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An episode that touches on both race and religion? Man, it's like I've hit the lottery! Are you sure you don't want to throw in gay marriage, social security reform, and Janet Jackson's nipple just to make sure that everyone walks out of this episode irritated about something? No? All right, then.
So what happens is, a cute-as-a-button African-American girl falls to her death from the roof of an apartment. Naturally, everyone assumes that the Puerto Rican handyman who happened to also be on the roof at the time had a helping hand in the girl's untimely demise, and they're all out for blood -- and by "everyone," I include most of the detectives in the 125th Precinct, except, of course, for Sam, who just wants fairness to prevail. Naturally, since it's Sam, and he's only been right about everything else thus far, everyone ignores him.
And so we get race riots, albeit the most orderly and polite race riot ever captured on film. We also get a Black Panthers-esque radical group that takes Sam hostage, and only his knowledge of the poetry of Vanilla Ice saves him from a grisly end. And look -- it's a cameo from Whoopi Goldberg. I will leave it to the reader's imagination as to which of things described in this paragraph was the most chilling.
Ah, but all is not totally a bummer for Sam this episode. He's reunited with the 1973 version of the captain, played all-too-briefly in the pilot by the great Clarke Peters, one of three Wire alums to appear in this episode. Turns out that Clarke Peters' character was something of a father figure to Sam, so he gets the rare pleasure of working alongside someone he loves and admires.
And the two of them help solve the case -- turns out the Puerto Rican handyman is totally innocent, not that this belated discovery is going to sate the angry mob that forms once the detectives manage to track down the erstwhile suspect. So Hunt pretends to gun down the suspect in cold blood, but that turns out to be all a ruse -- the mob can't string up a guy who's already dead, after all. And so the handyman is whisked out of town to start life anew in a metropolis where bloodthirsty vigilantes aren't out for his scalp.
So happy ending, right? Well, sort of. All throughout the episode, Sam keeps seeing clues that someone in 2008 pulled the plug on him. And indeed, when he momentarily walks into a 2008 funeral, you can be forgiven if you think that Sam is actually the guest of honor. But no -- a quick glimpse at the coffin reveals that the deceased is actually the modern-day Clarke Peters and that this entire 1973 caper was just the powers-that-be's way of giving Sam a chance to say goodbye to his father figure.
Poor Clarke Peters. I haven't felt this bad since they did in Omar.
Want more? The full recap starts right below!Previously on Aladdin Sane, Sam got to meet up with the 1973 edition of his mother, which was every bit as awkward as you might imagine it to be. And their reunion was all thanks to a little girl who happened to lead Sam right to where his mother was by singing a childhood lullaby of his. Wonder what ever became of that little girl?
Why, she's plummeted to her death if the opening of this episode is any indication. Bummer. At least, that's what I was able to discern from the voice-over by a radio DJ named Brother Love Butter -- think Barry White with more basso than profondo -- bemoaning the girl's sad fate. The shot of the kid hurtling rapidly downward was also a bit of a giveaway. Anyhow, we arrive on the scene at the same time that Sam, Hunt, and a detective I don't know are pushing their way past grieving onlookers. Apparently, the girl did not fall off of the roof on her own accord -- so says the detective I don't know who, if he plays his cards right, might get a goofy nickname from me. Detective Who Were You Again is the leader, as of this point. Annie, who has been crouching by the sheet-covered body with Carling, informs us that the victim's name is Keisha Davies. "Someone who kills a kid needs killing," Hunt grumbles. But honestly, lieutenant? You say that about a lot of people -- guys who kill veterans, guys who kill gays. It might be easier just to list all the people you think don't need killing.
Anyhow, Sam has pulled back the sheet and realized that Keisha is not exactly unknown to him -- both for her lyrical rendition of the Sandman song and for her photographs stashed in a Thom McAn box. "I know this girl," Sam mutters. Annie says that Keisha was known to operate a lemonade stand, so maybe Sam bought a glass off her. "It wasn't really good," Annie says guiltily. "It was tart." Well, that could be a lead -- round up all the people who really hate tart lemonade and bring them in for questioning. No, that wasn't it at all -- Sam tells the other officers that he met Keisha when she was riding her bike. "She helped me... with something... important," Sam says, and yes, he says it as haltingly as I typed it. Carling and Hunt look at him as if to say, "Well, clearly it had nothing to do with helping you find those marbles you've lost."
Carling happily reports that he's got a bead on a suspect -- an ex-con (two years for assault) named Angel Ramirez who's a building superintendent. "Puerto Rican," Carling notes pointedly, adding that he has two eyewitnesses who saw the unfortunate Angel helping introduce Keisha to terra firma from the roof of a nearby building. "And that just turns this situation from bedlam into mayhem," Carling concludes. And why is that? "Here, PRs and blacks," Hunt explains to Sam as if he were a five-year-old, "there's an ongoing hostility." Skelton is picking up Angel now -- much to Carling's regret, since he will be deprived of participating in the inevitable prisoner beatings. Annie fills us all in on the other details surrounding Angel -- that Keisha was always following him around as he went about his work -- while the detectives brace themselves for the coming race war. I dunno. If I've learned anything from Broadway musicals -- and believe me, I've learned everything from Broadway musicals -- it's that traditionally antagonistic groups of people tend to settle their differences through elaborate choreographed dance numbers. It worked out well enough for the Sharks and the Jets.
