The Obligatory Teaser: We all saw what happened to poor Mozzie at the end of Point Blank. ... Or did we?
Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. Me no own, you no sue. Gracias.
Thank You: to HlysComment, for some excellent constructive criticism regarding the organization of this piece and the end of Part One. (-:
A Quote: "All great magic tricks are composed of three acts: The Pledge, where the magician shows the audience something ordinary, but is probably not; The Turn, where the magician makes the ordinary act extraordinary; and The Prestige, where there are twists and turns, where lives hang in the balance, and you see something shocking you've never seen before."
Mr. Harry Cutter (Michael Caine), The Prestige, 2006
STREET MAGIC
Part One: The Pledge
Sister Mary Magdalena Carmela, a fourteen-year veteran of Saint Columba's, was out for a walk at 4:32 on a Saturday when she came upon a murder victim outside the park on Fifth Avenue. The victim was a bald, short, chubby, middle-aged man with big glasses. He was wrapped up in chic casual clothes and keeled over on his side with his hands on his chest, bleeding all over himself and looking extremely dead. That's how her police report went. Or at least that's how her police report would have gone had she actually managed to file one and not spent an hour arguing with the first responders while defending her mental status.
"I'm not insane," she pleaded. Her Jersey vowels came through loud and clear along with her family's Sicilian roots; her hand gestures got wilder as she grew more frantic and indignant. "Officer, please listen to me. I'm telling you the truth. I know what I saw!"
The young beat cop was completely unimpressed with her story and the two EMTs paid no attention to her protests; they gently herded her over to a gurney so they could assess her. She tried to fend them off, but they sat her down and started taking her blood pressure and asking her if she knew what day it was. She squashed her annoyance, dragged up a bucket of patience from a very deep well, and began to answer their questions. As steamed as she was, she understood the reason for their fussing.
Somehow, in between her flagging down a businessman and borrowing his cell phone (Order Rules – she didn't own one), calling the police, and hurrying back to the scene to wait, the corpse had walked away. Not only that, it had cleaned up after itself. All that remained of a shocking crime was one tiny rust-colored spot under the bench and the crazy story of a passing nun.
Sister Mary sighed. Honestly, it sounded like the set-up for a joke. Probably a good joke, too. The trouble was that the punch line was wearing a habit, sitting on a gurney and riddled with self-doubt. Maybe she really was seeing things, she thought. It wasn't that big of a leap; she'd been working overtime at the soup kitchen for weeks now, she wasn't sleeping well, and it was getting harder and harder to focus during prayer. Perhaps this was a sign from God that she should slow down a little bit. And then fantasy kicked in, and she entertained the idea that the abbess might approve her going someplace sunny and relaxing to minister for a few weeks.
They needed nuns in the Bahamas, right?
Mozzie leaned up against the filthy alley wall, breathing slowly through his nose and gritting his teeth against his rising gorge. The bullet-proof vest had saved his life, but it was getting too tight, what with the throbbing ribs and all. His shirt was completely ruined from the burst blood pack, and his jacket was completely ruined from cleaning up the scene. He knew he was a mess; he was just glad no one could see him, and equally glad that his plan of holding his middle had kept his would-be killer from realizing he was wearing protection. The man who wanted him dead thought he was dead, and he'd escaped, and no one had seen. Mission accomplished. Well, all right, somebody had seen; across the street and down half a block, he could see the EMTs trying to calm a wildly gesticulating nun. But they seemed to think she was nuts, so he had hopes that this might actually turn out all right, even though he knew he needed medical attention, like, yesterday, and this one had been way too close.
Nausea rolled through him. He took a moment to focus his chi and gently pushed down everything that was trying to come up, staying as still as possible in the hopes that the dizziness would go away. The white-hot agony about four inches south of his collarbone was not something he could fix at the moment, but he could still breathe, kind of, and he wasn't dying. (At least not right now.) However, the absolute last thing he needed to do was throw up while dealing with what was at least one broken rib. If he barfed, he'd scream. If he screamed, someone would hear. If someone heard, they would take him away on a gurney and put him in the system, the ruse would be over, and his goose would be cooked.
No way, he thought. Not after everything I've been through today. He wondered briefly when he'd be able to tell Neal where he'd hidden the actual notebook with the joint solution to the music box code. First things first; he had to get the hell out of here before he couldn't see straight anymore. Fishing his Blackberry from an inner pocket of his filthy jacket, he ignored a giant stack of missed calls and hit what he thought was Speed Dial 1. It was Speed Dial 4.
"I wasn't alone in that antique shop."
Neal's seven anguished words drove an icicle into Peter's stomach. "Oh, God. Mozzie. All right, Neal, you stay put and try to get him on the phone. The second you get an answer, call us and we'll pick him up. Diana and I will start looking. I'll send Jones to keep an eye on you."
Neal had just dialed. "Wait, I'm not coming?"
He seemed to be not quite up to speed, and genuinely baffled. The "not up to speed" part was understandable, but the "baffled" part made Peter furious. It was like Neal had no memory of what he'd done today.
Peter snapped. "Are you completely out of your mind?" he barked, and started ticking things off on his fingers. "Misappropriating FBI resources to protect a known felon. Unlocking your anklet and running off. Stealing a gun. Shooting at Fowler. No, you idiot, you're not coming. You've screwed up enough."
Neal was backing away. "Peter –"
"Shut up. You're under house arrest until I can figure this mess out. And I swear to God, Neal, if you try anything else…"
Neal surrendered. "Okay, okay. Go. Find Mozzie." He looked down at the phone. "Damn it. Voicemail. I'll keep trying."
"You'd better."
With one last fearsome warning look, Peter turned on his heel and left. Diana followed him out like a good soldier, and the door closed loudly behind them. The phone rang quietly in Neal's hand as it tried to connect and he looked around, feeling lost and isolated, weighed down by his guilt and worry. It was just him and Bugsy until Jones got here, and the little dog was lounging on his bed, ears low, big black eyes like marbles, judging him. Neal sighed.
"Sorry about the 'anklet as collar' thing. That was mean. You didn't deserve it."
He plopped down on the bed next to Bugsy, dialing again, bone tired from all the upheaval and trying not to panic about Mozzie. His pant leg rode up a little, revealing the anklet back in its proper place, and he petted the dog with one hand while dialing with the other. After about five minutes of silence and twenty-eight calls that went to voicemail, he started shaking his cell phone rhythmically every few seconds as though this would encourage it to ring. Bugsy hopped into his lap and Neal toed off his shoes so he could sit Indian style and make a little nest for him. Ten more minutes passed, and Neal stopped shaking the phone. He threw it on the bed in frustration, put his arms around the pug and finally allowed himself to think the horrible words, because it was the only explanation.
Mozzie's dead. Kate's dead, Tanaka is dead, Fowler should be dead, damn it, and now Mozzie's dead.
His thoughts were chasing each other in circles, spiraling down to a terrible place. It was too much on top of too much. The ex-con buried his face in Bugsy's short fur and his shoulders shook as he gave way to grief.
Bugsy, who just assumed Neal was feeling really bad about putting such an uncomfortable collar on him earlier, turned and licked his face to let him know all was forgiven.