Lie down with dogs, wake up with roaches. After a sleepless, vermin-infested weekend in lockup, Richie is finally released, but he looks rougher than he has coming off the most epic my-dead-German-friend-is-alive bender — and his claim of killing Buck Rogers in self-defense is not going over well at all, even with his own lawyer “(You rolled him in a rug and dumped his body!”). Now he’s looking at a laundry list of charges: manslaughter, obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting, destruction of evidence.
The coke-y Keystone Cops who’ve been riding Richie since the beginning are happy to suggest that he’ll get 30 years for the murder, but what his lawyer wants to know is why the assistant U.S. attorney is there in the room at all. He answers that question with a pointed question of his own for Richie: “Corrado Galasso. How long have you been working for him?” Of course: they’re here to hook a way bigger fish, and they’re happy to let Richie fry for Buck if he won’t help. If he does, though, they say he just might get to keep his business, his wife, and his bank account. “You want me to rat on Corrado Galasso?” Richie asks. “Why don’t you just put a bullet in my head now?” Well, it would be quicker than Galasso’s usual methods — and probably less painful than his lawyers’ description of prison, which involves gang rape and some graphic dental rearrangements.
It’s a rough day for Jamie Vine, too; her mom has gotten her kicked out of her aunt’s apartment, a hobo just stole half her clothes, and the ensuing fight with her aunt gets her shoved down the stairs. At least Devon seems good; she and her new British photographer boytoy are having a cozy postcoital morning in bed at the Chelsea Hotel. But when she casually mentions that she has rolls of undeveloped film from the time when she was “a professional entertainer of musicians either nurturing or kicking smack habits,” the guy’s opportunivore antennae immediately start twitching. He wants to go find those old shots of Jimi Hendrix wearing Devon’s underwear or whatever she’s got, and his eyes are practically dollar signs; she clocks it and doesn’t like it.
At an office meeting, Andrea tells Richie she thinks they can get Hannibal back — his new contract with rival record mogul Jackie is not actually signed yet, and if he’ll agree to swallow his “mammoth f—in’ ego and take the guy out to dinner” he can probably woo him again. The table nixes it anyway, which really makes you wonder once again why she’s sticking around, and Richie agrees to Maury’s dusty idea of putting out a 1950s compilation instead of giving Zak the money to nurture his baby-Bowie wonder, Gary, now officially rechristened Xavier. (To be fair, Richie does have other things on his mind right now.) Jamie, still banged up from her bad tumble down the stairs, has found a new temporary home with Nasty Bits frontman Kip, and he’s actually being pretty sweet about the whole thing.
Meanwhile, Maury is sharing what would be idle gossip about Galasso and his family with Richie, except they’re in Richie’s bugged office and it also involves a casual mention of murder (Apparently Galasso recently rage-killed a Hispanic guy his “half-wit” daughter gave a BJ to. Overprotective dads, they’re crazy like that!) All helpless Richie can say is that maybe they should start meeting in the conference room instead: “You know, more business-like.”
But hey, A&R guy Julie comes by, and he has an idea for Richie: a young artist named Bruce Springsteen. His records aren’t really selling at Columbia, so there might be an opportunity to poach him. Is that what Richie wants, though, “an approachable Dylan” type artist? Julie says he doesn’t even know what his boss is looking for anymore if the Nasty Bits and ‘50s nostalgia comps are where his head is at. This leads Richie into a whole semi-coherent monologue about truth and music and what it costs to bring real art to the people. So…no to the Boss? It’s unclear.
NEXT: Richie wants Dev to come back home