Anyhow, the detective whose name I don't know reports that Skelton has run into a snag in apprehending Angel. And by snag, he means a two-fisted representative of the Church of Rome -- Angel fled into a Catholic Church, seeking sanctuary, and the local priest is threatening anyone who tries to arrest him with a right good pummeling. The priest is played by the same guy who played Sobotka in Season Two of The Wire, and while I'd love to make a joke along the lines of how I hope things work out better for him in this show, I can't do that. See, I got a not particularly encouraging note from a reader who complained that my recaplet apparently "spoiled" a crucial plot point in the fifth season of The Wire, even though that series has been off the air for, like, six months now. Still, I apologize -- it was my fault for not making sure that everyone in the English-speaking world had the opportunity to see an episode of a TV program that aired back in February and has been widely discussed since then. I will make sure that future recaps never mention anything that anyone might not have actually watched or read or even thought about. And that includes the works of Galileo Galilei since that angry reader who wrote me has apparently not yet been spoiled on what the earth actually revolves around.
So anyhow, the priest is named Father Tim -- though I hope you'll indulge me in calling him Father Sobotka. And judging by the wide berth that both Carling and Skelton are giving him, he's just as likely to absolve your sins with a good right cross to the jaw as he is a couple dozen rosaries. Carling attempts to reason with the good father: "Angel Ramirez chucked a little girl off a roof. Now, the last thing he deserves is mercy. Kill my dog, I'll slay your cat -- now that has a Biblical charm even you penguinis can appreciate." Yes, I believe that was in Paul's letter to the Meatheads, chapter five, right after the passage on "Yo... how you doin'?" Sam tries a less stupid line of reasoning -- if Angel's innocent, he's got nothing to worry about, and if he's guilty, "then he should make peace with your God." Father Sobotka finds that a curious choice of pronouns -- yes, it turns out that Sam checked the Unsubscribe box on the Major World Religions form. So how's about handing Angel over? We promise to treat him nice if you do. Well, Father Sobotka reasons, so long as they're promising to be nice... "Be fair," Father Sobotka says, pointedly, while pointing. "Or I'll hit you with so many rights, you'll beg me for the left." Ah, the words of the prophet Leon Spinks -- as true today, as they were in his time.
Angel is brought out, and the subsequent pat down uncovers a swatch from a dress -- the very same kind of dress that Keisha Davies was wearing just before learning an important lesson about gravity. Angel protests that they don't understand what happened. And Carling would like to keep it that way: "You've got 32 teeth. Would you like to try for none?" As they lead Angel off, Father Sobotka reminds them to be fair, as a man's soul is at stake. "Maybe two," the priest says to Sam, "if you judge him." Sam's got more pressing concerns than the state of his soul, however: while Carling is busy slamming Angel against the car and giving him the if-the-priest-didn't-ask-me-to-be-nice-I'd-have-slammed-you-much-harder routine, an African-American gentlemen throws what looks to be an improvised explosive device under the car. Sam, Carling, and Angel hit the pavement, boom goes the dynamite, and in the ensuing chaos, Angel runs away. But don't take my word for it -- listen to the omnipresent voice-over of Brother Love Butter: "The word from you people on the street is that the Po-lice have lost Angel. And since Angel's spread his wings, if you can hear me, Angel, you can hear the people talking. This city will burn until it finds you." That doesn't sound like a segue into a kicky Jerome Robbins-choreographed dance number at all.
Opening credits. Did you know Sam feels like he's landed on a different planet?
When we return to the 125th Precinct, Brother Love Butter is holding forth on the radio about the coming civil unrest, and the rest of the police force apparently believes that a hard rain is indeed going to fall. Annie dutifully reports that the drunk tanks are being emptied out in anticipation of all the arrests that are to be made when society crumbles. Boy, did those guys in the drunk tank pick the right day to tie one on. Sam is dabbing at the boo-boo on his noggin from this morning's bombing and grousing that by all rights he should be dead. "Maybe you're already dead and you just don't know it," mutters one of the drunk tank ejectees as he shuffles past Sam. "That would explain a lot." That's a familiar tone there, friend -- you wouldn't happen to be in league with any Mars Rovers, would you? Sam is jarred out of his what-did-you-just-say-there-drunky stupor by Hunt's roar; the lieutenant would like very much to know who tossed that bomb in the general direction of Sam and Carling, and he would like his squad to find out now. Sam suggests that maybe it would be a better idea to devote their resources to finding Angel Ramirez and staving off the inevitable race war. The other detectives furrow their brows as if someone has just asked a difficult math problem. "A little pig-tailed girl is on a slab downtown," Hunt snorts. "This war has already started."
