Chapter 3: Pizza Conversation
Neal tried to stay upbeat during the walk back to the office, but the exhilaration from opening up to Peter had been replaced with mind-numbing fatigue. It would take several more trips to the coffee bar just to finish the day, plus he now needed to factor in boot camp. What had earlier sounded to be rather fun now loomed as a huge roadblock.
"How many cases do you have left to process?" Peter asked, breaking into his brain fog.
"Just one—the Ferguson mortgage fraud. It's fairly straightforward. I should be able to complete it by the end of the day."
Peter didn't reply, just nodded his head.
Once they were inside the elevator, he asked Neal, "Have you heard about Storeroom 51?"
"No. Is the truth in there? Can I tell Mozzie his suspicions about an FBI-engineered conspiracy are true?"
"Very funny. Storeroom 51 is a special place that all veteran agents visit from time to time. We'll check it out on the way back."
Was a sightseeing excursion really necessary? More than ever, Neal realized he was trapped in a rapidly deteriorating situation.
Storeroom 51 turned out to be a small windowless room on a back corridor, far away from the noise of the bullpen. It contained a desk, a file cabinet, a couch, and not much else.
"This is where an agent comes when he needs to take a break," Peter explained. "You'll find a pillow and blanket in the file cabinet. I'm going to put an "Occupied" sign on the door, and your assignment is to get some sleep. No reading and no coffee, understood? I'll take care of the Ferguson case and come back at five o'clock to pick you up. Is that acceptable?"
Neal just gaped at him for a moment, speechless with gratitude.
Peter chuckled. "I'll take that as a yes."
"Thank you, Peter. If this is a taste of boot camp, I think I can manage it."
#
When Peter returned to Storeroom 51 at the end of the day, Neal was folding up the blanket. His face wasn't quite as drawn but he looked like he could use at least another twelve hours of shuteye.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Neal asked. "There's no need for me to mess up your weekend with Elizabeth."
"You're kidding, right? El is thrilled about partaking in Burke Boot Camp. She's heard the tales but never experienced its full glory. She's already laid in the supplies, and I know you don't want to disappoint her." All true, but no need to mention the last-minute call to Yvonne to substitute for her at tonight's event.
On the way to Brooklyn, they stopped off at the loft so Neal could ditch the suit and pack. When Peter asked about June, Neal explained she was vacationing with her family in Los Angeles. That took care of one missing puzzle piece—why June hadn't intervened when it was so obvious Neal was floundering.
Peter sat on the couch in the loft and watched with amusement as Neal collected an ungodly number of textbooks. "What did you do—buy out the campus bookstore? I should have brought a truck."
"I didn't know what they were going to test me on so I figured I better play it safe. Are you going to let me bring anything else?"
"Yeah, you can bring some sweats, jeans, and don't forget your running shoes." Responding to Neal's arched eyebrows, Peter added, "What did you expect from boot camp?"
Once they lugged the books and miscellaneous gear downstairs, Neal fired off one question after another about what would go on in boot camp. His curiosity would need to remain unsatisfied mainly because Peter was thinking on the fly. In his desire to get Neal to relax, he may have overplayed his expertise, and now it was up to him to deliver. So far, he'd only figured out the meals.
Neal had mentioned his intention to work on the sample tests. Peter hoped they'd provide a start. But until he'd had time to think things through, he didn't want to commit. He hadn't intended to start boot camp during the drive home, but desperate measures were called for if he didn't want to drown in question overload. "It's going to take us at least an hour to get home in rush-hour traffic. I expect you to use this time to give me concise, coherent summaries of what you've learned for each subject. The clock starts . . . now."
And damned if Neal didn't produce. Over the rest of the commute, Peter heard far more about chemistry, mineralogy, and metallurgy—not to mention art and literature—than he could possibly absorb in one sitting. Neal shifted seamlessly from one subject to another. With each one, he gave the impression it was his favorite subject in the whole world.
The experience was enlightening in more ways than one. Up to now, Peter hadn't realized Neal was such a perfectionist. Had he attempted to memorize every bit of content from his textbooks? How else to explain all the facts he was tossing out? Neal had probably already mastered enough to pass, but there was one area he was woefully remiss in. Peter had first detected it as they drove on the expressway through Manhattan, and by the time they reached his townhouse, it was crystal-clear where the kid needed help.
By the time they exited the car, Neal was a deflated balloon, exhausted from the non-stop monologue he'd just given. Peter, on the other hand, was energized with the plan coming together before his eyes.
El greeted them at the door, clad in jeans and a UMass sweatshirt with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Welcome to your dorm!"
