Ten o’clock Tuesday morning. A stakeout in the post office in Marshall City, California. Sweat stains in the shape of landmasses were already spreading across Pender’s hula shirt from the armpits, the bulge of his belly, the small of his back, threatening to merge like the Pangaea hypothesis in reverse. Bill Izzo, his partner, sat in an air-conditioned car parked across the street, radioing a heads-up into Pender’s flesh-colored earpiece whenever someone fitting the general description of the unknown subject, or Unsub-male Caucasian, dark hair, bodybuilder physique-entered the building.
The reason Special Agent William C. Izzo was cooling it in the car while Special Agent E. L. Pender sweltered in the post office was that no matter how they were dressed, Izzo always looked like an FBI man and Pender never did. Six-four, beefy, homely, and bald as a melon, dressed in that soggy Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, calf-high black socks, and open-toed sandals, he stood in the lobby, pretending to fill out an Express Mail form while stealthily eyeballing the fourth tiny door from the right, third row from the top, in the wall of brass-and-glass P.O. boxes. Because it might not be Unsub who picks up the mail, Pender had to keep reminding himself. Could be anybody: a brother, a girlfriend, a little old lady.
“Ed, this could be it.” Izzo’s voice crackled in Pender’s ear. “Jeans, red tank top. Arms like Popeye. Could be strapped.”
Pender acknowledged by twice tapping the miniaturized microphone under the collar of his shirt. The front door was to his right. As the man in the tank top passed him on his way to the P.O. boxes, Pender snuck a glance at the photo underneath the manila envelope he’d been pretending to mail. It was a grainy blowup of Unsub wearing the Lone Ranger mask he’d worn in the video. This looked like the same man; he reached for the right box, and he even twirled the dial of the combination lock with his knuckles, so as not to leave fingerprints.
“That’s our guy,” Pender whispered into his collar. But the post office was full of civilians, so he and Izzo agreed to take Unsub down outside, on the street. Izzo relayed the information to the deputy from the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department, who was out back covering the loading dock.
Pender waited for Unsub to pass him, then followed two or three paces behind. But just as Unsub opened the front door, the deputy sheriff came charging around from behind the building brandishing a pump-action shotgun.
Aw, fuck, thought Pender, as Unsub turned around and headed back into the post office, nearly bumping into him. Their eyes locked; Pender knew he’d been made. Gunfight at the O.K. Corral time. Unsub reached for the.38 automatic in the waistband of his jeans, Pender for the Smith amp; Wesson Model 10 he was carrying in a behind-the-back kidney holster instead of his trusty calfskin shoulder holster, which would have required him to wear a jacket in the August heat.
Advantage Unsub, who drew first and pulled the trigger while Pender was still fumbling behind his back. Happily for Pender, either the gun misfired, or Unsub had neglected to chamber a round.
By then Pender had succeeded in drawing his gun, but the lobby was too crowded for him to fire. Unsub faked left and darted right, across the lobby, dodging panicked postal patrons, then vaulted over the counter, heading for the loading dock in back. Which was supposed to have been covered by the plainclothes who’d blown the stakeout in the first place, only he, of course, was around front now.
The year was 1985. Pender-forty years old, twenty pounds over fighting weight, and smoking a pack of Marlboros a day-hauled himself ingloriously over the counter and chased Unsub out the back door, across the loading dock, down the concrete ramp, across a dusty alley, and through the back door of a two-story wood-frame antiques store. Izzo charged through the front door of the shop as Pender burst in through the back. A woman who had taken cover behind a glass knickknack case pointed timorously to the staircase leading up to the second floor.
“Any way out from there?” whispered Izzo.
“Only through the window.”
Izzo was wearing a Kevlar vest beneath a single-breasted gray suit tailored to fit it, so he took the point. Through the third of the three doors on the second floor, the agents could hear Unsub talking to someone on the telephone. The smaller Izzo gave Pender a little would-you-care-to-do-the-honors? wave in the direction of the door. Pender pointed down to his sandals. Izzo shrugged, splintered the door latch with his Florsheim. The door sprang open. Over Izzo’s shoulder, Pender saw Unsub sitting behind an empty desk with the phone in one hand and the.38 in the other.
Izzo yelled, “Drop it! Put your hands up!”
Unsub said, “I love you, too, baby,” into the phone, then put the muzzle of the.38 in his mouth, sucked in his cheeks, and pulled the trigger. This time the gun did not misfire.