Just then, a youngish African-American gent walks into the station house with two handcuffed gentlemen in tow. "I know who bombed your car," he says helpfully. Hunt demands to know who this interloper is. The gent asks if everyone will excuse him while he whips something out, and the detectives in the 125 react much in the same way as the good people of Rock Ridge did, only with a lot more drawn weapons. "Gun!" Carling screams, as the gent reaches into his coat, and the handcuffed prisoners cringe. The gent chuckles, as Sam does a double-take and suddenly the youngish man morphs into Clarke Peters, who you may remember from the pilot where he appeared as Sam's commanding officer. So this younger, less graying version you see before you is apparently the 1973 version of that guy. "I know him," Sam whispers to Annie, after he tells the other officers to holster their weapons. "That's Clams." No... it's Clarke Peters. Used to play Freamon on the The Wire? Do try to follow along here, O'Mara. "It's a nickname," Sam says of the Clams moniker. "I would hope so," Annie responds. While this is going on, Carling has strolled over to Clarke Peters' younger self and pulled his identification out of his coat pocket. Indeed, it's Detective Fletcher Bellow, all the way from Brooklyn's 86th Precinct. Well, on behalf of the 125, allow Carling to apologize for the callous, casual racism you've encountered here -- from now on, please accept the more refined institutional racism you've probably come to expect in your professional life.
Say, didn't someone say something about knowing who threw that bomb? Yeah, that was Fletcher. And the two handcuffed individuals are ID'ed as "the two mutts responsible for firebombing your car." Or so says the stool-pigeon that these two guys bragged to about doing the deed. Carling leads the two suspects off, while firing a couple of race-tinged jokes that aren't really funny even taking 1973 sensibilities into account, though the detectives of the 125 enjoy a hearty chuckle. Fletcher responds with a few racial jokes of his own, providing us with some immediate insight into his survival instincts. Baby, you are so talented. And they are so dumb.
Anyhow, while Fletcher was able to determine that the two suspects bombed the car, he doesn't yet know if they've gotten their mitts on Angel. He asks Hunt if he can join in on the interrogation, and Hunt agrees. But first, Fletcher has to deal with the gobsmacked Sam which, in its own, must be infinitely more unsettling than listening to Carling read selections from the Blacks & Whites section of Truly Tasteless Jokes, Volume II. "Hey," Sam says, patting Fletcher on the back. "How are you doing? It's good to see you." Fletcher looks around for the hidden camera and Allen Funt crouching behind the filing cabinet. "It's good to meet you, too, man," Fletcher says in a manner that suggests that it is really not all that good to meet Sam at all. "Maybe a little later, we make s'mores. Sing some 'Kum-by-yah.'" He walks off, leaving Sam grinning dopily at him in his wake.
To the interrogation room/storage locker, where we learn that the mad bombers are, in fact, members of the BLA? What's the BLA? The Black Liberation Army, otherwise known as The Organization We Invented So We Would Not Have to Pay Bobby Seale and the estate Huey Newton any royalties. Fletcher demands to know if the BLA is holding Angel, and when they answer him with stony silence, he slams the table. Curiously that doesn't loosen their tongues any. Hunt figures that the two of them must know something, and he begins pointedly sniffing: "The nose knows." Carling threatens to go after them with a pair of pliers and a hammer. Skelton just grins stupidly. After this interrogation session, maybe someone needs to have a word with Chris about his game face. Unless this is all part of some good cop-bad cop-horribly ineffectual cop exercise they've got down to a system in the 125. Whether it's the threat of pliers or Skelton's unnerving grin, one of the suspects finally cracks: Ramirez got away. Also, the BLA would prefer it if Angel were to follow Keisha into the Great Beyond, and there's a price on Angel's head to make sure that this comes to pass.
Annie hates to interrupt this moment, really she does, but there's a lady by the name of Denise Watkins here to see him. Who's she? Apparently, she's what's attached to the breathtakingly long pair of legs waiting in the squad room. And she's apparently here as the legal counsel for the two BLA henchmen that Fletcher apprehended. Theirs is not a friendly meet-cute, what with Denise angrily accusing Fletcher of being a traitor to his race and all. Not that Fletcher takes it personally: he's too busy staring at her gams. The young people still use that word, right? Gams? Well, they should. Anyhow, Sam and Fletcher retreat to a less hostile corner of the office, while Fletcher remarks that the ancient Greeks have a word for a lady such as Denise -- "hubba, hubba." I am fairly certain that is not a Greek word; it is very obviously Pig Latin. Hey, good news, though, Fletch -- Sam says the two of you are going to hook up one day. When Fletch stares at him quizzically, Sam suddenly remembers that not everyone realizes he's hurtled back in time 35 years. "I mean, everybody likes legs," Sam says hastily. "Why wouldn't you like legs? Right?" Smooth recovery -- I'm sure Fletcher didn't notice a thing.
