Marcello Suslov sat at his lonely round table, sipping his cafecito and barely touching his small meal, instead glancing every so often over the newspaper he was pretending to read to eye the attractive women scattered around the café. He had chosen to spend his time relaxing for a few moments just after meeting up with an associate and discussing a deal that was to take place later in the day. The associate had paid for Marcello's meal then had left abruptly, and Marcello was planning to spend some time enjoying the view and not letting any free food go to waste.

He was so relaxed and spent so much of his concentration on the women, in fact, that he never paid the necessary amount of attention to his surroundings to notice that the man in the aviator sunglasses at a nearby table even existed. He didn't notice man get up from that table and approach, either.

He did become aware of the man, however, when he heard a woefully familiar voice carry across the outdoor restaurant setup and call out to him.

"Mar-ceeeeell-ooo~!"

Marcello froze.

"Friend! Companion! Heeeey, man!"

The man approached quickly from behind, clapped a hand down on Marcello's shoulder, and held it and Marcello there stiffly in an unyielding iron grip.

"We spoke on the phone yesterday! Remember?"

The frightened man nodded in response and began to reach for the cell phone that resided in his pocket. The grip on his shoulder was tightened severely in response and he ceased the endeavor immediately.

The man let go and casually sat down opposite his 'friend' then reached a hand across the table to take a sip of Marcello's coffee, using the motion to reveal a firearm concealed within his jacket. Marcello glanced at the gun, but said nothing.

"Nice! Really nice stuff right there. Oh, but, hey, enough of that. Down to business. I have a favor to do for you, Marcello."

"A favor?" asked Marcello, wondering just how unhinged this man was.

"You tried to kill me. You know what you guys say, right? 'Return the favor?'"

"Look, man, all of that was out of my hands," said Marcello. He tried to keep his voice steady and his fear hidden, but his eyes were wide and his brow was beginning to sweat.

From a few dozen feet behind Marcello came a voice.

"Excuse me! Excuse me, coming through, let me just, ah..."

Marcello and the man sitting at his table turned toward the sudden intrusion on the café scene. Two individuals, one a tall older man in black sunglasses and the other a slender woman, both dressed impeccably in somewhat formal business attire, were swiftly threading their way through the tables and their occupants.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation members here, folks. Very serious business. Excuse me! Oh, haha, sorry, ma'am, let me just, uh..."

Marcello stared blankly and the man with him shrugged his shoulders. Marcello then realized with the mixed emotions of relief and apprehension that the two were coming toward him. The two stopped in front of his table, between himself and the other man.

"Marcello Suslov?" asked the man in black.

"Uh, well, yes. That's me."

"Sir, my name is Chuck Finley," said the stranger, whipping out a very official-looking and realistic badge. "I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We're concerned with certain aspects of your past, present, and future, well, shall we say, business deals, and would like to bring you in for questioning. Or, ah...,"

The man at the table smiled genially up at his undercover partner, but successfully played the look off as one of a deranged ex-spy about to enact murderous revenge trying to avoid suspicion and pacify an officer of the law. The look made Marcello intensely uncomfortable and seemed to have no outward effect on the 'officers.'

"...Mr. Suslov, you could continue your conversation if this is a bad time. We had some difficulties ascertaining your whereabouts, and once we found you, we, ah, well, we figured it would be best not to miss the opportunity. We're here for an informal chat, if you will, not to place you under arrest or to take you into custody or anything like that. We've got a car parked just around the corner, and would be happy to escort you to somewhere a little more private."

"You don't wanna go anywhere, do you, Marcello?" asked the man across from him, taking another sip of the coffee then setting it down somewhat forcefully with a sharp and threatening thunk. Marcello looked desperately around in confusion and for support, and his eyes were met only with those of rubbernecking onlookers made up of the café's varied customers and staff.

A particularly unique set of customers sat just two tables down from the bizarre event transpiring before them. One looked on with a raised eyebrow and an air of concentration, ignoring his food, and one ignored the event completely and happily (and obliviously) went on consuming his dessert.

The one paying rapt attention frowned deeply over his Cuban cuisine. "Gus, this is getting weird."

"Hmm?" asked Gus, glancing up from his dulce de leche.

"There's some foreign dude over there being shaken down by an old dude, a hot chick, and a guy with some seriously cool shades."

"Really?"

Shawn sighed and stared at Gus a moment before saying in his most dreary and deadpan voice, "No, no, Gus. No. No. I- Gus, I'm just so desperate for attention that I, that I just concoct stupid and whimsical-"

"You don't have to be such an ass, Shawn. And don't pretend that you've never made up-"

"Actually...," interrupted Shawn after rolling his eyes and swallowing his bite of sandwich, "the two in the suits are pretending to be, like, CIA or FBI or something."

"Pretending?"

"Yeah. They know the other guy, the guy who's sitting with the, the, uh, foreign... guy. A guy who, if I may say so, is looking pretty shaken up. This could be bad news, Gus."

"You're real creepy sometimes, Shawn."

"Just some acute hearing and a penchant for reading people, Gus. Nothing creepy about it. Now, if I were to, say, pass this simple information onto you via an eerily lifelike ventriloquist's dummy or the sort, you could feel free to consider that creepy."

