In a wood-panelled restaurant (or something), we pan from a banner indicating that we're at some kind of Democratic Party do and down to McNulty, ambling through looking pissed. He quickly locates Phelan glad-handing with a knot of your typical old white dudes, and calls him away to tell him that Burrell's got to back off. "What now?" asks Phelan innocently. McNulty tells him about Burrell's orders about the main stash: "It's a photo op to make us feel better about Kima Greggs catching a bullet or two." "Aw, christ," mutter Phelan...insincerely? He is in fundraising mode; it's hard to tell. McNulty says that Phelan needs to rip Burrell a new one. Phelan stammers that he doesn't know. McNulty glares a moment, and then accusingly comments, "You back on the ticket, huh?" Phelan looks back at his own photo on a cheap-ass visual aid that some intern put together with, like, bristol board from the drugstore, putting his earlier exclusion down to "the usual bullshit." He explains that it was a question of black/white balance as McNulty judgmentally sets his jaw: "That's all?" Phelan insists that the politics have nothing to do with McNulty's case. "I need you on this," says McNulty seriously. Phelan works his jaw, looking away, and finally McNulty smiles bitterly: "So who's my daddy now?" With one last self-righteous glare, McNulty leaves Phelan to wallow in his dirty ambition.