The TV reports that the black residents of New York are responding violently to Keisha's death. Apparently, in 1973, light jogging is considered violent. Carling is rounding up the rest of the troops for the Angel Ramirez manhunt. Their orders: Draw first. "If he's armed and goes for it," Sam attempts to clarify. Yeah, right, Carling replies, though a whole lot angrier and with many more words. "You think the world's gonna mourn one less child killer?" Carling demands. In this week's installment Sam Tyler Lectures the Cops of 1973 on Proper Police Procedure, Sam reminds Carling that it's their job just to arrest people -- guilt or innocence is something for on-the-take lawyers and sinister hanging judges to determine. "You are so naïve, Tyler," Hunt chortles, "it's a miracle you're still alive." Guess we've got our theme for the evening, then. But Hunt is on a roll: "Nobody hurts little girls in my kingdom. And it is my kingdom. Huntlandia. Home of the blueberry crepe. Where little kids are off limits." Well, I'm not sure how I feel about Huntlandia's attitudes toward a police state, but I'd like to hear more about this blueberry crepe before I judge.
The mob of detectives heads off to throw Angel Ramirez a necktie party, leaving Sam and Fletcher to worry about the head-crackings to come. "Your boys are really gonna make a mess of things," Fletcher says in what will doubtlessly prove to be a comical understatement. "Not if we find Angel first," Sam offers. Fletcher thinks that's a very stupid idea, and when he describes it as the two of them standing between Angel Ramirez, the BLA, and a police force out for blood, it's hard to really argue with him. But argue Sam does, and eventually, he manages to wear down Fletcher's resistance. Hey, they're two-thirds of the way to forming a Mod Squad!
When we return from the break, Brother Love Butter informs us that protests over the city have turned into "full-blown riots." We have a very different definition of "full-blown riots," he and I. Because my idea of a riot does not involve milling about and occasionally shoving someone. Seriously, you can't have the boys at ILM CGI some window-smashing? At any rate, Sam has returned to Our Lady of the Vicious Uppercut with Fletch tagging along, so that they can question Father Sobotka some more. Father Sobotka agrees to tell them where Angel's hiding... but only if Sam spills the beans on why he gave the One True Church the high hat. Sam offers what he calls the Cliff's Notes version: Sam's dad skipped town when he was four, and when his nightly prayers to have his father return went unanswered, Sam decided that God could cram it sideways. "Now where's Angel Ramirez?" Sam demands. "No idea," Father Sobotka says. "I lied." Sam grunts in dismay. Hey, if telling a little fib is the worst thing a priest ever does to you, you're ahead of the game, pal. Father Sobotka does volunteer that Angel was seeing someone -- and before your mind wanders to a dark place, Father Sobotka has faith that this certain someone was of the age of consent. "Angel Ramirez did not touch that child," Father Sobotka thunders. Strong words, Sam observes, coming from someone who told a dirty, dirty lie just now: "And that's a violation of the Eighth Commandment." "Ninth," Father Sobotka corrects him. So he's been coveting his neighbor's wife? Heavy. "Do you think it's a coincidence that you're looking for an Angel now?" Father Sobotka continues. "God wants you back on the team." Not heavy. Not at all.
Sam and Fletcher are sitting in Sam's car listening to Brother Love Butter's latest report about how a group African-Americans attacked three Puerto Ricans on the subway, although given the way the DJ has described the "riot" up to this point, "attack" could mean "brushed by them rudely without saying 'Excuse me, sir.'" "And the violence will not stop," Brother Love Butter promises. That is, if it ever has started. Fletcher mutters that it will be a miracle if they find Angel before the rampaging mob does. Sam has had it with this talk of miracles -- bah! Fletcher changes the subject -- he and Sam have something in common. "Besides general handsomeness," Fletcher adds slyly. And that is, their dads both left them when they were kids. It was only when Fletcher joined the force that he straightened out his life. How's about you, Sam? How'd a dazzling urbanite like yourself get involved in a career in law enforcement? Well, as it turns out Sam broke into a candy store on a dare when he was 17 and got himself arrested. The arresting officer -- "black dude," Sam points out -- took an interest in Sam, set him on the right path and has been there for Sam ever since. And that arresting officer turned out to be... well, you know. "Ever get to work a case with him?" Fletcher asks, though he does it in the unmistakable baritone of Clarke Peters. And indeed, when we cut back to Fletcher, he's been replaced by his older incarnation. "Yeah," says Sam, who doesn't know whether to smile or cry. "I did." "And how was that?" Old Fletcher wants to know. "It was great," Sam sighs. "It was like playing baseball with your father when you're both at the age when you're playing as equals. I guess if you had a father anyway." "Sounds like," Old Fletcher begins, before he's replaced by young Fletcher in a particularly jarring jump cut, "you did. Sounds like he was a better father than your old man." Sam allows that he was. Nice scene.
But we're interrupted by this breaking news bulletin from Brother Lover Butter: Angel Ramirez was spotted in an alley on A and Fifth. Sam and Fletcher make like Starsky and Hutch and peel on out of there, arriving at the alley in no time flat. "I know your face," someone says to Sam. Why, it's the creepy old derelict from the squad room. He's holding a sign that says, "If this is Purgatory, how do I get to Heaven?" Practice, practice, practice. Sam stares at the derelict while the Machine That Goes Ping begins doing its business on the soundtrack.