Neal flashed her a smile, looking more like himself than at any other time over the past week. "I'm glad to see it's co-ed. This may not be so bad after all." Peter was impressed at how deftly Neal masked his exhaustion. Yet one more example he could draw on for boot camp.
But for the moment he was happy to play along. "Don't even think about making a move on my girl," he admonished his recruit then pointed to his Lab Satchmo who was beating an ecstatic drumbeat with his tail. "This is your roommate." El had scrounged one of his old Cornell bandanas and tied it around the dog's neck.
"Come on, roomie," Neal said. "You can help me stow my gear in the pup tent."
El slapped her cheek. "I knew I'd forgotten to do something. Would you mind making do with the guest room upstairs?"
Neal gaped at her for a moment. "You mean I won't have to use an outhouse?"
"Keep it up, smart guy, and you just might," Peter growled while inwardly pleased at Neal's attitude. More grist for his mill.
When Neal started to head upstairs with his gym bag, Peter froze him in his tracks. "Not so fast, recruit. Before proceeding, you must agree to the ground rules."
Neal let out a slow sigh. "Push-ups at dawn?"
"I hadn't included them, but I'm open to special requests." Peter had debated how many rules to make. Memories of an exacting drillmaster at Quantico had supplied a long list. Neal would never know that his guardian angel El had reduced the number to something more manageable.
"Rule Number One: No talking back to the drillmaster—that's me, as if you haven't already guessed. Rule Number Two: You will eat what is provided with no complaints. Rule Number Three: No communication with the outside world." Peter held out his hand. "Give me your cell phone."
Neal made a face. "Aren't you getting a little carried away? What if I get an urgent call? Noelle or Henry might have an emergency."
Peter leveled the full force of his withering glare on his smart-aleck recruit. "Like, for instance, they're caught in some jam and are seeking your help? What a novel idea."
He knew his words would sting and Neal had the grace to acknowledge it with an embarrassed wince. Peter could have driven the point home but Neal's guardian angel was tossing dagger eyes at him to tone it down or she would.
"You'll be allowed to check your phone—in my presence—four times a day," Peter added. "That should be adequate, and much more generous than what I experienced at Quantico."
"An acceptable compromise," Neal agreed quickly as if worried Peter would change his mind. "As for Rule Number Two, a few minor adjustments would—"
"—End of discussion," Peter barked, ignoring the whines of sympathy coming from Satchmo. "Now march upstairs and get into your sweats. Oh, and the books stay downstairs."
"I wouldn't want anyone to trip on them," Neal argued.
"And I don't want you to stay up all night studying," Peter said pointedly. "You need to be rested for tomorrow. Those books are staying in a corner of the dining room." Neal wasn't the only one who needed to look at them. Peter needed to sort out the details of the boot camp he'd promised. Tonight would be his turn to burn the midnight oil. "I want your word that you won't touch the books till six o'clock tomorrow morning."
Neal exhaled unhappily. Peter knew Neal prided himself on never lying to him. This would be a good test. And what kind of topsy-turvy situation was it that Peter needed to exact a promise from him not to study?
"Okay," Neal agreed. "I'll wait till then."
After Neal headed upstairs, El jerked her head toward the kitchen. "We need to talk," she said in an urgent whisper.
Peter took a slow breath. He might be the drillmaster, but the commanding officer wasn't looking very happy at him at the moment.
"Aren't you overdoing the drill sergeant routine?" El asked she closed the door to the kitchen. "I thought our objective was to get Neal to relax and catch up on his sleep."
"And we will," Peter assured her. "But it struck me on the drive home that we first need to shake him free from the mindset he's wallowing in. I intentionally overplayed it, hoping he'd react the way he did. For the first time in a week he's starting to sound like himself."
Her expression brightened. "You're lobbing him softballs to help him regain his equilibrium. That's the man I know and love."
"I'm relieved to hear it. I was starting to worry I'd be the one sleeping in the pup tent." Peter wrapped his arms around her. "You anchor me when I start to flounder. Neal's adrift now. I hope we can provide him a safe harbor till he regains his footing."
"I do too."
"My gut's telling me that although he'll never admit it, Neal is secretly delighted to let someone else make the decisions for him. He's tried doing it on his own for a week, isolating himself from friends and family."
El gave him a knowing smile. "That's why you took away his cell phone."
Peter nodded. "He told me Noelle doesn't know he applied. Henry's phone call made it clear he's also unaware. Have you talked recently with Noelle?"
"She called me on Wednesday."
"Did she ask about Neal?"
El thought for a moment. "Not directly, but she mentioned admiring the relationship I had with him. She admitted that colleagues at work sometimes call her a velvet steamroller, and she was concerned that Neal sometimes thought she was too assertive. Now I wonder if she wasn't thinking of Columbia."
