I don't own White Collar, or the characters...blah...blah...blah... although, my life would be so much more interesting if I did ;-) Please be kind...re[view]...
A/N: Merry Christmas! A little whump is my present to you... don't worry... more to come ;-)
Chapter Four
Neal found himself sitting across the little café table from a man he had hoped to never see again, a revolver pointed at him under the table. If only he had thought to call Peter to pick him up, or at least invited Mozzie for lunch. He sighed to himself; this is just what he got for being in such an irritable mood. Curtis hadn't changed much in the years he had been 'dead.' He was dressed in loose fitting dark clothes that just seemed to hang off his short lean frame. His hair was disheveled and he hadn't shaved in a few days, but his beady green eyes could still pierce through you like little daggers.
Neal's mind flashed back momentarily to the last time he had seen the man. It had been just over eight years ago. Curtis had persuaded him to forge a Degas painting. It had been a masterpiece, even if it was a forgery. But Curtis had always been a rough man, and when Neal had learned of the violent plan to steal the original, he had destroyed it. Curtis had vowed revenge, and he had been forced to lay low for a few months, until they had learned of Curtis's supposed death.
"You owe me, Caffrey." The man continued on. "I think you can still be of use to me."
"Seems to me, that all debts are cancelled when you die."
"Je suis de retour parmi les vivants." Curtis's mouth turned up in an evil sneer.
"Yes, I can see that." Neal sifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What do you want, Curtis?"
"I want you to finish this job for me. My other painter, well, he made a costly mistake that had to be dealt with."
"Je suis retraité." Neal kept his eyes as unemotional as he could manage as he stared back at the little man across from him. "Even if I wasn't, the Feds have the museum locked down tight."
"But you can get in, can't you? I know about you and your little arrangement." Curtis pointed a spindly finger at him and leaned closer. "I know about your Fed buddy and his wife too, so don't think I can't find ways to motivate you."
Neal felt his whole body tense at the mention of Peter and Elizabeth, and couldn't help it when his breath hitched a little. He just hoped his eyes hadn't betrayed him as well.
"That's what I thought. You always were the little altar boy, Caffrey. The paintings are marked, I'm sure you know that by now. You have three days to deliver the first painting, or… well, I'll leave the rest to your imagination."
"And where can I find you when I'm done?"
"You're smart Caffrey, I always liked that about you. But, no. I'll find you. We wouldn't want you sending your Fed friends after me, now would we?" Curtis stood, clamping a hand down tightly on Neal's shoulder, letting his fingernails dig in slightly. "Three days, Caffrey."
Neal sat staring at the empty chair across from him, as he listened to the man shuffle off. When he was certain he wasn't being watched, he closed his eyes and let his head fall backwards, taking a few deep breaths. There were only two ways to play this out, and he didn't like either of them. Somewhere in the not so distant past, he would have just carried out this business with Curtis, and moved on, but doing so would be letting Peter down. His mind wandered back to that day just six weeks ago in the hospital, when Peter had finally told him that he trusted him. How could he betray that trust by doing the work for Curtis? How could he keep Peter and Elizabeth safe and uninvolved without doing the work? His head was swimming, and for the first time in his life, he truly felt torn between the two sides of what he felt was right. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
"Hey Peter…I need you to pick me up."
.
"Tell me about Curtis." Peter sat across from Neal, waiting for the food they had ordered to arrive. He saw Neal's body tense slightly at the mention of the name. He could tell there was a history between the two men, but he had found nothing in the dossier that could shed light on what it was. Neal kept a watchful eye on him as he reached down and produced the file on Curtis Bault. "Tell me what's not in here."
Neal took the folder, laying it closed on the table in front of him. He still hadn't decided how much to tell Peter, and he would have to proceed delicately. One thing he did know, was if he didn't include Peter in what was going on, he would get nailed for all the thefts; that knowledge didn't make him feel any better about telling him. He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out his prescription and swallowing two of the red pills. Peter looked back at him with a sympathetic smile, and he hated it; he didn't want Peter's pity.
"Neal…" Peter gave him a warning glance. "We have the security guard in custody, but he's too afraid to talk. Tell me what's going on."
"It's a safe bet that you're going to find the forger dead." Neal tried to blank his expression.
"How would you know that?" Neal saw it the instant that Peter figured it out, and he flinched at the disapproving look that Peter fired back at him. "You've seen him. Did you talk to him? NEAL…"
"If it makes you feel any better, I only talked to him under duress. He was holding a gun to me at the time."