Fletcher reminds Sam that they don't have time for his little mental freak-outs right now, not with Angel reportedly skulking in nearby alley. But when they get to the alley, there's no Angel to be found; there is, however, a leather jacket-clad black man who's soon joined by half-a-dozen or so of his armed friends. Sam orders the rapidly advancing men to stop since he and Fletcher are police officers. Everyone finds this very funny. "We know," the leather jacket-clad leader says. "Why do you think we put out that false Angel sighting over the airwaves?" 'Cause you like to mess with people? "Consider yourselves Prisoners of the BLA," he adds. Well, that too.
Oh, and our leather-jacket-wearing friend? That's the guy who played Cutty on The Wire, meaning we've now picked up the ex-Wire cast member Hat Trick. Those of you who had the Freamon-Sobotka-Cutty trifecta, please turn in your tickets to collect your cash prize.
After the break, Militant Cutty is removing the hoods from the heads of Sam and Fletcher -- they're in BLA headquarters now, as the silky sounds of Brother Love Butter continue to rile up the listening audience. Militant Cutty explains the reason for their capture: The BLA is having a devil of a time tracking down Angel, so they figured they'd let the police do all the hard work and then swap him for some hostages. The part of the hostages in tonight's performance will be played by Sam and Fletcher, in case you haven 't put two and two together. "You'd be better off trading us for a color TV," Sam snorts. "Because odds are, the police are going to kill Angel themselves." In that case, Militant Cutty counters, perhaps the BLA will just have to sate itself by killing two police officers. "Woke up this morning, looking for some cigs," Militant Cutty semi-sings. "Roll with my black posse, find us two real pigs." That... did not scan at all. Nevertheless, Sam observes that Militant Cutty has some promising rhyming skills, while Fletcher tries vainly to shush him. "There's no Seals & Croft here," Militant Cutty snorts. "No Three Dog Night. Only rhyming." Ah, you mean freestyling, then, Sam observes. "Look at you, inventing words," an unimpressed Militant Cutty retorts. "You think you can 'freestyle?'" Sam does not think he can. Well, how's about if Militant Cutty holds a gun to Fletcher's head and threatens to shoot him unless you comply -- feel like busting a rhyme then? "All right now, stop!" Sam shouts when Militant Cutty loads the chamber. "Collaborate and listen. Ice is back with his brand new invention. Something... grabs a hold of me tightly, flowing like a harpoon daily and lightly. Will it ever stop, yo?" Sam, who up into now has been unnervingly into reciting the lyrics to "Ice, Ice Baby," pauses. "I don't know," a nervous Fletcher offers. "Turn off the lights," Sam resumes. "And I'll glow. To the extreme, I rock a mic like a Vandal. Light up the stage, I'll wax a chump like a candle. Ice, ice, baby, too cold, too cold." The BLA is duly impressed which either means that music has come a long, long way since 1973 or that Vanilla Ice has the timeless soul of a poet and no one ever acknowledged it. I lean toward the former. Incidentally, if I found myself in Sam's shoes and forced to recite rap lyrics to early 1970s black militants, I would have gone with either "Fight the Power" ("Elvis was a hero to most, but he never meant shit to me.") or "Baby Got Back" ("My anaconda don't want none, unless she has got buns, hon). And that's about it. If my knowledge of rap seems paltry, that's at least two more songs I'd be able to recite than if militant hillbillies kidnapped me and forced me to come up with country-and-western lyrics.
Enough of this fun -- Denise Watkins and her legs are here to see to that. She berates Militant Cutty for kidnapping police officers, which tends to anger the law enforcement community. Militant Cutty protests that they were gonna release Sam and Fletcher "more or less." Well, put the emphasis on the "more," buddy, and release them now. "He would like to meet them," Denise adds, extremely pointedly. Who's this he, Sam wants to know, and where exactly are they going? Answer the second question first! They're going down the hall, Denise explains, "And he... is funky." Oh, that he.
You know, Sam and Fletcher may be surrounded by armed and determined men, and they're currently being led to meet God knows who, but as far as Sam is concerned, this is the perfect time for Fletcher to fulfill his destiny and make a play for Denise. From the look on Fletcher's face, he thinks Sam's idea is as dumb as I do. But great legs require no reason, apparently, because when Sam shoves Fletcher forward, he does his best to close the deal. "What do you want, little man?" an unimpressed Denise demands. "Clams," Fletcher stammers. Specifically, there's a very nice clam restaurant and maybe the two of them could go enjoy some fine clams together. "You're asking me out?" a disbelieving Denise exclaims. "Now?" When you put it like that, the timing does seem poor, doesn't it? Denise dismisses him as "one brother with an inappropriate sense of smooth." You know, I've been shot down in many ways, but that rejection seems particularly painful. The armed men looming nearby probably don't help ease the pain of rejection, either.
Fletcher's humiliation now taken care of, we can get on with meeting that ever mysterious He, who, introduced by Denise with the flourish of a game show hostess, turns out to be the ubiquitous Brother Love Butter. He also turns out to be a she. Or as Fletcher so pithily observes, "Brother's a sister?" Indeed. This will, no doubt, come as a disappointment to the New York Post's Adam Buckman, who wrote in his preview of this episode that Whoopi Goldberg would be playing a man. Ah well, Adam, cheer up. You write for the Post after all, so it's not like anyone expects you to be accurate.
