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In the apartment hallway, Leonard and Sheldon returned triumphantly. However, since two nerds couldn't actually lift a TV, Ron—after collecting a twenty-dollar delivery fee—graciously carried the television upstairs for them.
"Ron."
"What?"
"Did you hurt that guy?" Sheldon asked.
Ron looked incredibly proud. "Nah, I just reasoned with him the same way you tried to, except I'm apparently more persuasive."
"I don't buy it," Sheldon replied.
"But I saw him coming downstairs with a black eye."
"Maybe he tripped in the hallway?" Leonard rolled his eyes discretely. Honestly, he was pretty satisfied seeing that bully get his comeuppance, but having such a formidable romantic rival was far from ideal.
As if reading Leonard's mind, Ron said, "Don't worry, I'm not interested in my new roommate."
"Huh? I didn't say anything."
Ron winked. "You didn't need to—I can tell."
When they returned the TV to Penny's apartment, Rajesh and Howard were hanging around, and Penny graciously offered to take everyone out to dinner.
While she spoke, Penny's eyes kept drifting toward Ron, making him wonder if sharing an apartment with her had been a mistake.
For Leonard's sake, Ron declined the invitation. Besides, one car couldn't fit six people anyway.
If they took two cars, Penny would definitely ride in whichever one he chose.
Just as Ron was debating whether to accept what might turn into Penny's late-night advances, his concerns proved groundless.
The night passed without incident.
The next morning, Ron arrived at the DEA headquarters feeling less than enthusiastic.
As a competent agent, Ron couldn't put all his eggs in Toretto's "connections" basket.
The DEA—Drug Enforcement Administration—might sound like an old institution, but it's actually relatively new. It wasn't established until July 1973, following the landmark drug enforcement legislation signed by President Nixon, and operates under the Department of Justice alongside the FBI.
Bureaucratically speaking, it ranks below the FBI, so unless specifically dealing with narcotics cases, most Americans rarely mention it, considering it a second-tier agency.
The IRS, where Ron worked, had much deeper roots, established by President Lincoln during the Civil War and operating under the Department of the Treasury.
Then there's the Central Intelligence Agency—the CIA—which falls under Pentagon oversight. Nearly all of America's international "interventions" involve this agency somehow, and together with the FBI and IRS, they form the trinity of major federal intelligence agencies.
"Excuse me, gorgeous, could you point me toward Agent Hank?"
After showing his credentials and entering the DEA building, Ron flirted with the receptionist while inquiring. "Hank Schrader, if I'm not mistaken—he's your regional SAC, right?"
He'd only caught the name from yesterday's news and knew the guy worked for DEA, but that was about it.
Apparently, Ron's charm didn't work on middle-aged government employees; the desk clerk barely glanced up.
"Conference room B on the second floor. He's got two FBI suits with him. Weird—seems like everyone's looking for him today."
Ron thanked her and headed straight upstairs.
"Hey there, hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
Two FBI agents sat across from what had to be Agent Hank—a stocky, balding man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The lead FBI interviewer scowled. "You might want to try knocking first. Whose team are you with?"
"I'm my own team. Ron Cooper, IRS Special Operations Division chief." Ron flashed his badge again.
"Feel free to continue your little chat. I'll just observe."
Ron found a comfortable spot right next to Hank's chair and made himself at home, earning dirty looks from all three men.
But nobody asked him to leave.
It couldn't be helped—Americans understand the pecking order. While they claimed to be three co-equal law enforcement agencies, there were definitely subtle status differences.
The FBI and DEA, both under Justice Department oversight, operated on the tightest budgets of the three, essentially surviving on Treasury Department handouts. The IRS, meanwhile, was Treasury's golden child.
Biological son versus stepchild—the family dynamics were pretty obvious, and that respect had to be acknowledged.
The CIA was different entirely. Its funding came through defense appropriations, and the classified nature of intelligence work provided various off-the-books revenue streams.
According to certain unnamed sources, among all Pentagon agencies, the CIA actually turned a profit.
Agent Hank ignored Ron's presence and continued his statement. "I identified myself as law enforcement and ordered the suspect to raise his hands and turn toward me. That's when I recognized the suspect as Tuco Salamanca and noticed he had what appeared to be a gunshot wound to the abdomen."
"Wait—he was already shot when you got there?" Ron realized this was getting more interesting by the minute.
Hank glanced at his superior, got the nod, and answered. "Affirmative. I repeated my command to raise his hands. Tuco charged toward my vehicle and opened fire with what I identified as an M4 carbine. I returned fire while seeking cover behind my SUV. He continued shooting at my position, and when he paused to reload, I took the opportunity to neutralize the threat."
"Smart play," Ron applauded, ignoring the FBI agents' increasingly sour expressions as he physically moved the younger one out of his chair and sat down.
"I noticed you said you turned around and recognized it was Tuco. So he wasn't your original target when you went there, correct?"
Ron made careful mental notes.
"Correct. I was initially tracking a license plate registered to a punk named Jesse Pinkman..."
Ron had zero interest in this tangent and cut him off. "Agent, I want to know why you were running that plate in the first place. Was it because of this?"
Ron tossed his blue crystal sample onto Hank's desk, and the agent's expression immediately became uncomfortable.
"Negative. I was handling a personal matter when I happened to encounter this individual."
"Personal? What kind of personal matter?"
"My brother-in-law—my wife's sister's husband—he's got terminal lung cancer and he's gone missing. He'd previously purchased marijuana from this punk."
It was obviously a sensitive topic, and Ron got it, but that wasn't his primary concern. His main focus was tracing the blue crystal's origins.
"Okay, let's table that for now. I hope your brother-in-law beats the cancer. Back to the case—whether it was coincidence or circumstance, you did neutralize that dealer, right? So what's his connection to this punk?"
End of Chapter 7