Back in the square, Bubbles is exhorting his faux-customers, "I'm out here trying to outfit niggers with something to rile up some pussy." Well, there's a lovely image. He clowns around about how much tail he used to get, but says that pussy must not be worth what it used to be if it can be corralled without a screaming red fedora. Speaking on behalf of women everywhere: the hat doesn't make as big a difference as you'd think. He places the hat on a third guy's head, and Kima snaps another photo. Presently, a kid comes running up, delivers a message we don't hear, and the little crowd disperses. "Something's up," says Kima. She calls Carver over and hands him the camera, instructing him that if Bubbles puts a hat on anyone -- particularly the red one -- Carver is to take a shot. She runs off, crouching, without telling them where she's going, and Herc complains that she acts like she's above them: "I mean, I don't see any stripes on her fucking sleeve." Oh, Herc and his stripes. Get ready to hear about them a lot. Carver, ignoring him, takes more shots (including one of a license plate on a dark SUV) as Herc goes on: "All I see is some stuck-up dyke bitch who ain't been in CID half the time you or me, and she's fucking telling us what to do. It ain't right." Well then take some fucking initiative, Ox, damn! "You think it's right?" Herc presses. Proving my point, Carver tells Herc to shut up. And, seriously: what are you bringing to the table today, Herc?