And yes, Brother Love Butter, who is a woman, is portrayed by Whoopi Goldberg. This is unfortunate, as your recapper does not care for the work of the Whoopster. I think this may possibly be connected to the fact that I have never cared for her work in anything that she's ever done. This is merely a working theory. And yet, I shall try to soldier on.
So anyhow, Brother Love Butter pretends to be a dude because that makes it easier for her to get her message of peace, love, and inaccurate riot reporting out to the people. Do you care? You most surely do not. Anyhow, Brother Love Butter would like it to be known that she was not party to the BLA's kidnapping plot. "That being said, I can understand the frustration," she continues. "People want justice for Keisha's death." Even if it means another murder, Sam wonders. "I'm talking about justice," Brother Love Butter replies. "And peace in our metropolis." So yeah -- murder would be cool. Brother Love Butter gestures to her TV screen, where we see people flipping a car -- oh God, it's a tape of the Phillies' World Series celebration. "Blood for blood works," she says. Does that mean I'll be getting back that $7 I spent on Ghost back in 1990? Because if it'll loosen up the purse strings, I'll flip a car over that.
Sam has had quite enough of this hoodoo and goes all Hasselbeck on Brother Love Butter's ass: she needs to stop broadcasting these updates and let the police do their job. "Arresting Angel does not quell my people's pain," Brother Love Butter says. Fletcher tries another tack -- let's say the BLA successfully tracks down Angel and beats the ever-loving stuffing out of him -- the police will wind up arresting the BLA, along with anyone who aided and abetted them, which would include Brother Love Butter. "Now you're broadcasting on my frequency," Brother Love Butter concedes. She will give them 24 hours of radio silence to do their thing. But Fletcher just had another bright idea -- since Angel is likely listening to the broadcast in order to keep tabs on just who wants to beat the shit out of him, perhaps it's time for Sam and Fletcher to make a special on-air dedication.
After a few words from our sponsors, we return to find Sam and Fletcher live and in your ear on the Brother Love Butter Radio Network. Brother Love Butter introduces Sam as "a white honkey pig" who's "partnered with a brother so he can't be all bad news." And this white honkey pig's got a message for a certain Angel Ramirez: "We know you're scared. But we want you to turn yourself in before it's too late. Your life is in danger, but we will help you get through this. You have my word." Sam must have struck a chord, because the phone lines immediately light up. Can we have your name, Caller? That'd be Angel then, who'd like to tell his side of the story. "I prayed that God would send me someone who would listen," Angel begins. While he's talking, Fletcher and Brother Love Butter are furiously scribbling down possible locales from where Angel might be calling. The airport? The subway? Sam shakes his head at both suggestions. Anyhow, just as Angel is getting to the meat of his story -- how he was on the roof painting -- Brother Love Butter interrupts to say that there's another caller on the line... a cop. Sam pleads with her not to patch in the other caller, but she does anyway. Sam's instincts were right. "Lt. Hunt," the caller identifies himself, "with a song request for DJ Sammy Numbnuts. It's called 'Stop Acting Like a Sissy Marie, And Find Out This Punk's Location' by the group Two Dumb Cops" Ooh, that's a Pink Floyd cover, isn't it? Anyhow, the dulcet tones of Hunt's voice have effectively scared off Angel, because by the time they've hung up on Hunt, all they're getting from Angel's line is a dial tone. But all is not lost -- from the background noise of a bus parking during Angel's call, Sam deduced that the suspect was calling from the New York Port Authority. To the Sam Mobile!
Sam and Fletcher arrive at the bus terminal just in time to run in to Hunt, who has Doofus and Goofus in tow. "I see we're not the only ones smart enough to recognize the sound of a bus when it farts," Hunt says. Before Sam can come up with an equally classy witticism, he notices someone in a hooded jacket that looks remarkably like the one Angel was wearing when the police temporarily apprehended him earlier this episode. Skelton notices it, too, and after a hiatus for a couple of episodes, we've got ourselves a Life on Mars footchase (patent pending). The detectives catch up to the jacket-wearing suspect just as he's about to get on the bus. Hunt reaches out, pulls back the hood... and the fleeing suspect turns out to be a woman. And a pregnant woman at that. Kudos to Angel for coming up with such an ingenious and elaborate disguise.