"I don't think she is," Peter said. "Neal might tease her about it, but he realizes he occasionally needs a nudge in the right direction. I'm sure Noelle longs to know if he acted on her initiative."
"But we can't tell her," El said firmly. "We shouldn't get between him and his aunt. They'll sort it out."
"But probably not till after the exams. Neal has more on his plate now than he can handle."
#
As Neal traded his jeans for sweat pants, he wondered not for the first time what he'd gotten himself into. Peter was having far too much fun with this. "What do you think?" he asked Satchmo.
The Lab cocked his head and gave a tentative wag of his tail. At the moment his roomie was far more interested in investigating the contents of his gym bag than pondering the behavior of their drillmaster.
Neal glanced at the bed. The pillows were calling to him. Secretly he was pleased Peter had insisted on stowing the books downstairs. The afternoon nap was a good start but it also alerted him to what a huge deficit he needed to correct. He knew he'd been running on empty since Monday. So far Peter hadn't threatened to withhold coffee, but if he didn't ditch the roadkill look, caffeine deprivation would be the next torture to be endured. Then he might as well call off the exams.
He'd barely finished unpacking when Peter bellowed from the foot of the stairs, "Food's on!"
When Neal came downstairs, he found the Burkes' dinner table laden with several open boxes of pizza. A cooler filled with beer and sodas was on the floor next to the table. Peter had changed to sweats and an old Cornell t-shirt. He was also barefoot and invited him to do the same. After a moment's hesitation, Neal decided to go along. He took that as a welcome sign Peter wouldn't subject him to calisthenics after dinner.
His drillmaster was clearly in his element as he dished out the pizza. "You can have pepperoni or sausage or both. No sissy avocado, pineapple, or whatever toppings you normally have. Tomato sauce is known to be a perfectly acceptable vegetable."
"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Neal said, eyeing the selections warily.
"This is the perfect ending to the week."
Pizza wasn't on his list of favorite foods, but after Peter's lecture, he wasn't about to complain. Elizabeth had made a Caesar salad. He could take a token slice of pizza and mainly eat salad. His stomach was queasy from all the coffee he'd drunk. He'd probably be okay if he didn't eat much.
"I don't suppose there's any chance of wine instead of beer?" Neal asked hopefully while realizing he was sailing into treacherous waters.
"There's an open bottle of Chianti in the kitchen," Elizabeth said. "I'd prefer wine as well . . . if that's allowed."
Peter considered their request for a long moment. "Exception granted. Besides, that means more beer for me."
The boxes came from a pizzeria in their neighborhood. Neal decided on sausage. The aroma was better than he expected. He looked at Elizabeth. "This tastes like homemade sausage."
"The pizzeria is run by a family of Italian immigrants. Everything is homemade down to the organic tomato sauce."
"I'm not normally a pizza guy but this would win anyone over."
"Pizza is the staple of life," Peter declared, tilting his bottle of lager in his direction.
Neal responded by raising his glass of wine to his hosts. "Unless you're lactose intolerant like Mozzie."
"When you and Henry were on the road, you probably had pizza frequently," Peter countered.
"He was more of a burger guy."
"Still, you must have gone to a lot of pizza parties when you were growing up," Elizabeth said. "What are your favorite varieties?"
Neal resisted their efforts to stroll down memory lane. After his mom served frozen pizza for his eighteenth birthday, he'd sworn off the food, but the Burkes didn't need to know that. He deflected onto questioning what life was like for them in college. Not surprisingly, it seemed to include a lot of pizza parties.
During dinner, Elizabeth kept him and Peter enthralled with her escapades as a college student. Peter commented that some of the tales he'd never heard before. One anecdote, in particular, caused Neal to gaze at her with open admiration.
"I'd long suspected you were a free spirit," he said. "But campus streaking elevates you to goddess status."
"And before you ask for photos," Peter said sternly, "I'm declaring this topic closed." He leaned over to his wife and added in a loud stage whisper, "Until we're alone, at which time I'll require a full description."
Quickly changing the subject, Elizabeth asked, "Neal, what interests you the most about Columbia's program?"
That was a question he'd often asked himself, especially when his mind was spinning out of control from trying to cram too much inside. He always had a difficult time talking about his own art. Now, perhaps because of the wine, exhaustion, or simply gratitude for what they were doing, he opened up to them more than he had to anyone else before. "For the past several years I focused on the works of others." They probably realized that was because he was only paid to produce forgeries, but he chose not to dwell on that aspect. "Now I'd like to establish my own identity. But right now, I don't know what that is. And that scares me but it's also irresistible."
Peter refilled his glass while El plied him with more questions, relating them to the art history courses she'd taken in college. That was eye-opening. He'd never taken a course in art appreciation and had wondered what they were like.