"No, Neal, that doesn't make me feel better." Peter caught himself, realizing how badly that had come out, and held up a hand to keep Neal from saying anything. "That's not what I meant."
Neal couldn't help but smile at Peter's characteristic awkwardness coming back.
"He was sitting right where you're sitting now." Neal pointed over towards Peter. "Definitely not dead. I'm fine, by the way."
"Alright, tell me why he was holding a gun on you. You two obviously have a history." Neal could feel himself shrink back a little under Peter's disapproving glance.
"Woman with Chrysanthemums." Neal laughed to himself when Peter's expression turned to one of confusion. "Edward Degas. It was one of his most famous paintings."
"That one wasn't on the manifest." Neal could see Peter trying to go through the list in his mind.
"It wouldn't be, it's housed at the Met." Neal was enjoying Peter's bafflement for the moment. "A little over eight years ago, Curtis came up with a plan to steal it."
"And, of course, you were involved." Peter's expression quickly turned to one of frustration. "So help me, Neal…"
"Hey, he never stole it. I never gave him the forgery. He wasn't able to get an inside man at the Met, their security was too good. He got frustrated with the timeline on the job, and let it slip one night, over a few glasses of wine, that he was just going to go in and kill the guards, and get the painting. I destroyed the forgery that night after he left, and he was never able to complete the job."
"I'm sure he was thrilled to hear that." Peter smiled a little; it was hard to envision Neal doing anything to destroy a painting.
"Yeah well, things were a little…let's say…precarious…there for a while. Until one day we heard he was shot to death by one of his 'clients'." Neal settled back into his chair, starting to feel a little more at ease.
"So what does he want with you now?"
"He wants me to finish his job."
"The museum heist!" Peter quickly caught himself and quieted his voice. "Neal…"
"Peter he threatened you…and Elizabeth. And, I do know Curtis. If I don't at least proceed like I'm going along with it, people are going to start getting hurt." Neal could see Peter slowly roll the idea around in his mind.
"Alright, go ahead, I'll work what I can from my side. We need something solid to charge him. But, I want to know everything that's going on. No secrets, Neal, or this won't work out well."
"I called you, didn't I?"
"Yeah you did." Peter smiled, and eased back into his chair. "What do you need?"
"I'm going to have to run some errands." Neal blue eyes lit up and he flashed his signature smile as the waitress brought their food. "And a few days to work."
.
Neal watched Peter get in his Taurus and leave before pulling out his phone and calling Mozzie. There was no way he was going to be able to get everything he needed without some help. He smiled to himself as he slowly meandered towards their meeting place; his day was looking better already. The thought of working for Curtis made him cringe, but he would be glad to be painting again. He absentmindedly eased his way through the crowded sidewalk, soaking up the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Suddenly someone reached out and pulled him into one of the narrow alleyways. Before he could find who had grabbed him, he was thrown face first into the side of the brick building. Pain fired through his body as he crumpled to the ground, shaking his head to clear his dazed vision. He could feel the warmth of blood slowly trickling down his face, and he wiped at his face carefully trying to find where it was coming from.
"You shouldn't have called your Fed friend." A foot slammed into the ribs on his left side. The man laughed when he barely fought back a scream as he felt them give way.
"I have to…check in…Curtis…or he'll…know…something's…up." Neal wiped the blood from his underneath his nose as he finally rested his eyes on his attacker. He saw the fist speeding towards him, but couldn't get his body moving fast enough before it slammed into his stomach, sending a wave of pain and nausea through him.
"You do anything more than that, and I won't be so understanding next time." Curtis grabbed his hair, pulling his head back and leaning closer. "Don't forget you owe me, Caffrey."
A fist slammed into stomach again, and his head was finally released. Neal curled himself into a ball, trying to ease the pain down. He could feel his body trying to drift out of consciousness, and he fought to stay awake. He decided staying on the ground was a bad idea, and had to force himself to get up, using the building to steady himself, slowly and painfully pushing himself to his feet with the cane. Once on his feet the world started spinning around him. He stumbled towards the daylight at the opening of the alleyway, only making it a few steps before the nausea overwhelmed him. The act of vomiting up his lunch confirmed the fact that his ribs were broken, his breaths coming in short painful bursts. The sudden lack of oxygen made him feel lightheaded, and he closed his eyes as he slid himself back down the wall, only half-aware of someone approaching from the street.
"Neal? Oh my god…"
