Finding a parking space near the federal building was always tough, but this time, Rick and A.J. lucked out. They found a perfect spot where they could easily observe the front entrance and the underground parking lot entrance/exit.

A.J. took the first shift of this stakeout while Rick rested in the back seat to catch up with sleep since he had hardly slept the night before. A.J. slid down the seat to make himself less visible and kept a close watch through binoculars.

On the radio, a singer of a bygone era was crooning to a curvaceous, vivacious, home-wrecking signorina, asking for a long kiss before breaking her heart with a ciao.

O, mia bella signorina

baciami ancor

Dammi, dammi un bacio,

un lungo bacio

E ciao, ciao, ciao, amor!

Rick had never studied Italian, but because he spoke fairly decent Spanish, he got the gist of the lyrics. It got him thinking on the missed opportunity with Trixie. He knew it wouldn't be him saying good-bye, and that he would definitely not be getting a parting kiss, not even a little peck, from her either after standing her up on a Valentine's Day, which was fast approaching. He sighed as he closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his power wagon with Trixie by his side. He was driving down a long, sandy beach somewhere under the clear night skies. When he parked his truck, there was no one else around them. The moon was up, and the countless stars illuminated the black dome above. The ocean was calm, and the waves glistened reflecting the starlight. Trixie's alluring emerald eyes sparkled in the dark. Her moist lips were slightly apart anticipating, no, begging for a passionate kiss. As he leaned over to fulfill her wish, the darnedest thing happened; out of the sensual, full, red lips of Trixie's came his brother's decidedly unsexy voice. "Rick! Hey, wake up, Rick!"

"Aaaaagh!" Rick jerked awake screaming in the back of the station wagon.

"Jesus, Rick. Will you keep your voice down? We're in the middle of a stakeout here. Remember?"

"I was about to get as lucky as I'd ever get this weekend just before you woke me up, so whatever you have to say better be good." Rick growled.

"Will you please forget about Tracy or Stacy…"

"Trixie!"

"…and shift your focus back to our investigation? I just spotted the guy who broke into our office."

"Oh…" That was a pretty good reason to wake up for. "Is he in or out?"

"Out driving a four-door sedan with a government plate."

"Another Fed?" Trixie was already the furthest thing from Rick's mind by then. "Did you get the license number? Make and model?"

A.J. looked somewhat offended. "What do you think I am—an amateur?"

He showed his notebook to his brother.

"So, if we could take a look at the log-in sheet for the government vehicle use…" Rick started to form an idea.

"…we'd be able to find the agent's name." A.J. finished it for him.

"Do you know what we need for this job?" Rick asked with a crooked smile and a twinkle in his eye.

A.J. started whistling a few bars of a melody Rick had never heard before. It sounded like a funky circus tune.

"What's that?"

A.J. smiled back at Rick mischievously. "Entry March of the Boyars."

"BOY-er!"

"Whatever."

S&S S&S

The clerk behind the chain-link partition saw two men coming into the federal building from the basement parking lot through the double door down the corridor. One of them was tall, lanky and had on a three-piece suit. The other one was wearing a gaudy shirt and a gaudier jacket and had several gold chains around the neck. His wrists were cuffed behind his back. The suit, undoubtedly a federal agent, gave the scoundrel a little push on the back. The clerk could not make out what the Punk had said, but it was obvious he was mouthing off. In response, the Fed slapped him on the back of his head with an open hand. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The man in custody drove his shoulder into the Fed's midriff sending him on his keister then took off as quick as a jackrabbit.

"Stop him! Anyone, grab that guy!" the Fed yelled while still sliding on his rear on the slippery marble floor.

The clerk ran out of the cage, but the Punk had already run past his post and was nearing the end of the corridor. Luckily, with the wrists restrained behind his back, he couldn't negotiate a ninety-degree turn at full throttle. He lost his balance, took a spill and started sliding on his stomach. That was when the clerk threw himself, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, onto the Punk on the floor to prevent him from skidding any farther. The crushing weight knocked the wind out of him, but he soon started to struggle, trying to buck the clerk off his back and screaming something unintelligible. Everything was over in mere seconds. The Fed took his own sweet time to catch up with them.

