Chapter 4: Snookered

The next morning Peter awoke at his standard time of five o'clock. While Elizabeth slept on, he headed downstairs to make coffee. Neal had moved into the guest room sometime after midnight. Peter checked on him during the night. He'd left the door ajar and when Peter peeked in, he was sound asleep with Satchmo sprawled next to him on the bed.

"Good boy, Satch," Peter mouthed. "Extra treats for you if you keep him there."

When Neal and Satchmo arrived a little after six, he looked more like himself than any time this week. He'd lost the dark circles under his eyes and the spring was back in his step. In a sense, Peter had already achieved his objective.

"Is that Italian roast?" Neal said, sniffing the air.

"It is indeed. We only serve Italian roast at our boot camp. Let's take our mugs out to the patio. El's in the shower. She'll join us in a few minutes." In the past, Neal had been more open about what was going on in his complicated brain when they were outside. Peter hoped that was still true.

Peter grabbed the bag of dog biscuits on the way out to reward Satchmo for a job well done.

On a Saturday morning, traffic was light. The patio was a peaceful place. Earlier in the year, Peter had built a small dog run for Satchmo along the far side so they could all be lazy in the morning.

When he and Neal took their seats at the patio table, Peter pulled out Neal's cell phone from the pocket in his sleep pants. "You're welcome to check messages."

"Cell phone, Italian roast, no push-ups—I'm liking the way this day is starting." Neal turned on his phone and scrolled through his texts.

"Do you need to make any calls?"

Neal shook his head. "The only one with a question is from Mozzie and it can wait."

"Were the sleepless nights his idea?"

"No, he doesn't know anything about Columbia."

"Why didn't you tell him, or anyone else for that matter?" Peter asked. He thought he'd already figured it out, but he was curious to see how Neal would answer.

Neal took a sip of coffee before replying. "Various reasons but the main one was a promise I'd made to myself. After I talked to the dean and decided to give it a shot, I vowed that I wouldn't take any shortcuts. If I'd told Mozzie, he would have come up with a multitude of ways to game the system, and the temptation might be too great to resist." He made a face. "Especially after I opened the chemistry textbook. As for Noelle, I appreciated her help with applying, but she didn't realize I needed to take the exams so quickly. If I told her, she might confront the dean to work out some other special dispensation."

Peter was surprised Neal was being so forthcoming. He hoped he could make it last. "What about Henry?"

"He would have dropped everything to help, but this was something I needed to do on my own. If I don't make it, he'll never know." Neal shrugged. "I don't want anyone to feel guilty, and that includes you and Elizabeth." He stopped to scan Peter's face. "Right?"

Peter could have argued with Neal's reasoning, but he liked the fact Neal was abiding by the dean's decision. "Whatever happens is on you," he agreed. "And we won't inform anyone else about the application without your knowledge. Quoting an overworked expression—"

"—What happens in boot camp stays in boot camp," Neal finished with a grin.

"That's right."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. So, when do I get to hear about the agenda?"

"As soon as El arrives." Peter couldn't resist adding, "Boot camp is a team effort unlike the solo torture you've been subjecting yourself to for the past week."

Neal winced but didn't dispute the point. When Satchmo trotted over with a ball, he began tossing it for him.

Peter waited patiently. He'd worked with Neal long enough to know that after planting the seeds, the silent treatment was the best way to prod Neal into opening up.

After several more ball tosses, Neal took a slow breath. "When I decided to apply, I didn't expect the testing would be much worse than one of my cons. After all, I learned how to be a British admiral in twenty-four hours. Compared with that, how tough could it be?"

Peter gave the groan Neal expected but resisted the urge to ask under exactly what circumstances Neal had run that con. Because, intentionally or not, Neal had just provided the answer for why he'd been so buffaloed. "When did it strike you that this wasn't going to be like mastering a con?"

"Saturday afternoon when I went to the Columbia bookstore to pick up the texts on the prep list. When I opened them, I realized I was the one who'd been taken." He paused when El appeared at the patio door carrying a mug of coffee.

"Is this a guys-only conversation?" she asked warily. "I can stay inside."

"Boot camps should always be co-ed," Neal said airily and stood up to pull a chair over for her. "I was just explaining to Peter my moment of enlightenment. When I opened the textbooks, I was faced with a bitter truth. I know this will shock you—it certainly would Mozzie—but I determined my usual technique wasn't up to the challenge of mastering the equivalent of years of college-level courses."

