Third Year Itch
"Peter's been indicted!" exclaimed Neal suddenly, his chiseled face a study in shock, flushing red in the soft warm light of the tropic morning sun just now breaking over the ocean's undulating horizon. His jabbed a long finger at the iPad2 screen resting sideways on the wooden table in front of him. Swiftly his finger skimmed along the smooth surface of the device as he read, with mounting horror, the front page headline in the New York Times. "You said the FBI had no evidence. You said Peter wouldn't get hurt!" The young con artist's eyes set in his lean handsome face with its' three days worth of beard, uncharacteristically tanned, a bit of sunburn still peeling off his straight perfect nose, glared at his companion in accusation.
"Neal, this isn't my fault!" protested Mozzie with alarm, quickly removing his glasses for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. He'd forgotten how muggy it could get on this small tropical paradise and not for the first time his thoughts went back to the cool New York autumns he would never see again. He didn't like the tone in his friend's voice and he cast around in his mind for a calming response. Neal's eyes were dark as he tossed the iPad aside on the round bamboo table under the red umbrella staked only feet from the salty sweet-smelling waves washing lazily up on the white sandy shores.
"What have I done?" asked Neal of no one in particular. His tousled head fell into his cupped hands, his thick deep brown hair curtained his closed blue eyes. "My god, what have I done?" he repeated, despair dripping from his voice.
"Neal…this is who we are…," began Mozzie, reaching out to pat his friend on the back of his open white cotton shirt.
"Is it Mozzie?" Challenged Neal, whipping his head up, his face red and damp. "Is this who we are? Peter is going to prison because of us…" his voice cracked, his eyes darted out to the pulsing ocean as he threw his well-defined body back in his beach chair, his hands running quick furrows through his damp brown hair in frustration.
"Peter knew nothing about the artwork," Mozzie said, "the FBI has no evidence…"
"That's not what it says here!" shouted Neal, grabbing the iPad and spinning it across the table toward Mozzie. "The FBI apparently has evidence to the contrary. They wouldn't have indicted Peter if they didn't think they could get a conviction. Oh my god," Neal groaned, trying in vain to shield his mind from the image of Elizabeth, her friendly open smile, visiting Peter in jail. Peter in jail. He waved his hands in front of him, trying to swat the image away unsuccessfully. Without Peter's income, would they be able to save the house? Bankruptcy, eviction, homelessness played out before Neal's eyes like cards quickly dealt on a green felt table. Where would it end? All because Peter and Elizabeth befriended him? Because they'd given him a chance at a better life? Because they believed in him?
"I knew this was a bad idea," Neal said, his voice hard and clipped. He squinted at Mozzie, accusation plainly spoken silently. "This was your idea, your idea…"
"No, Neal!" protested Mozzie, his bald head glistening with sweat. "You wanted this…this is who we are…the last big score…"
"We're thieves and liars!" shouted Neal, jumping up, the chair falling over behind him. "That's who we are! But we're not this…we…I am not going to be responsible for sending Peter to prison. That isn't who I am!" Of that Neal was convinced. His mind raced as he strode quickly back to his beachside hut, equipped with every manner of luxury. What to do? What to do? They hadn't sold all the artwork. They could return most of it. The FBI wouldn't rest until they got every single item back. Who'd bought the Monet ? Could they steal it back? How much DID the FBI know? Could he and Mozzie just ship all the artwork back anonymously? No. The FBI wanted blood. If not Peter's, then…? And what the hell was he doing here anyway? A month in and he was already getting restless. The blue azure ocean surrounding him might as well have been hard iron bars, he was imprisoned just as effectively. He must have been insane to listen to Mozzie. Insane.
Mozzie grabbed the iPad and hurried after his friend. This was not good. Damn the outside world anyway. Could they never be free?
"What are you doing?" cried Mozzie, catching up to Neal and through the door to Neal's accommodations, locking it behind him. "Slow down. Think. Don't do anything impulsive. We can fix this."
"Peter was always good to you," Neal said, swinging around to face his friend. "You owe him, Mozzie. You owe him!" He added an exclamation mark for effect and strode toward the kitchen where he grabbed a wine glass and then after a moment's hesitation, slammed it into the sink where it shattered into a multitude of microscopic pieces.
"Alright, Neal!" Mozzie said, trying to calm Neal by agreeing with him. It was rare to see Neal angry and he didn't know quite what to do with his friend's emotion. Anger scared Mozzie in general and Neal's in particular frightened him still more. "We'll send the art back. They'll have it next week. I'll write a note, explain what happened. Tell them Peter knew nothing about it."
"Yeah, I am sure that will work," snapped Neal with derision. "The FBI will think he SHOULD have known. He'll still be fired no matter how it turns out. No job, no pension. Disgraced. No. We have to turn ourselves in. We have to fix this." Neal began to pace around the spacious living room with its' huge wide windows and billowing blue silk curtains. He should have known. He should have known this would happen.
Mozzie turned away from the pacing Neal and pulled a satellite phone out of his pocket. Punching a few numbers quickly, he held it to his ear, bending over to hide the bulky phone from Neal's view. "Hello? Hello?," he whispered anxiously, straining to hear over the ocean's roar and Neal's mutterings. "Jeff? Jeff?" he hissed. "This plot line was a really bad idea. You'd better fix it quick. Neal's about ready to walk right off the page. Help!"