Gus raised his eyebrows.

"Anyway! The man's name is, uh, Michael, the foreign dude is Marcellus or Marcello... something... and the big dude who's laying it on a little thick's name is Chuck Finley. Well, it's probably not actually Chuck Finley. That's one hell of a cool name, though! If his name really does happen to be Chuck Finley, why, I know that I for one am getting an autog-"

"Shawn!"

"Well, uh, regardless, the little Marcello dude looks rather frightened, and the other three may quite possibly be packing heat. Quite the tricky situation, if I do say so myself."

"I think we should take that fact as our cue to get out of here, Shawn."

"No way, Gus! Men on the run can only get so far without cash, man, and Marcello looks loaded! I think I should intervene."

"Intervene?"

"Are you going to question everything I say, Gus? Is that your new shtick or something? Your new thing? Because, man, if it is, I have to say that-"

"As long as everything that comes out of your mouth is completely ridiculous, Shawn, I think that I have the right to-"

"Fine, Gus! You pay the bill."

"I thought you said we were just gonna skip out!"

"I said no such thing."

"You told me two minutes ago that it would 'exponentially increase our criminal infamy'. Exact words, Shawn!"

"Oh, that. Hmm. Yes. Well, that's irrelevant! I changed my mind. So there. See you in a second, Gus."

Before his friend could utter another word, either of protest or of some sort of scathingly sarcastic comeback, Shawn Spencer got up from his table and walked towards the escalating action taking place in front of him. He sauntered slowly, glancing alternately around at tables and at waiters and waitresses, looking for a chance to enact his plan before things moved beyond his control.

By now, all of the other table's occupants were standing, with the frightened Marcello backing up slowly and forming a triangle between himself and the two bodies wishing to apprehend him. Shawn happened to look up and to the left and smiled after catching the perfect opportunity. He approached the group from behind and slightly to the right of Marcello, and when he was close enough, performed a faux-trip, swinging one leg and one arm out as if in an attempt to regain his balance. He then swung his left hand around in order to knock a serving of flan from a passing waitress's tray onto the ground. He then carried his momentum forward, planted his right foot in the flan, and slipped dramatically in-between Marcello and his momentary captors, tightly grabbing Michael's pants leg and the other man's jacket as if to steady himself as he did so and gripping both for several seconds longer than was necessary.

The small incident was more than enough of a distraction; without so much as a word of thanks, Marcello practically flew away and back through the restaurant, most likely emerging on the building's opposite side and disappearing into the vast network of Miami streets.

"Oh! Oh, man! Sorry, guys. I'm not sure what happened there. Real sorry..."

After glancing back at the restaurant for several seconds, Michael rested a hand on his forehead and sighed. "And he is gone. Fantastic. Fantastic!"

After regaining his balance and standing, Shawn took a step back and put one hand on the back of his neck in a display of mock-embarrassment. "You know, there was this special on 60 Minutes or something I caught a couple years back on the varied dangers of caramel custards. I laughed then, but, boy, do I sincerely regret not taking it seriously. I was a fool, guys, and you paid for it with... well, with whatever just happened. For that, I beg for your forgiveness."

The three turned and glared at Shawn suspiciously for a moment, but then seemed to dismiss him as an idiot and non-threat. That, or perhaps they felt that there were more pressing matters at hand.

Michael sighed again and ran a hand through his hair then glanced back at Shawn. "No problem, uh..."

Shawn smiled and stared at the three blankly.

"Okay! Well, we've got plenty of other leads to go on, no great loss, so, uh, guys, well, back to the Loft, I, uh, I guess."

The taller man shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

The woman nodded.

Shawn smiled brightly and lazily waved goodbye, a combination which on some level was somewhat eerie. The three others turned and walked back through the tables with a slight lingering air of disappointment without bothering to return the wave or to even again acknowledge Shawn.

Shawn returned to his table, his face still showing the blazing smile.

"Smooth, or what, man? Was that smooooth, or what?"

"You're havin' way too much fun with this, Shawn!"

"Not yet!" said Shawn, now grinning so wide as to flash his teeth.

"Huh?"

"Earlier I heard the little guy talking to this big, rough creepy guy about something going down at a warehouse later today. Mike over there was within range to hear it, too. I'm guessing that that's the lead they had, well, at least one of their leads, and from what I understand the place shouldn't be too hard to find."

"Shawn! No. No. Noooo. No way!"

Shawn shrugged. "Suit yourself, Gus! You were right about me having a great time, and seeing as how I have the keys to your company car right in my pocket here, I could run off and take that beautiful blue vehicle out for a spin or two, having all sorts of fun on my own. Fun which may or may not involve that car meeting a fate similar to Lassiter's, of course..."

Gus furrowed his brow and frowned, eyeing Shawn's pocket. Shawn tilted his head forward and raised his eyebrows, giving Gus a look. After a moment of contemplation, Gus finally blinked, shook his head, and let out a long sigh.

"Fine, Shawn, fine," he said, setting his fork down and pushing his plate forward, "but you have to foot the bill."

Shawn shrugged. "I told you earlier, man! We can just skip out."