A/N: I've never updated so fast so often in my life. xD This is kind of awesome. Kudos to angeleye68 for figuring out the state challenge! The states I mentioned are the home states of Matt Bomer (Texas), Tim DeKay (New York), Tiffani Theissen (California), and Willie Garson (New Jersey). =D
The nightclub that Firefingers had loaned his nickname to was a totally legitimate business. The mortgage was paid, bouncers were hired to check ID and enforce maximum occupancy, and bartenders had all their required certification. It catered to the blue-collar crowd, even though its owner was a white-collar criminal, although most of the clientele were unaware of this. The location frequently changed, as did the identity of the owner. Currently, Firefingers was known as Damien Hadley, a single father who was running the club to help put his kids through school.
Firefingers had no children but he did have the club as his bridge between his blue-collar customers and his white-collar business. Those who needed to find him for his under-the-table dealings could always leave a calling card with the bartender, who would pass them along to the manic himself, even if he was in the building at the time.
Neal knew all of this full well, and was physically dragging Peter through the club. Peter, as per usual, felt out of his element amongst the loud music and dancing bodies. He was intrigued that Neal showed no interest in the girls who were partying it up – then again, they weren't quite up to Neal's caliber.
"So where is this Firefingers guy?" Peter shouted in Neal's ear, barely audible over the music. Neal turned around.
"I don't know," he shouted back. "But if he's here he's not going to want to talk to you at all. I don't even know if he'd want to talk to me, especially with you around."
"What did I do to him?"
"It's not you, it's your job."
Neal proceeded towards the bar in the back of the club, Peter holding onto his collar to be sure he wouldn't slip away.
The area around the bar was crowded, but Neal elbowed his way to the front, craning his neck to see the bartender.
He was a squat, bald man who somewhat resembled Mozzie in stature. Neal hailed him with two fingers and eye contact. The bartender finished the drink he was making before making his way to Neal.
"What can I get you, sir?"
"Is the owner in tonight?" Neal asked, lowering his voice somewhat. The bartender shook his head, which was the response that Neal was expecting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blank business card and a pen, scribbling his first name and phone number on it while Peter watched from over his shoulder.
"Give this to him," Neal said as he wrote. "Tell him that it's from Neal. If he asks Neal like seal, the answer is yes. He'll know what it means. Tell him to call as soon as he can."
He gave the card to the bartender, who gave him a knowing nod. He slipped the card into the pocket of his slacks and left to attend to the other customers. Neal turned back to Peter.
"Let's get out of here."
Peter, still highly confused, followed the younger man back through the crowd towards a side exit. Once outside and on the much quieter city streets, Peter jogged a little so that he was abreast with Neal.
"What was that about?"
"Paranoid schizophrenics tend to be difficult to find if you're actively looking for them," Neal said.
"So who is this Firefingers guy?"
"The man who taught me everything that I know."
Peter stared incredulously at him.
"There's another of you?"
Neal shook his head.
"He's better."
Peter tried not to imagine Neal's skills and then some embodied by one man. It was something of a painful thought, considering how much effort it had taken to catch Neal.
"How is he going to help us?"
"He knows a lot more about the people involved in things like this than ten FBI databases. I told you, he's a paranoid schizophrenic. He keeps tabs on everyone for reasons that rationality doesn't understand."
There was a silence as they approached Peter's car. Neal met the agent's eyes.
"We'll be lucky if he helps us at all," he said. "He hates cops. I'm banking on his relationship with me to convince him to help."
"I'm not a cop."
"He won't see a difference."
"So, when will we know?" Peter asked as he started the car and Neal buckled in.
"He could call in five minutes, five days, or never."
"What?"
"I told you, it was a long shot, but the only one I have. I'm trying, Peter."
"So you dragged me out of my house and away from my wife for a big giant maybe?"
Neal nodded.
"The good thing to know is that he's still alive. I didn't even know that until we went in there."
"And how do you know?" Peter said. He was now beginning to be more exasperated and even more annoyed than when Neal had originally called him.
