He paused for several seconds allowing the words true meaning to sink in before continuing. “Well, with that envelope you now have in your possession, I hope you are not a sailor with a vision of a sea-maiden. May God or Allah or whomever you worship have mercy on your soul.” Boris turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.
Peter slipped the envelope into his pants pocket. He faced in the direction of what he hoped was east, closed his eyes for a few moments and prayed silently. When finished, he stood and made his way thru the crowd in order to buy another slice of pizza before his long journey.
As he waited for his order, Peter viewed the pageantry that was still in progress on the boardwalk. Yes, I will miss this when I return home, his eyes following the progress of a bevy of young women who were parading past him. Cheap knock-offs of Channel and Gucci hung the night air competing with the aroma of his pizza cooking.
Both possessed their own intoxicating qualities.
A smile creased his face as he looked to his left, this time noticing a man with an ear-piece and military style hair-cut quickly look away, now peering into a shop window that sold women’s bathing suits. Peter’s natural instincts took over as if operating on remote control.
The man had to be either a pervert or a cop. Peter settled on cop.
The man’s combination of long pants and loose, baggy shirt, made it easy to conceal any weapon he may have tucked into his waistband. Now the million-dollar question — was he local or Fed? If local, it shouldn’t be a problem. He might just be working on a shoplifting detail and Peter could have looked suspicious with his Arabic profile. If he’s a Fed—well, that could present be problem.
Peter realized he couldn’t run. No, it had to be the bathroom or nothing. He walked to the back of the small, crowded shop, maneuvering around a pile of empty cardboard pizza boxes piled neatly from floor-to-ceiling. Once in the bathroom he hastily bolted the door behind him. With only one escape route before him, he climbed on top of toilet’s ceramic water tank and after some minor effort, was able to push open the bathroom’s only window.
Peter peered out the windows narrow opening only to view a trash-laden alley. Looking from side-to-side, he noticed another man walking towards him — only this gentleman wore a cheaply cut suit. Peter braced himself against the wall to avoid falling, collecting his thoughts as his mind raced.
“Damn it,” he said aloud, closing the window.
He paused for a few seconds on his water tank perch, mentally retracing his earlier drive from Philadelphia, coming to the conclusion that it must have been the Russian who slipped up. Peter knew he was cornered and would have no choice but to fight his way out.
Peter made his way back to the front counter. Better to just play along. The agent was easy enough to notice, leaning against an adjoining store wall enjoying his own slice of pizza. Peter smiled, having heard that most police in the United States only hung around donut shops or all-night convenience stores. This must be a real treat for him.
Peter eased a five-dollar bill across the counter to pay for his slice of pizza.
Then he felt a light tap on his arm.
Not bothering to turn, he chose to ignore the agent who now stood alongside the counter. Peter needed additional time to figure a way out.
As the seconds passed he once again felt a tap on his arm, this one more pronounced. Realizing he couldn’t ignore the agent any longer, he responded by turning and coming face-to-face with the man.
Flashing an FBI badge, he motioned for him to walk outside.
Peter knew the agent was operating alone due to his partner still being in the rear alley. He had to move quickly and overpower his enemy before the other agent showed up.
Looking for anything that might be utilized as a weapon, Peter settled on the only object within his reach — slamming his steaming hot pizza into the agents face.
The ensuing confusion allowed Peter to rush out the door before the agent could react, disappearing into the ever-thickening Saturday night crowd.
The agent fell to his knees in agony as the pizza’s hot cheese and sauce scalded his face. His cries of pain were overheard by his partner via the open link he carried in his pocket.
His partner bolted from his alley position arriving in time to see Peter escaping through the crowd almost 50 yards away.
The agent from the alley paused briefly as he checked on his partner’s status — his partner on his knees with his badge and weapon lying sprawled in front of him.
Satisfied his partner had only superficial wounds, he bolted down the boardwalk in hot pursuit of his suspect.
Peter was able to put some distance between the pizza shop and the agent— before pausing to look back and see another agent in dogged pursuit. He realized he had to pick up his pace knowing the agent would be calling in local support.
The thickening crowd slowed Peter. He knew the slow pace would only increase his chances of capture. To his right, he noticed a children’s arcade. Looking back, he lost site of the agent who was in pursuit. He had only one option. Peter bolted into the children’s arcade. Once inside the arcade he immediately sought out the manager — easily identifiable by the change dispenser he sported about his thick waist.
Peter pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket before thrusting it in the man’s face. “I’m playing a game with my children. I have a Type A personality and have to win, I can’t let them find me,” Peter said, slightly out of breath. “I have to use your alley exit.”
Little Jimmy Salvino, all 6 foot 4, 350 pounds of him, inherited the arcade from his father, Big Jim, 10 years earlier. He had to admit that this was a first — someone paying $50 bucks to use a door. Thinking about his alimony payment coming due in the ensuing week he readily agreed. “No problem. You go straight back and through the office. It will lead you to the alley.” He quickly snatched the fifty from Peter’s hand before he had a chance to reconsider.
Less than 30 seconds elapsed before an FBI agent and three Ocean City Police officers converged from opposite directions, meeting conveniently outside “Little Jimmy’s” arcade.
“Where the hell did he go?” the pursuing FBI Agent shouted to the local police officers, both with their weapons drawn, hungrily looking for any reason to discharge them for the first time in their careers. “I was chasing him towards you. He couldn’t just disappear!”
Little Jimmy noticed the commotion outside his arcade and went to investigate. They were scaring away his potential customers. “What’s up with guns drawn like the Wild West?” he said to no one in particular.
The officer closest to him responded first. “We have a suspect loose around here and can’t seem to find where the son of a bitch went.”
It didn’t take long for Little Jimmy to realize who they were looking for. “Hey wait a minute. Some bum just used my alley door. He said he was playing a game with his kids and had to find an exit real quick. The guy had a dark complexion, skinny. He looked like an Arab.”
“That’s our man,” the FBI agent said, rudely brushing past Little Jimmy in search of the arcade’s alley door. “He’s got to be going for his car.”
Peter had enough foresight to park his car in one of the various pay lots adjacent to the boardwalk’s many on/off ramps. He was already gunning his engine by the time the FBI agent turned the corner with his local police contingent in tow — a mere 50 yards away.