El winced in sympathy. "That must have thrown you for a loop."

He nodded glumly. "I debated calling it quits right then and there. The trouble was I—like any mark in a well-run con—was already hooked. I could see that vision of me attending classes, earning diplomas. No one knew I was taking the exams, so I had nothing to lose." He grinned sheepishly. "Except some lost sleep. In my defense, I knew that whatever happened, my misery would only last through next Wednesday, the final day of exams."

Neal was comparing himself to a mark? Underneath the light tone was a note of bitterness that made Peter hear his blipping radar once more. He'd assumed Neal sleeping through the night was a good thing. He'd been a little surprised Neal hadn't charged down early to crack the books. Was that because he'd convinced himself his application would be rejected?

When Neal was running a con, he was supremely cocky. But, as El pointed out last night, his confidence appeared to fly out the window when he needed to sell himself. And if he didn't believe in himself, Columbia never would.

It was becoming increasingly clear that at this point Neal's worst enemy was himself. He'd psyched himself out so badly, he was in danger of failing even though he knew the material. Peter and El's job was to resurrect the confident and self-assured Neal Caffrey.

"The way I view it, the hardest part you've already done," Peter said, lobbing his initial ball. "That soliloquy you gave during the drive home demonstrated how much you've learned. You've made boot camp much simpler."

Neal stared at him in surprise, clearly not expecting Peter's tactic. "I did?"

"Absolutely," Peter said confidently.

"All that's needed is a few tweaks," El added. Peter was glad to see she'd picked up on his cue. "Up to now, you've neglected four of the essential elements to cramming. We're here to correct that."

"And what might those elements be?" The relaxed smile on Neal's face should put Peter at ease, but was it simply a con, and who was Neal trying to con?

"Don't feel bad about not knowing this," El said. "You're operating at a handicap since you missed out on the college experience. For a cramming session to succeed, you need friends around to share your misery, an ample supply of pizza, plus snacks to get you through the periods between pizza."

Neal frowned. "I may not be taking the math exam, but I still know that adds up to three, not four."

"You didn't let me finish, smart guy. In addition to snacks, you need more snacks," she said triumphantly. "Luckily for you, Peter and I are here to deliver all of the above."

"Starting with breakfast," Peter said. Before long, his stomach growls would drown everyone else out.

Neal stood up hurriedly. "Would you like my help?"

"Not with what I'm making."

"And that is?" Neal asked warily.

"Cheese fries and eggs with deviled ham," Peter said smugly.

"You wouldn't!"

"Yes, I would and you'll love it."

"Trust me, they're better than they sound," El said. "It's a recipe from Peter's mom. Normally, this is our New Year's Day brunch."

"And thank you for your offer to help," Peter added. "But your task is to sit with El in the dining room and stay out of the kitchen."

"I rummaged in the attic yesterday afternoon, and found some notes I'd made for art history exams in college," El said. "I know you feel prepared in art, but I thought you might appreciate hearing what my exams were like."

It was like she'd just offered him the key to Fort Knox.

#

When Neal awoke that morning after the first solid sleep in a week, his mind was finally clear of the textbook cobwebs which had enshrouded it. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, as Satchmo continued to snuffle dog dreams next to him. In a moment of clarity, he realized what he'd refused to acknowledge all week. The odds were astronomically high that he would fail the exams. He could whine about only having a week to prepare, but that was the point, wasn't it?

The dean had granted Noelle's request because he knew Neal would wash out. Neal gave him points for granting the exception, thus keeping the university in the good graces of the Caffreys who were probably major donors. It wouldn't be the dean's fault or the university's fault that Neal didn't pass.

Neal rarely had suffered the indignity of being a mark, but this time he was snookered royally. He'd drunk the Kool-Aid that he'd be able to attend grad school. All he needed to do was study for a week and he'd be in. The fact that he'd sat in for some of Henry's psychology classes and didn't find them particularly challenging helped lead him down the primrose path.

But seriously, how gullible could a guy be? If he'd taken a moment to think things through, he would have recognized it right away. Instead, he fantasized about being a grad student and earning those diplomas. As the sleepless nights piled up, he was too exhausted to evaluate the situation properly.

During the lunch with Peter, the fog began to lift, but he still clung to the dream. Last night, he'd gone to sleep with the expectation of waking up at five o'clock and quizzing himself on chemistry since he wasn't allowed to study his textbooks. But now that the scope of the deception had smacked him in the face, there was no longer any point.

