After a few minutes, a taxi pulled up to the corner. Ammon paid the cabbie and stepped out, a small piece of carry-on luggage thrown over his shoulder. He sauntered down the street. Neal plastered on a smile, while glancing around as inconspicuously as possible. He still didn't see any of the agents. Even though their disguises were really good, Neal had no problem picking an agent out of the crowd. Mozzie and Neal had spent a whole evening and a few bottles of wine dissecting what gave it away. Mozzie was convinced it was in their hair and posture. Neal thought there was no physical explanation—after so much time spent on the run from (and more recently in company of) federal agents and law enforcement, he was able to intuitively recognize one even when they were in 'street clothes.' In any event, Neal could tell not a single agent was on station yet. He had checked his phone for the subway schedule and knew he had three minutes before the two agents would be able to disembark and assume their assigned position guarding the entrance.
He stepped forward and met Ammon at the corner.
"Hello, Dannyboy." Ammon put his arm around Neal and drew him in for a hug. Neal fought the urge to pull away, and instead of stiffening his posture he leaned into the embrace.
"We didn't get a chance to talk at headquarters." Neal attempted to strike up conversation, clutching at any straw to delay the exchange.
"Well, that little dyke is a right bitch." Neal raised his eyebrows, and Ammon clarified, "You know, the one with that little boxy tattoo? The one who dragged me in?"
"Oh, Diana. Yeah, she's got a temper." Neal smiled, and wondered if she was in the van listening. "I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother."
"Yeah. It was time. She'd been fighting the emphysema for so long. Surprised it didn't kill her earlier." Ammon shrugged. "So, Dannyboy, what you got for me?"
"I hope they're the ones you wanted." Neal began to unroll the paintings.
"No, no, not in public! You've been out of the game too long." Ammon reached for the Matisses, and Neal pulled them out of his grasp.
"Not so long that I forgot that you don't trade goods blindly, old man!" Neal rolled them back up and smiled at his old mentor. "You taught me that. Transfer the money first, and I'll hand 'em over."
Ammon glared at Neal. "What, no trust?"
"None." Neal plastered on his most charming smile, and made a little shrugging motion as if to say, 'nothing to be done about it!'
Ammon stared stonily at Neal for a few heartbeats, during which Neal almost faltered, but finally, Ammon gave a chuckle. "You always were my favorite, Danny!"
Ammon pulled his phone out of his pocket, and while he was busy navigating the banking app, Neal breathed a huge sigh of relief—the metro had arrived and passengers were flooding up the narrow stairwell. That meant two agents were on station. He glanced around, hoping in vain to catch sight of another on the streets, but still, nothing.
Hoping to stall him further, Neal asked, "Frank, how are you doing? How are the boys?"
"You homesick, son?"
Avoiding the truth, which was no, Neal was definitely not homesick for anything that happened in Saint Louis, he answered, "Seeing you stirred up some old memories."
Frank nodded, believing that Neal really did miss the outlaw life Frank had created for him and the small band of his "brothers." "Here, put in your account number." He handed Neal the phone.
"Well, Matthew lost his shit. He got in bad with the Russians, the Mafiya had it out for him. He ended up doing some time for stealing some music box—can you believe that shit? A music box, I mean, is that something a pansy would steal, or what!" Neal smiled at Frank's ignorance. If Frank only knew the value of that music box, he wouldn't be making fun of it.
"Yeah, he seemed really nervous during the job." Neal observed.
"Well, he came back begging for a job, he's fallen on rough times—but you'd know all about that, eh? He had some angry shit to say about you. Said you set him up for some heavy time in prison." Frank was getting into the conversation, and Neal did his best to keep it going smoothly.
"He kidnapped a federal agent, I had nothing to do with him getting such a heavy jail sentence. That's his own dumb genius. How about the rest of the guys?"
"Well, Curtis Hagen is doing some time for forging Spanish Victory Bonds and Canadian 100 dollar bills."
Neal was relieved to see an agent in jogging clothes round the corner at a full sprint. He made eye contact and tried to keep Ammon talking. Trying hard to keep the irony out of his voice, because he had helped put the Dutchmen behind bars, he observed, "I heard Curtis was doing time." Neal handed the phone back to Ammon, "Here, that's my bank account number."
Ammon fiddled with the phone for a second, and then "Alright. Transfer complete." He held up his phone to prove he'd just wired a million dollars into Neal's account.
"What about Davis, how's he?"