"He was in there. I saw him."
"And you didn't think to talk to him directly?"
"Does the phrase 'paranoid schizophrenic' mean anything to you?"
They rode in silence for a time, Neal's arms folded across his chest. He stared out the window.
"I'm assuming his name isn't really Firefingers," Peter said, breaking the silence.
"Tory."
"Tory what?"
"Hell if I know."
"What's with the crazy nickname?"
Neal turned his head. Peter met his eyes briefly before looking back to the street.
"If you ever happen to meet him, try and get a look at his fingertips if you can."
"Do they spew fire?"
Neal gave him a look.
"Okay, okay, calm down."
The silence returned and stayed until Peter stopped in front of June's house. He put the car in park and looked at Neal.
Neal released the seat belt but stayed where he was.
"Peter... if we don't catch this guy, am I going to be held accountable?"
Peter genuinely didn't know how to answer. Sure, Neal was an easy scapegoat for when things went wrong. Lose a perpetrator? Ship Caffrey back to prison, no harm done. But Neal was making a genuine effort to catch Kerrington. Was it fair that he be punished for someone else's ability to get away?
"I don't know, Neal," he replied. "I certainly hope not."
Neal opened the car door and climbed out wordlessly.
"Keep me posted," Peter called as Neal shut the door and went inside.
xxx
It was well past two in the morning when the bartender at Club Firefingers realized it was closing time.
He shut down the DJ and sent all the partygoers home, having to physically eject a few who were too wasted to stand. He paid the bouncers and shooed them as well, locking the club doors and ensuring every corner of the building was empty before seeking out his boss.
Firefingers had dozed off in the janitorial closet of all places, strewn about between brooms and fresh toiletries. He held a broken mop handle in his hands. The bartender knocked on the open door lightly.
"Tory. Wake up."
The man on the floor jerked awake and was on his feet in a flash, broken mop held like a battle staff in front of him. The two men stared at each other momentarily.
"The potential for cheesy puns here is limitless," said the bartender in a bored voice.
Firefingers visibly relaxed, cracking a smile that showed none of his teeth.
"Should I do the honours or would you like to?"
"Let's skip honour and go straight to the part where you put that down and we leave like nothing happened," the bartender said, holding out his hand for the mop.
"I like it," Firefingers replied, ignoring his employee's outstretched hand and dropping the mop on the floor. "Closing time? Building on fire? Spontaneous appearance of Jesus to condemn sinners all?"
"The first one. And--" he reached into his pocket, "a calling card."
He handed over the card with Neal's name and number on it. Firefingers took it, staring at the writing quizzically.
"Neal?" he asked aloud. "Like seal?"
"He thought you'd say that, and the answer is yes."
Firefingers looked the other man in the eyes.
"Blue eyes, dark wavy hair?"
The bartender nodded.
"Did he say what he wanted?"
"Nope. Just left this card. I assume the intent is for you to call him."
Firefingers looked back down at the card.
"Thank you. See you whenever I decide to stop by again."
The two men left the closet, the bartender locking the door behind them.
"I'll be waiting with bated breath," he said dryly.
"Sounds unhealthy."
Firefingers exited the building through the side door Neal and Peter had used just hours before.
Neal Caffrey. How long had it been since he'd seen the kid? Four years, at the very least. He remembered with distaste when he discovered that his prodigy had been captured. Firefingers surmised that he must have gotten out of prison and was looking for advice on how not to get caught again.
He stopped himself. That made no sense. Neal knew that once the Man had you, there was no freedom no matter what rights were reinstated. This had to be something else. Help? With what? The kid had to know that pulling another stunt off so soon after getting out of prison was an idiot's venture at best.
Despite his disappointment in the kid, Firefingers couldn't help his curiosity. He may have been a schizophrenic but he had always found that finding answers was a good self-treatment for his condition, a practice which had served him well.
Before he was even two blocks from the nightclub, Firefingers knew he would make the call.
He wouldn't be able to live with not knowing.
