The Role of Her Life

The fictional Snoop is prowling the aisles of a Home Depot look-alike, on the hunt for a nail gun, a seemingly benign device that will take on great significance later. She listens intently as a white, middle-aged sales clerk explains the intricacies of nail-gunning. When he wraps up his little spiel, she lets it be known that she can't be bothered with the cash register. Stuffing a wad of hundreds into his hand, she tells him: "You earned that tip like a [expletive]" -- and walks off with "the Cadillac of nail guns."

Which she uses to entomb bodies. "You've got your parts on the show that are straight-up grimy," Snoop acknowledges with a laugh. "Mess around with someone and you'll get slumped."

And how accurate is that depiction?

"It's very accurate," Snoop says.

Authenticity is "The Wire's" calling card.

In the nearly five years that it's been on the air, Baltimore and "The Wire" have joined together, art and actuality intertwining in a complicated dance, with the city itself serving as the main character. It's a show that prides itself on the grittiness of its verite, plopping in public figures along with the fictional characters: like former drug kingpin Melvin Williams, whom co-producer and writer Ed Burns, a former Baltimore cop, once arrested in a big takedown.

So casting Snoop wasn't such a stretch. Michael K. Williams brought her to the set, introduced her around, arranged a meeting with the producers. Snoop was skeptical -- "People like to sell you dreams" -- and a little bemused by the proceedings: "Last time I saw that many white people, I was up in the courthouse."

Recalls Burns of their first meeting: "She has this smoky, husky voice, she's got a great demeanor. . . . She's quintessential street."

He also remembers this: "She said, 'I've been locked up before.'

"I said, 'I know that, I can see your jailhouse tats.'

"She said, 'I killed this person.' "

The Wrong Crowd

Snoop's corner -- or what used to be her corner -- is in a tiny bracket of east Baltimore, at Oliver and Montford, a nasty little stretch of rickety rowhouses, boarded-up buildings and bulletproof liquor stores. By day, folks stroll the street, popping in and out of the takeout joint on the corner, casting a leery eye at a reporter's car that lingers too long, sizing up its driver: Narc? Police? A suburbanite stopping to cop?