Neal seriously considered banging his head against the wall for being so gullible, but he compromised by thumping his pillow. If he hadn't been so obvious at work, Peter never would have found out. Then he could have withdrawn gracefully, giving the figurative finger to the dean, and no one would have been the wiser.

Now he was stuck. Peter and El were determined to help him succeed, seemingly unaware that his goose had already been cooked days ago.

What now? The Burkes had sacrificed their weekend to help him out. If he explained how he'd been conned, they'd think he was overreacting.

The least he could do was to act like he was having a grand time at boot camp. He'd agree to whatever they wanted him to do with only a little blowback so they didn't suspect anything. He'd praise their ideas and act properly enthusiastic.

When Columbia informed him that his application was rejected, he didn't want them to feel any trace of guilt. People failed exams all the time. His number was up, but it wasn't their fault.

In the meantime, he'd have a fun weekend hanging out with them and learning about their college years. It wouldn't be easy. Hearing their stories made him all the more eager to attend. The certain rejection would sting even more, but they'd never know that.

In a way, the dean was doing him a favor. Even having three months to study might not be sufficient for having missed out on four years of college. As it stood now, he could blame the injustice of the system for not having made the grade.

He had to laugh—no point in cursing—at the shambles of the last week. Not only had he been a lousy student but he'd lost his carefully crafted identity of bullpen sparkplug. He was supposed to be carefree with an arsenal of quips to toss off as easily as breathing.

Neal took a slow breath. University life wasn't in the cards for him, but he could do something about his image. Neal Caffrey, expert con artist, was back and ready to party.

Resolution made, Neal got up and prepared himself for boot camp. Before heading downstairs, he checked his face one final time in the dresser mirror. No dark circles, check. Confident smile, check.

The morning edition of boot camp started well. He ripped the bandage off a few wounds to show the Burkes how open he was and how much he appreciated their efforts on his behalf. There was no need for them to know how futile their efforts were.

Sitting in the dining room with Elizabeth, though, was unexpectedly painful. She'd brought down her art history textbooks along with notes she'd kept from the courses. He hadn't realized how seriously she'd considered pursuing a graduate degree in art history. She'd even kept notes about the exams she'd taken, thinking they might be useful for graduate work.

"It's hard to put into words how excited I am for you," El said. "You're embarking on the program I'd dreamed about. I gave up on it because I didn't see a good fit for a real-world application, but you don't have that problem. The knowledge you'll acquire will be put to good use at White Collar." She looked up as Peter entered the room with the coffee pot. "Isn't that right, hon?"

He refilled her mug. "Our task force has a close relationship with D.C. Art Crimes. With New York a major center of art and associated crimes, the knowledge you gain will be very useful."

Crap. That hunger he'd tried to suppress was resurfacing with renewed intensity. Those classes were a siren calling to him. He didn't even have to close his eyes to picture himself in the classroom—art classroom, that is. Definitely not a chemistry lab. But there he went deluding himself once more. The only classroom in his future was the training center at the Bureau. Instead of studying Raphael, he was doomed to take classes in mortgage fraud.

Neal barely silenced his groan. He was supposed to be paying attention.

"I suspect you'll have essay questions to answer," Elizabeth said. "There the challenge is to pace yourself. You'll need to do the same for the orals."

Peter grabbed a chair and sat down. "And that's another example of the tight integration between university courses and the Bureau. It struck me during the drive home that we can help with the presentations. That's probably not something you've had much practice with."

"I haven't had time to give it much thought," Neal admitted. Probably not wise to say he planned to con his way through them.

"Well, you should," Peter said bluntly. "Those orals are make-or-break moments. You need to be concise, dynamic, and inspired. That's why sleep is so important. If you act like a dead-man-walking, you won't be able to come back with the brilliant answers I know you otherwise would."

"We're going to hold mock interviews so you'll have a taste of what you're in for," El said.

"They'll be coupled with sample exams," Peter cautioned. "We'll make them brief. Only about thirty minutes each. Then you'll be better able to target where you need to study."

Neal swallowed. Here he'd hoped to escape with minimal pain over the weekend. Instead they intended to prolong the agony.

"Oh, and did we mention the prizes?" El asked Peter.

Neal's chin lifted from the floor. "Prizes?"

"Of course, prizes," Peter confirmed. "A boot camp can't be successful without prizes."

"Any hints about what they might be?" Neal asked. Could he devise a way to add his selections to the list?

