Poot says that D'Angelo has been asking about Wallace, and that Poot's been saying that Wallace is sick, but that he'll need a new excuse soon. Wallace shrugs that he'll be down later sometime, but Poot insists, "No, man, testers gonna be out." "Look, man -- fuck the testers, a-ight?" snaps Wallace, finally sitting up. At this, Sarah sitting at the end of his bed looks up in shock. Not the testers! Have some respect! "Fuck the testers, fuck Dee, fuck all of that shit," says Wallace. "Just...just let me hold ten dollars, and I'll give it back to you by Friday." Poot wants to know how he'll get the money: "Dee ain't going to pay you for not working." Wallace asks for the money again, and Poot peels a bill off a wad and hands it over without a word. "Eight?" tries Sarah. Poot leaves, annoyed, and Wallace turns to his young charge, telling her to close her eyes: "You're working a ground stash. Twenty tall pinks. Two fiends come up and ask for two each; another one cops three. Then Bodie hands you ten more, but some white guy rolls up in a car, waves you down, and pays for eight. How many vials you got left?" Sarah opens her eyes: "Fifteen?" "How the fuck you able to keep the count right, you not able to do the book problem, then?" demands Wallace. "Count be wrong, they'll fuck you up," says Sarah simply. Wallace works his jaw, because there's not really have any response to that. Out of the mouths of babes...raised in really unfortunate circumstances. And it's also heartbreaking in this scene to see how Wallace can remember the details of a story problem he's only read once and improvise a different context for it on the fly, and think of all his wasted potential and talent.