D'Angelo loiters outside a business that appears to be called "The Love Zone," and yet seems to be a takeout joint, or something? It's busy in the middle of the afternoon, anyway, unlike the one sad place in Toronto that sells sex toys and shit by having lingerie-clad girls dancing wanly in the front windows. Just as he's checking his watch, a cab pulls up, and Shardene -- looking practically demure in tight jeans and a little print top -- gets out. As she swigs from a big bottle of water, D'Angelo walks quickly toward her. She looks annoyed to see him, while he's seemingly trying to be friendly; we can see their lips moving, but the ambient music on the street is too loud for us to make out their conversation. Eventually, D'Angelo takes Shardene by the wrist and tries to pull her along with him, which is when we can faintly hear them; she says she has to go, he asks for five minutes, and she repeats that she can't. She walks toward the door at Orlando's, with D'Angelo now yelling, "I can't have five minutes?!" She leaves him at the door, and D'Angelo kicks over a stool before stomping off. Maybe don't let a girl's friend's murder get covered up next time, if you want her to keep liking you.
Meanwhile, Kima and McNulty meet with Omar. McNulty asks how close Omar got to Avon. Omar, holding his shoulder, says that the cops would have been "chalking" Avon if Wee-Bey hadn't come back with cheese fries at precisely the wrong moment. Kima snaps that Omar told them he'd let them work their case. Omar rejoins that he said he'd do what he could, adding that he thought the cops would like to know that Avon's people have reached out to him in pursuit of a truce: "They offered me some kind of amnesty...Look, I chill out on the manhunt, and stop hitting them in the head for their product, they're gonna call off the bounty." He grimaces as he rubs his injured arm, his speech halting. Seeing Omar diminished is somehow more disturbing than when it happens to anyone else; he always has such an air of invulnerability. Anyway, Kima curtly tells Omar to take the truce. Omar says he might: "If they ain't trying to play me. They say they want to parley on it." McNulty isn't familiar with the term (doubtful, but okay, Exposition Fairy), but Omar doesn't have time to school him, and just says he needs some assistance. He slowly unzips his hoodie, revealing what looks like a hand towel just draped over his left shoulder, with an enormous blood stain on it. Either he hasn't had that gunshot wound seen to, or Omar's shoulder has just become a woman. McNulty steps forward to inspect the injury, gingerly peeling back the towel as Omar grits, "Yo, son, I go to the ER, and word get back to Avon, you know he gonna have his henchmen laying in the parking lot for me." McNulty doesn't say anything as we get a load of the gunshot wound, and Omar starts getting desperate: "Look, I know y'all friendly with a couple of doctors, right? Right?" McNulty looks at Kima and half-shrugs; Kima shrugs back. Unlicensed disgraced former doctor now working in a convenience store, or all-night animal hospital?