OK, so it turns out this little lady is Angel's special someone which Father Sobotka had referred to earlier. And after taking her back to the precinct and plying her with sandwiches and milk ("High in niacin and calcium," Hunt says, eyeing the lady's baby bump), she's still not cooperating with the police investigation, even after Sam emphasizes to her that roving mobs are trying to find Angel and that the police might be his only chance for safety. She just keeps nibbling on her sandwich. "You eating for two or for two hundred?" Carling scoffs. Yeah, make the pregnant lady feel self-conscious about her weight gain -- that'll get her talking. Maybe we should let Fletcher take a stab at using his charms on this witness. Indeed, Fletcher gives her the whole I-never-knew-my-dad-and-is-that-something-you-want-for-your-unborn-kid spiel, and soon Angel's special lady is giving up the intel: Angel's heading to the candlelight vigil for Keisha to pay his respects. Which, while certainly gallant, is not the most strategically savvy move for a fugitive from justice in both its formal and street forms. The detectives disperse, leaving Sam and Annie to stare awkwardly at Angel's girlfriend. "Know what you're having?" Sam asks, pointing at her belly. Uh, a baby? No, no -- Sam means the gender. There you go again, Tyler, with your late 20th Century ideas about prenatal care -- frankly, I'm surprised the mother-to-be isn't knocking back scotches and puffing on a cigarette to take the edge off. ("It picks the baby up, while it calms him down.") But the girlfriend would like to speak metaphorically for a moment, with your permission: "Actually, I do know what I'm having. I'm having an angel." So this is one of those immaculate conception thingies?
Let's go vigiling by candlelight. The citizens thoughtfully suspend their rioting in order to stand about and look sad while "Anywhere in Glory" wails on the soundtrack. Sam and Fletcher show up about the same time as their new friends from the BLA arrive on the scene; Sam surmises that they are there to do more than just grieve. Then something weird happens -- on this show? Yeah, I know -- and Sam starts hearing voices. More specifically, he starts hearing voices of friends and relations telling him how much they're going to miss him -- as if he's the guest of honor at his very own candlelight vigil 35 years in the future. As we begin the Machine That Goes Ping, Sam starts noticing that many of the signs at this vigil seem to be less about Keisha and more about him. Sam picks up a paper, and if the grinning mug of George W. Bush is anything to go by, it's not one that was printed in 1973. Perhaps more troubling is one of the headlines: "Hero Cop Killed In Line of Duty." Ruh-roh.
Fletcher semi-snaps Sam out of his "Oh crap, maybe I just died" panic by remarking that there's no way Angel shows up at the candlelight vigil, teeming as it is with people who'd like to kill him. Wrong again, friend -- someone in the mob bellows that he sees Angel, and indeed, the hunted handyman is peering down at the crowd from the very rooftop where the whole incident went down. Tough luck, Angel: your bold gamble of heading toward the danger might have paid off, save for the one fatal flaw in your plan -- it was a totally stupid thing to do.
As a cordon of uniformed officers holds back the remarkably easy-to-repel mob -- are these folks not starting off the day with a healthy breakfast or something? -- Sam and Fletcher beat feet to the rooftop. Carling and Hunt are already up there, with the two of them holding Angel at gunpoint. Now how the hell did those two get up there so fast? Did someone utter their names three times causing them to materialize in a puff of smoke and sulfur? No matter: Sam's decided to give us another thing to puzzle over -- as in, "What would happen if I drew my gun and trained it on Lieutenant Hunt?" An armed standoff is what. "You're pointing a gun at me?" Hunt asks in shocked disbelief. "At me? Have you died and gone to Moron Heaven?" Quite possibly. But Sam's immediate concerns right now are A) making sure neither Carling nor Hunt caps Angel and B) proving Angel's innocence in Keisha's death. C) Wondering whether the suspension or brutal beatdown will happen first is just going to have to be tabled for now.
Carling orders Sam to stop pointing his gun at Hunt; Sam declines until he's sure that the lieutenant won't kill Angel. So that gun's going to stay trained on him then, since Hunt has no interest in hearing what Angel has to say: "It ain't my bedtime," Hunt sneers. "And I'm not interested in fairy tales." "I am," Sam retorts. And so here's the story of The Building Superintendent Who Didn't Actually Kill That Little Girl. Angel was up on the roof painting, and Keisha was up there as she usually was -- happier than usual, Angel notes, as she had caught a butterfly. But then a gust of wind came up and blew her butterfly away. Keisha gave chase across the roof until she reached the edge whereupon she became an unwitting example of Newton's First Law of Motion. Angel tried to grab at her as she went over the side, but all he wound up with was that swatch of dress. "God forgive me, I wasn't fast enough," Angel sobs. There, now don't you feel badly for judging Angel guilty? Carling and Hunt seem to, since they've dropped their weapons. Oh, Carling isn't totally sold -- "This turd is pulling our heartstrings here" -- but Fletcher says the words we all dream of saying to Carling -- "Shut up, Ray" -- and it seems the non-murder of Keisha Davies has been wrapped up with no loose ends whatsoever. Well, except for that angry mob downstairs that is unlikely to give Angel's alibi such a sympathetic hearing. "The only thing that can end this is justice," Hunt mutters. "And you want me to tell a story about a little girl and a butterfly." Well, yeah, Sam says, since it's the truth and all. "Angel dying is the only truth people want to hear," Hunt replies. I'd say that bodes ill for you, Angel. Sam protests that Hunt must believe in Angel's innocence. "It doesn't matter what I believe," Hunt sighs, as he raises his weapon. Well, let's see what your gun believes, then. "Bang," is what the gun has to say. Well, at least it shut up the mob downstairs.