"Hey, thanks. I owe you one," the Fed told the clerk limping towards the two men on the floor. He extended his arm to help the clerk get up. By then, the Punk seemed to have given up and lay still. The Fed unceremoniously picked him up by the scruff of the neck and the belt. The mirror sunglasses the Punk had had on were now dangling precariously from one ear revealing one ugly black eye.

"What are the big boys doing with a lightweight like this one?" the clerk asked the Fed. "Believe it or not, this small fry wants to be a star witness in a federal case. As we speak, the prosecutor is coming over to negotiate a deal," the Fed showed his disgust and contempt in his growl.

"Ah…" The clerk bobbed his head a couple of times knowingly. "Immunity for his testimony, that sort of deal?"

"Exactly," the Fed glowered at the Punk, who was grinning mockingly although he was still a little unsteady on his feet leaning against the wall for support.

Without any warning, the Fed drove his elbow in the Punk's abdomen and smiled sweetly when he doubled over in pain.

"Now, we're even."

The clerk, walking tall after assisting the federal agent, returned to his cage and noticed one of the clipboards was hanging crooked on its hook. He carefully straightened the clipboard for the use of official vehicles sign-in sheet. As he turned around and looked out the cage, he saw the Fed getting in one of the elevators with the Punk and waved with a smile, "Have a great day, Mr…"

"Boyer, Ernie Boyer." The Fed smiled back with a nod.

As soon as the elevator door closed, A.J. tore into Rick. "Why did you elbow me? It was totally uncalled for!"

"It just happened—I was really into my character, like De Niro."

"De Niro, my…foot!"

A.J.'s steadfast refusal—or inability—to utter vulgarities never ceased to amuse Rick. Even a couple of old ladies on their mother's bowling team were more fluent in that particular set of the English vocabulary than his brother.

"It was bad enough to be tackled by a three-hundred-pound man."

"Oh, come on. He wasn't that big."

"I bet you'd be singing a different tune if you had a guy the size of Alaska sitting on your back. Anyway, did you find what we were looking for?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Well, who is he?"

"Arne DeGroot, FBI."

"FBI? Well, well, well, what a surprise. Okay, so the question is, is he an undercover…"

"Or, is he dirty?"

The elevator bell dinged as they reached the first floor. When the door started to slide open, Rick squeezed his brother's arm.

Right on cue, A.J. began yelling, "Hey, get your hands offa me. I know my rights!"

In front of them were about half a dozen people waiting to get into the elevator. Inevitably, all eyes were upon A.J., who was handcuffed, disheveled and had a black eye to boot.

"Simmer down, son. Now, let's get you all cleaned up before your counselor gets here, all right?" Rick nudged A.J. to take a step forward. "Excuse us."

The people outside parted like the Red Sea, wanting no part of the riffraff.

Rick pushed A.J. into the men's room down the hallway. There was a man at one of the urinals, so they had to keep up their charade a while longer.

"If you want to use the head, I'll have to cuff you to the pipe. Got that?" said Rick, maybe a little louder than the situation had called for, but it worked just as they had hoped. The man turned his head to take a nervous look and left the restroom in a hurry.

"I don't believe this," said A.J. as Rick removed the handcuffs from his wrists.

"What're ya talkin' about?"

"That guy left the bathroom without washing his hands."

"Oh, for… Let him suffer the consequences of bad personal hygiene! Now, get in here and make yourself more presentable before anyone else comes in!"

Rick shoved his brother into one of the stalls. A.J. removed the gold chains and took off the jacket and the shirt. Underneath the removed garments was a crisp dress shirt unbuttoned to the navel.

"Hey, Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"I need your sunglasses. Mine are shot."

A hand came out of the stall palm up demanding Rick's shades.

A.J. looked pretty decent when he stepped out of the stall except for his hair—he still looked like he had just gotten off a wild roller coaster ride. Rick handed him a comb, and a few minutes later, the two brothers left the federal building unnoticed.