After the pizza was demolished, they moved into the living room. Elizabeth insisted on him taking the couch. He hadn't remembered it had so many extra cushions. She said he could toss them off, but they looked inviting.
"We have ice cream for dessert," she announced. "Peter and I each picked one flavor. Would you like to guess what they are?"
"Is this my first boot camp quiz?" Neal mocked, mainly to give himself more time to think. He was feeling quite mellow after having polished off the Chianti.
Peter snorted. "Yes, but it's a trial run. No prizes for the correct answer."
"But there will be prizes tomorrow?" Neal asked eagerly. Boot camp was sounding better by the moment.
"Maybe. Now answer El's question."
He placed the back of his hand on his forehead in an homage to Johnny Carson's Carnac. "For Peter, Rocky Road sounds appropriate."
Elizabeth laughed. "I knew you'd guess it! How about for me?"
"Hmm, something artistic with a gourmet touch. A floral flavor. Perhaps violet or lavender?"
"Oh, you're good. Can I tempt you with lemon lavender gelato?"
"For that, I'll gladly wash dishes or whatever you'd like."
"Then my order is for you to stay put. I'll serve."
Over dessert, Peter reminisced about his college experiences, moving from classes to dorm life to the baseball field. Neal was content to sit back and enjoy the gelato. The taste brought back memories of jobs he'd done in Italy when he was a member of Klaus Mansfeld's crew. Klaus had harped on him to go to college, but he'd always resisted the idea. What would Klaus say if he got accepted into Columbia's graduate program?
#
"And despite what happened, we wound up winning the game. It was a moment I'll never forget."
El nudged Peter. Nodding her head in Neal's direction, she whispered, "You've lost half of your audience." For the past several minutes, Neal had been slowly sliding lower and lower and now he was out for the count. Satchmo had accumulated a collection of his favorite toys and dropped them on the floor next to his roommate, but playtime would have to wait.
Peter pointed to the kitchen. He and El quietly picked up the glasses and ice cream bowls. They wouldn't need to wrap much pizza. Neal had been so focused on the conversation, he didn't appear to notice the extra slices El added to his plate. After a week of living off coffee, he was making up for lost meals.
"One all-nighter, I can understand," Peter said. "But a week of them? Why didn't he ask me on Monday to cut him some slack?"
El handed him a dishtowel, "It's obvious how much he wants this. I bet he was worried about letting you down if he's not accepted. It's hard enough that Noelle's involved. You remember that phone conversation I had with him when you were with him in St. Louis? He mentioned then how he was trying to discover who he is. I suspect Neal feels much more insecure when he has to sell himself rather than some con."
"You bring up a good point. It's something I want to discuss with him tomorrow morning."
"Have you finalized your plans?" she asked.
"It's starting to come together, but I'll need your help. Do you have any suggestions?"
"Here's one that came to me over dinner. Pizza would be a good topic."
He stared at her, puzzled. "I thought I'd give him a break and grill burgers outside since he mentioned Henry liking them."
"No, I think we should get pizza again tomorrow, but I'll get one of their non-traditional varieties—the type you were making fun of. I'll also get the rosemary crust this time."
"El? What are you thinking?"
"Didn't it strike you as odd that when you asked about pizza, he brought up Mozzie's intolerance? The way he switched subjects makes me think he didn't have many pizza parties in middle school."
"He was probably too busy hustling pool." When El frowned, he added, "I'm serious. Neal's mentioned enough about his life as a teen for me to know he was a loner. I don't think he had many friends. WITSEC didn't help."
"If that's true, it's a shame. You'd think anyone with Neal's personality would have plenty of friends."
"I don't imagine he has many his own age," Peter said, growing thoughtful in turn. "If he's accepted, Columbia could correct that deficiency."
"Let's hope so. My psychologist father would point out that pizza parties are a healthy way of socializing."
"You and your father may be onto something. Neal and Henry are not shining examples of team players, although I like to think Neal's making progress."
"Did he play team sports in school?"
"I don't think so. He participated in track and field, but that doesn't really count."
They tossed around ideas for how to conduct the boot camp as they put away the dishes. Peter hoped Neal stayed asleep as both he and El had a busy night ahead of them. But first up was an even higher priority.
When they were done in the kitchen, El asked, "Should we wake him up to go upstairs?"
"Let's not disturb him. I'll get him a blanket and an extra pillow. He'll be fine. Plus, I'd like to hear more about this streaking adventure of yours. How about taking a study break before we crack open the books?
"Are you inviting me up to your dorm room?" El purred.
Peter grinned at her. Reliving the college experience was turning out better than he'd expected.