Later that same night, the crowd begins to disperse to the music of Sly and the Family Stone. Paramedics wheel down a drape-covered body, while the detectives look glum. Sam looks around and catches the eye of Brother Love Butter -- they share a meaningful glance, and Brother Love Butter gives a nod as if to say, "Well, you did what you had to do" or "I hope that justice prevailed" or possibly "Can you believe that dope from the New York Post thought I was playing a dude?" Sam gets in the ambulance that now holds the body, and the door is closed behind him. Inside the ambulance, Sam pulls back the sheet to reveal that Angel is not even Mostly Dead. Nah, it was all a fake-out to prevent the crowd from tearing Angel (and not coincidentally, his police protectors) from limb to limb. The red splotches on the sheet? Paint. Hunt's gunshot? It didn't hit the broad side of a barn, let alone a major artery on Angel. So the plan is for the ambulance to drop Angel off at the bus station where he and his girlfriend will flee to their new lives. "It's a miracle," a grateful Angel proclaims. No, the miracle will be if this stunt escapes the notice of newspaper reporters, community activists, assistant district attorneys, medical examiners, or anyone else who wonders why the body of a guy who triggered a race riot up and walked away. "I was walking around thinking I was dead this whole time," Angel continues. "I know what you mean," Sam says. He does not add, "Hopefully, not literally." Angel suggests that Sam turn to the power of prayer, since that's what got him through this ordeal. Though the clever ruse and easily-duped crowd probably helped some.
The ambulance speeds off, leaving Sam behind to mull over all that's happened today. Hunt walks up and, before Sam can even complete a syllable, punches him square in the gut. Might want to recall that ambulance. "Draw your gun on me again," Hunt warns, "I'll knock you so far back you'll think it was 1933 and there was a kosher butchers strike." For me, it's not an episode of Life on Mars until Hunt clocks Sam in some sort of way.
Back to the 125th Precinct, where Fletcher can say his goodbyes. He remarks to Sam that he spotted Denise Watkins over at the courthouse: "I think she's allergic to me." Sam encourages him to stick with it with the assurance of a man who knows how the 35 years are going to play out. Fletcher tells Sam that if he's ever around the 86th Precinct to stop on by. "Later, Ice Man," Fletcher chuckles. I wonder if he'll be bitterly disappointed when Vanilla Ice tops the charts in another decade-and-a-half-or-so. Or will he wind up like the rest of us and just be really, really annoyed? "Later, Clams," Sam replies. Fletcher tells him to cool it with that moniker: "A lame nickname like that could stick with a guy his whole career." Yeah, too late on that. After Fletcher leaves, Annie strolls up and noted that he had been waiting around to see Sam. "I'm glad you got a chance to say goodbye," she says. That seems unnecessarily final.
Good reason for that, as it turns out: in the very scene, Sam has returned to Our Lady of the Vicious Uppercut to seek out the counsel of Father Sobotka. He's not there... but that creepy derelict from earlier is. "I'm here for the funeral," he tells Sam. And sure enough, the once-empty church is now packed with mourners, the 1970s garb has given way to more contemporary threads, and Father Sobotka has shed that ridiculous fright wig that had lodged on top of his skull -- he's now old and gray and presiding over the funeral. There's a lot of cops in attendance. Lisa Bonet's there, too, so now I have a reason to be sad, too. Sam, however, can't help but suspect that he's the one who's going to be on the losing side of that closed casket at the front of the church. Only one way to find out -- he takes the slow walk up the aisle to the casket, steadies himself, and opens the lid. It's Clarke Peters.
Noooooooooooooo! Noooooooooooo! It should have been you, Sobotka! It should have been you!
Anyhow, Sam notices Maya offering condolences to the Widow Clams and begins to walk over, but the creepy derelict cuts him off. "We heard your prayer, Sam," he says. "You wanted to say goodbye to your father. We just choose which father." The church is empty now, though when Sam turns back to the altar he can still see Fletcher inside the casket. "Who are you?" Sam asks, reasonably enough. "We'll take good care of him," the derelict says. "He'll be OK. And so will you." Inappropriate comments from yours truly aside -- I laugh in the face of Death to avoid its icy touch -- this is a very nice scene. Or at least, it was, until the smiling specter of Keisha Davies joins the derelict/heavenly representative, and the two of them walk down the church aisle hand in hand. That just makes it kinda silly. Shoulda just left Sam there sputtering questions while the derelict walked away solo.
And we hear one last time from Brother Love Butter, at least until the inevitable court case with the estate of Wolfman Jack. She's got a dedication for Sam -- Three Dog Night's "Black and White," because subtlety and nuance checked out several minutes early this episode. Cut to Sam's apartment, where the one-time Doubting Thomas has gotten religion: He's deep in prayer, with his current entreaty to the Almighty intercut with the prayers of his childhood. So while Li'l Sam prays for his father to return, Grown-Up Sam confesses that he feels completely lost. But since he knows that God answers prayers now, "I'm asking, please -- help me find my way home." Failing that, please send more Wire cast members.
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