Besides, whatever Neal wanted might be fun. He hadn't had any fun in a while – a resurgence in symptoms had compelled him to lay low for a while.
And, in truth, he wanted to know how the kid had been doing.
"Oh boy oh boy," he half-sang, grinning maniacally at the people he passed on the streets.
xxx
Neal was prompt into the office the following day. Something was compelling him to be a good little boy while waiting to see if his old mentor would call.
Peter, too, was on time, although he was a few minutes behind Neal, who was waiting in Peter's office with one ankle on the opposing knee.
"Morning, Peter," Neal said brightly as the agent set down his briefcase.
"Morning. Any news?"
Neal shook his head. It was a half-truth. He hadn't checked in with Mozzie, but he figured that no appearance by his informant meant there was no news.
"Well, at least it's consistent," Peter said sarcastically, sitting down in his chair.
"I do what I can."
No sooner had Neal finished speaking than his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID – the number was restricted. Of course. He glanced at Peter, who gestured at him to answer.
"Caffrey."
"Neal, old buddy old pal," said the other voice spryly. Neal's heart skipped a beat. He had actually called.
"Tory," Neal responded, trying to keep jubilation out of his voice. Peter glanced at him.
"The FBI, huh?" Firefingers said. "Please tell me you're in there to kick ass and take names."
"How did you--"
"I have my ways. Also you should look over your shoulder more often. Shameful lapse in awareness, my friend."
"I'll get on that."
"No you won't. So, FBI. What do they want from you and, more importantly, what do they want from me?"
Neal hesitated. He was a little surprised that Firefingers didn't know why he was there. He was afraid the older man would hang up once Neal told him, and he had no way of getting into contact with his mentor again.
"I... I work for them," he said, resigned.
"Do you now."
"Yeah. My services in exchange for getting out of prison."
"So you're selling my secrets to the enemy, is what you're saying."
"No!" Neal said sharply, causing Peter to raise an eyebrow. Neal held up one hand apologetically. "I'm not telling them... exactly how, but I am chasing after white collar criminals."
"If you're chasing me I wish you the best of luck."
"No, we're not after you. We're after... someone else, but so far he's outsmarted us all."
"Outsmarted you? Did prison make you stupid?"
Neal was starting to remember why Mozzie thought that Firefingers was incredibly irritating.
"Tory, I wanted to ask for your help, not be lectured for my shortcomings," Neal said, putting his metaphorical foot down.
There was a silence.
"Sorry," Neal said weakly.
"Don't apologize for sticking up to me. And if you apologize for apologizing I will come up there and smack you no matter how many cops are there."
"FBI."
"Same thing."
"Fine. Look, I'm thankful you called, but we can't leave my partner--"
"Partner? They got you cuffed to a copper now?"
"Out of this," Neal finished stubbornly. "What do you say to meeting somewhere private so we can properly discuss this?"
"I don't want to meet with a cop."
"It'll be just him and me. I promise. You can set the terms if you want. And if you don't want to help, fine, but at least let us explain what we're asking of you."
There was another pause. Neal met Peter's eyes and saw the unbearable curiosity in his brown irises. He could almost hear Firefingers weighing the odds.
"Play to my weakness of curiosity, very good. Fine then. Tomorrow, this time, at that French restaurant you like with the name I can't pronounce. You know the place."
"Les Deux Magots?"
"That one. You, your partner, and no one else. Expect me to be late but yourselves to be on time. Goodbye."
Firefingers hung up before Neal had a chance to reply. Neal set his phone down and stared at it. Peter stared at him.
"Well?"
Neal looked up.
"I hope you're in the mood for croissants tomorrow."
A/N: Yes, Firefingers is a jerk. Mostly he's just berating Neal for getting caught, and mostly he's just being himself. And no, he and Peter are not going to get along. Good times!
The restaurant name was lifted from a book but I was too lazy to find the book and check the spelling. I don't know French but I believe it means The Two Bigwigs and is actually located in Paris. Creative license. Sue me.