Shooting continues. No one seems very strategy-minded about it, so blind shots are being squeezed off from both sides, with more car windows falling victim to the crossfire than guys. Soon enough, we hear police cars approaching, and all the guys on both sides run away.
In the bathroom, Mom hears that the shots have stopped, and gets up.
In the street, cop cars squeal back and forth.
In the hall, Mom calls to her son that everything's okay, and that he needs to head out into the war zone downstairs (I'm paraphrasing) and get himself to school. She doesn't hear him respond, but he's probably just stuck in his shirt and can't hear her.
In the street, uniformed cops get out of their car, guns drawn, but soon peel out again.
In the house, Mom notices that her son, T.T., still hasn't emerged, and makes her way back upstairs, telling him, "The drama's done." Who doesn't like to hear that, right? She is still nagging him when she opens his bedroom door and sees him lying on the floor, his glasses knocked off his head in a detail that's either more pathetic or more maudlin, depending on your perspective. (I was more moved by the detail of T.T.'s drawing of two guys playing basketball, tacked up on the wall next to the window.) Mom starts sobbing, and the camera pushes in closer to T.T.'s head so we can see the large pool of blood under it and determine that she's not jumping to any overly hasty conclusions. The camera cuts back to the now-empty streets, where the sound of her anguished keening has no more competition.
"The world is a smaller place now." -- The Greek. Smaller and, since the cold open, sadder.
Detail office. Lester's rewinding a recording as Prez, McNulty, Beadie, and Daniels stand around, the last asking, "They're changing up?" Lester nods, and plays a fraudulent recording in which Prop Joe (I think) asks about five La-Z-Boys. Lester stops it to explain, "That's what the Newkirk warehouse was giving us a few days back. Straight, to-the-point drug talk. No muss, no fuss. Now listen." He starts another recording, in which a professional young lady answers the phone: "Pyramid Incorporated. May I help you?" A gruff voice asks about "davinas," and the woman says they no longer carry that line. Bunk says that he, Kima, Herc, and Carver have covered the warehouse every minute since they learned about it, and McNulty adds that there hasn't been anyone they recognize or any drug-related traffic. Beadie pipes up to say that Frank's stopped using his cell phone. Daniels shakes his head, saying that they must have tipped their hand somewhere. "That second can, maybe," guesses McNulty. "The port police making a traffic stop on their cargo must've spooked them." Daniels: "If that's what did it, we fucked ourselves over nothing. They dumped that can as a misdelivery." McNulty knocks his forehead against his fist. Beadie doesn't get it. Bunk explains exactly what Frank did, and Beadie curses herself for falling into his trap. Lester, however, says that the dock guys must not be on to everything about the investigation: "If they were, they'd be shutting that warehouse down and rolling out," rather than, as Bunk notes, waiting them out. Daniels: "Well I, for one, am a patient motherfucker." Also, hot.
Squat -- but a new squat, full of flattened cardboard boxes, opposite Pyramid. Herc snaps photos out the window, Carver soon ordering him not to waste film. Herc crabs, "I been here so fucking long that you're starting to look good to me." Eh, Herc could do worse -- and undoubtedly has. They return their attention to the view out the window, Carver flummoxed that if the drugs are going in, they've got to come out. Hello, that's what people's butts are for.