After the credits, Daniels is sitting at his desk in the new detail office, while Carver stands very formally in front of him, in his uniform, quietly asking, "Why me?" Daniels stares at him for a while from under his brow before finally shrugging, "You don't want the posting, I'll take someone else. Valchek gave me the pick of his district." Carver replies that he's not saying he doesn't want the posting: "I'm asking why you would choose me after what happened last go-round." "Yeah, I thought about that too," says Daniels casually. "Looking down that list of names on the Southeastern roster, I'm saying to myself, 'Why take a man who already burned you once? Who already proved himself disloyal? Now, why would I do that?'" Carver looks down, ashamed, and obviously thinks Daniels is just fucking with him; he blurts, "I have no fucking clue, Lieutenant." Daniels smiles a little and leans forward: "Because, if I caught him once, he might be the last son of a bitch to try it twice." Carver blinks. Daniels: "And I'm guessing you've got enough shame on you from the last time so that it won't happen again." "No, sir, it won't," promises Carver. Daniels leans back again: "One other thing. As far as I'm concerned, those stripes on your sleeve aren't earned." Despite Carver's official designation as "sergeant," Kima will run Carver's team. Carver smiles ruefully: "Same as it ever was." Hell, even if Carver did try to run the team, Kima'd make sure it didn't last. Daniels pushes his chair back and comes around the desk, putting out his hand; after a hesitant beat, Carver shakes it, smiling. Now all they need is a bass player!
Out in the open area, Prez, Herc, and Kima (back in a fleece and corduroy jeans, phew!) wait curiously for Carver to tell them how his meeting went. Carver takes forever to shrug and smile: "I'm in." "Come here, you sweet bitch!" yells Herc, darting forward to grab Carver in a gigantic bear hug that lifts him off the floor, and then drives him onto a nearby couch. Prez and Kima exchange a fond look and head off in opposite directions. "Don't be grabbing my dick, faggot!" chokes Carver. Yeah, save something for your special private time.
Outside the Marine Unit office, Bubbs is testing the lock holding a Weber grill (possibly the same model we have at home in Toronto, not that I ever got much time to use it) to a lamppost when Diggins comes out, saying that he raised "him" (McNulty, presumably) on the radio. Bubbs tries to cover his attempted robbery, all, "Appreciate that, Officer. Nice day." Diggins obviously knows what Bubbs was up to but decides not to be a hard-on about it; he just watches as Bubbs caresses the grill ("top of the line," he says), and waits for Bubbs to head down to the water to meet up with McNulty. Bubbs and the grill will have to have their special private time under cover of darkness.
Bubbs walks along the pier as McNulty backs a little motorboat into a slip. He twits McNulty a little about his new posting, but it doesn't last long before Bubbs has to tell McNulty, "Watch the front." When the junkie is schooling you about boating, maybe it's time to go buy one of those Dummies books so you don't embarrass yourself any further. Proving my point, McNulty grabs a line from the back of the boat and tosses it to Bubbs, instructing him to "stick that on the thing." That's what she said? "The cleat?" says Bubbs, disgusted. "Ain't you know nothing?" As McNulty takes a line from the prow of the boat, preparing to make another of his piss-poor knots, Bubbs mutters, "I don't know, maybe it's just me, but something's way the fuck wrong with this picture." Motioning toward McNulty's handiwork, he asks, "What the hell is that?" McNulty shrugs: "A Baltimore knot." Heh. Well, it's janky and doesn't really work; that's probably as good a name as any. Bubbs hasn't heard of a Baltimore knot, but McNulty cheerfully says that it's never the same thing twice. How has McNulty never just lost a boat? Like, had it drift out to open water? Maybe doing something that would legitimately require him to get reassigned would be a sign of good luck. Anyway, Bubbs climbs aboard the now-moored boat as McNulty says that his "detecting days are over." Bubbs wants to know why McNulty had him looking for Omar, then. McNulty says that's old business, and catches Bubbs up on the Gant case. Bubbs pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it over, telling McNulty that he can call that number and leave Omar a message. McNulty, grinning, goes to take it, but Bubbs teasingly flicks it back before giving it to him. McNulty congratulates him on his great work and gives him a bill: "Cab fare." Bubbs, hesitantly, says, "You say tit for tat, and we let slide on a little County caper. I got to think that, you know, you need to think about what it was you had me endeavouring to accomplish." McNulty looks up, squinting. "I mean, what the fuck, man?" mumbles Bubbs. "I'm not out there asking about no random-ass, who-give-a-damn nigga. No, sir! I'm making inquiries in your behalf, in regards to that fucking unforgiving, motherfucking Omar, man." Yes, I think that's his full name on his driver's license. McNulty, not really taking this monologue too seriously, smiles and asks, "Why? He play you hard?" Bubbs says that he went at Omar "respectable," and that Omar put his shotgun in Bubbs's face. McNulty chuckles -- and I will take the non-dick interpretation and say that McNulty can obviously see that Bubbs is okay (physically, at least) (or at least is no worse off than he was before McNulty sent him on this mission). Bubbs finally gets to his point: he thinks he's earned more than "good work, Bubbs," and a little money. McNulty doesn't disagree, and gives him what I think is forty more dollars. Stupid monochromatic American money.
Homicide. "Where are we at with the Jane Does?" brays Rawls, stomping into the bullpen. Lester says that they're working on the port angle, and are going to drop a Grand Jury summons on each stevedore who worked the ship. Rawls asks how "the Port Police broad" is woking out. Hey! That broad has a name! Behind Rawls, Bunk rolls his eyes at the outdated vocabulary, while in front of him, Lester affably says that "she knows the docks okay." "No detective, though," adds Bunk. Rawls suggests adding "someone fresh" to the case -- Cole, perhaps. Rawls then points at Lester with a file folder, informing him that he needs to get to the Southeastern today because he's been detailed. Lester leaps out of his chair: "Colonel, respectfully, did you just fuck me over without giving me even half a chance to clear this case?" Daaaaaaamn, look at the big balls on Lester! I guess he figures he's got nothing to lose ever again. Rawls chuckles: "Let's be clear, Detective Freamon. When I fuck you over, you'll know it. You'll be so goddamn certain, you won't need to ask the question." With Lester still standing there gobsmacked, Rawls turns around: "And you, Detective Moreland, are now all alone with fourteen red names. How's it feel?" Like a horrendous migraine, if Bunk's face is anything to go by.