There's a bar in New York where men and women of all ages meet. Different nationalities, different accents. But one thing they have in common. They are all masters of their trade, whether they call themselves conmen, cheats or jack-of-all-trades. Or even tricksters.
Some come for a drink, some for company. Others want privacy to plan their last score (and the next last one, and the one after that). And some come to remember.
In the middle of reliving the glory of the old days and bragging about past scores, someone always, unfailingly, brings up Neal Caffrey. The man, the con, the legend. People bicker about his alleged work, argue about the best con he ever pulled. Speculate whether he could out-con the FBI. Somebody always asks where's he buried, and at least one patron thinks he never died at all. Like Elvis. Then the bartender has to break up a fight when words aren't enough for minds dulled by alcohol.
Tonight, the discussion about Caffrey's greatest scores is in full swing, when the doors open and a kid in a Devore suit walks in alongside the breeze of fresh air. He looks not a day over twenty, a hat obscuring his face except for the smile. Silence falls as he reaches the bar, swift and heavy with an element of danger, but he doesn't seem to notice. Instead he sits with enough grace to shame everybody and orders a drink.
People look to the bartender with a clear message: Take care of this - or we will.
The bartender nods to the sharp dressed kid. „Nice choice of clothes. But I wouldn't try to replicate Neal Caffrey's style around here, if I were you. People tend to take offense."
The kid drags his eyes from the glass to his face and grins slowly, then takes his hat off with a flourish. ''Oh, I'm not trying to replicate his style.''
His eyes are the bluest blue, and his face is on the portrait behind the bar.
(the next day, everyone who was there finds an origami flower in their wallet.)