Peter stroked his chin. "What do you think, El? Should we lift the curtain a little?"

"Let's do. Neal, you remember my lecture on the art of the cram?"

"Every word."

She smiled at his enthusiasm. "Then you'll recall the significance of food. However, you may have noticed I didn't mention the selections. The prizes will allow you to pick out which ones you want. We have a number of shops within easy walking distance. During breaks, we'll make shopping expeditions. You may even be able to select the wine tonight."

"—Within reasonable limits," Peter interjected hastily.

"There's also the matter of movie selection," El added. "We have a sizeable collection of DVDs if you want to take a time out from studying, but you'll need to earn the right to choose which one."

#

The addition of prizes was a gamechanger. As soon as they were mentioned, Neal transformed into the most attentive rookie a drillmaster could hope for.

Earlier in the morning, Peter had harbored doubts about his strategy. He'd expected Neal to be nervous about the upcoming exams. Instead, he was relaxed to the point of appearing indifferent. The cause was unclear. He could be burnt out from studying too much. Maybe it was the idea of devoting a weekend to practice exams and interviews. That would knock the stuffing out of anyone. Or was it because of other reasons Peter didn't even want to think about?

But when El mentioned prizes, it was like she'd flicked a switch. Neal was back with a vengeance. Not content with the prizes they'd come up with, he starting inventing his own. Some were goofy, like as a reward for taking a test he should be allowed to answer questions with a foreign accent or by imitating the speech mannerisms of movie characters. In the space of one day, Neal portrayed Cary Grant, Howdy Doody, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, and countless others. He even performed Darcy to El's delight.

In the midst of the hilarity, they managed to cover the targeted subject matter. Covering topics in a concise manner was an area Peter had become an expert in. The training Neal received that day would be put to good use at the Bureau no matter what happened at Columbia. He'd nearly failed El's first practice exam because he tried to write too much on each topic. It was a valuable lesson in the necessity of pacing that he'd hopefully benefit from.

Not surprisingly, dinner was based on Neal's rewards. He'd earned the right to pick pizza with artichoke hearts, mushrooms, and marinated chicken. The Barolo wine he'd selected didn't break the Burke piggy bank, and the hazelnut gelato he'd selected just might be better than Rocky Road.

They'd saved several questions on language and art for the evening since they didn't expect Neal would stress over them. What they didn't expect was how enlightening they'd be.

Take El's first question, for instance: Who is your favorite Italian author and why?

"Dante," Neal promptly replied and proceeded to give them a long lecture on Dante's many attributes.

But Peter wasn't fooled for a minute. "Now give me the real reason, not the one you'll use for Columbia."

Neal shrugged and grinned. "I'd prepared a forgery of one of the pages from an early copy of Dante's Inferno. But you already know that since it was included in my confession. What's your point?"

"You're not listening. Why did you pick Dante?"

"I didn't. It was a training exercise for someone I worked for at the time." Neal paused for a moment, his expression growing thoughtful. "He badgered me to go to college to the point it became a standard tease. If I'm admitted, I'm tempted to let him know, but he'd probably think I was pulling his leg."

"And whose leg might that be?" Peter asked. "I should thank him for encouraging you."

Neal smiled at him. "Someone not in your jurisdiction." He turned to El. "As I recall the results of my mineralogy test haven't been announced, and the movie choice is hanging in the balance."

She turned to Peter. "Envelope, please."

He reached inside the ceramic cookie jar which had been appropriated for boot camp use and handed her the envelope. Neal waited with bated breath as she read, "Your analysis of the diamond crystal structure was deemed . . . correct. Congratulations!"

Neal's grin went from ear to ear. "Did I get extra credit for naming the different types of cubic crystal systems?"

"That advances you to the bonus round which will be held tomorrow afternoon," Peter informed him. "If you survive that grueling ordeal, you can pick where we'll order takeout for dinner."

By Neal's reaction, anyone would think the choice of takeout was at least as significant as being admitted into grad school. If nothing else, that proved Neal's con-artist skills were fully recharged. And no one was happier about that than Peter.

"I noticed you perusing our collection," El said. "Did you pick a movie?"

He smiled. "I was feeling optimistic about the results. My choice is Star Wars."

She eyed him knowingly. "Is confronting the exams a bit like attacking the Death Star?"

Neal nodded. "And my odds about equally poor. But Luke managed it. Maybe I have a shot too."