"Oh, good, he got heavily involved in the drug trade and is pretty much the kingpin down there. He ran the books for me while I was in lockup." Ammon had a proud look on his face. "He was the only one of you four who learned not to get his hands dirty."
"Well, I guess you're getting your hands dirty, today, eh?" He proffered the roll of paintings.
Frank Ammon grinned and clutched at the paintings. "Yeah. Guess so. You should come back, Danny. You obviously miss the life."
"I've got responsibilities here." He stuck out his hand, and Ammon shook it.
"All right, the offer stands." Ammon pulled Neal into a hug. "Thanks."
Neal breathed a sigh of relief as the FBI agent in jogging clothes stepped up to Ammon. She had unholstered her service weapon and held it pointed it at the ground while she moved closer.
Neal pulled out of the hug and answered Ammon with, "For this, you're welcome."
Without missing a beat, the agent raised her gun and chimed in, "FBI! You're under arrest!" Ammon looked at Neal with a mixture of rage and disappointment.
Two more agents swarmed out of the subway entrance with their guns drawn. It was only a matter of seconds before Frank Ammon was cuffed and in the backseat of a squad car.
Once back at headquarters, the hours seemed to stretch on endlessly for Neal. He had to give a statement, as usual, and then fill out the required reports. He knew it was even worse for Jones, as the head agent he also had to fill out entirely separate report documenting Neal's involvement. After Neal finished his reports, he found himself growing bored, despite his high spirits at his success. Everyone was desperate to watch the interrogation, but Ammon had 'lawyered up' and was refusing to say anything under advice of his attorney. The Saint Louis Police Department was also requesting Ammon be sent down to Missouri because he was in violation of his parole. They wanted him back in prison—for good reason.
Neal kicked his feet up on his desk and tossed his ball of rubber bands into the air. He was pretty satisfied with the afternoon—he'd pretty much single-handedly salvaged the operation. Diana had cuffed Keller on the stairs, Ammon was in custody, and they had recovered two priceless works of art. It was a win for everyone. He glanced around the bullpen and decided to kill some time by getting himself a cup of coffee. He wandered over to the machine and poured himself a cup. Neal immediately began a small hunt for some sugar or cream to mitigate the bitter taste. He normally took his coffee black. At least, he did when it was good coffee. This Bureau coffee was probably among the worst that he'd ever tasted.
"Looking for this?" Peter handed him the container of sugar.
"Thanks!" Neal smiled brightly, but as he glanced at his boss, his face fell.
"Something wrong, Peter?" He busied himself with doctoring his coffee while trying to figure out why Peter wasn't happy with today's victory.
"Yes." Peter sighed, and leaned against the counter. "We need to talk. Go home. I'll be by after we finish tying up the loose ends here."
Neal nodded. He dumped his cup of coffee in the sink. Peter watched him walk dejectedly back to his desk. Neal was so mercurial, one minute he'd be walking on the clouds, and the next he'd be in the depths of despair. Peter shook his head. Normally his CI was much better at concealing his emotions. "Or else," he mused to himself, "I've just gotten better at reading him."
Author's Note: My lovely readers, thank you again for all the feedback. I'm glad you're liking the story. I know I said I'd consider shooting Ammon, so please forgive me ullswater! If I'm going to continue this particular thread of White Collar fan fiction, I need him alive and well. We might see him break out of prison in a future story.
I especially want to thank just-a-scrivener for a wonderful review. You are the *first* person who has ever convincingly explained Neal's age-and-behavior to me. I shall be (eventually) going back and editing this story to make his age cannon compliant. I had to laugh at your analysis of the Burke's kitchen. I suppose this is why we haven't seen Satchmo for pretty much all of Season 5, either. Maybe he's just been asleep in their physics-defying kitchen the entire time El has been packing and we can't see him because...it's the kitchen's fault. Haha. Anyway, you are welcome to leave reviews of any length any time you so desire. (Also, I'm relieved to hear you say that 36 isn't middle aged. I'm not as old as I previously thought, haha!) Also, I like your username.
I split the behemoth chapter-the spanking chapter!-into three separate ones. I'm debating going back and putting them in one chapter though...but it's like 6,000 words...There's a chapter "In Which Peter Discusses Spanking with Neal," a chapter "In Which Neal Gets A Spanking" and a chapter "In Which Peter Reassures Neal." (I obviously can't title any of my chapters decently, so thank you all for not giving me grief about that particular shortcoming) Do you guys have any particular preference on chapter delivery?
