Scene 2

Le Blues Bar was satisfyingly full, and Joe had enough staff working to keep his own time fairly free. He needed to work on the tedious task of rebuilding his books from old receipts and invoices. He had taken a few breaks from the chore, however, enough to see the Highlander on the evening news. So, when he emerged from his office and spotted MacLeod at a table, he was not surprised to see the normally gregarious Scot drinking alone. Joe joined him. "Hiding out?" he asked.

MacLeod grinned at him. "I wondered where you were."

"Cooking the books. I saw you on the news. How's it going?"

MacLeod shook his head. "It's a madhouse. The press love the story, and they won't leave me alone. I thought they'd be happy with a statement or two, but there were reporters waiting for me at the barge, and the phone won't stop ringing." He took a long swallow of scotch. "Listen, Joe, these paintings belong to you, not to me."

Joe opened his mouth to interrupt, but the Highlander insisted on continuing.

"Cartier wanted them to belong to someone who valued the painting of his son. That was you, out of that whole room of people. Now I know you're not prepared to house them, but I can help."

"Stop right there, Mac. You haven't told any of this to the press, have you?"

"I wanted to talk to you first."

"Good. Now you listen to me. I don't want these paintings. I don't need the hassle. Are you going to tell me that figuring out what to do with them isn't going to be a big pain in the neck?"

MacLeod shook his head. "There's an army of lawyers and acquisition agents descending on DesPres over this. He wants them off his hands. They have to be appraised and curated ... but they're worth a lot of money, Joe. A lot of money."

"Maybe I'll write a song about the tragedy of sudden wealth. I'd rather have my life normal, thank you. After you decide who to sell them to, you can buy me a new roof. This one leaks. I mean it. You're a much better man to be dealing with this. I just want the portrait."

"I put it over behind the bar for you when I came in."

"Thanks." Joe glanced over to the bar, where two bartenders and Rousseau, his shift manager, were at work. Joe resolved to move the portrait to somewhere more safe than so near his bartenders' feet.

"So you're not going to let me out of the limelight on this?" asked MacLeod.

"Shoot, Mac, don't you enjoy the limelight?"

MacLeod grew serious, as only he could. "Joe, you know how risky it is for one of us to be too public."

"What risk? Anyone who wants you can look you up in the phone book."

"If they know I'm in Paris. And that's not what I meant. I don't like all this news footage around of me. Someone might get a hold of it in the future, and then ... well, you know." MacLeod stared into his glass.

Joe smiled. How like MacLeod to be embarrassed to bring up a time when he might be alive but Joe certainly wouldn't.

"What do you want me to say about the portrait?" MacLeod asked. "The art world doesn't care about it, but the press does. They'll want to know what I did with it."

Joe considered. The Highlander was offering to lie, or at least to mislead, for him.

"Tell you what. You tell them the truth. You gave it to me. I'll hang it here in the bar, and if anyone comes to see it, it'll bring me business. It'll get more exposure than the galleries and such would have given it. Maybe Ol' Cartier would have liked that."

MacLeod smiled a slow, fond smile. He sat back in his seat and relaxed with his scotch. "Okay, Dawson, it's a deal. And I'll get you that new roof."

MacLeod's attention wandered. Joe recognized the expression.

"I'm expecting Adam tonight," Joe said. "He's coming over to install a new hard drive for me."

MacLeod nodded. "I think he's here," he said.

Joe signaled a waitress and ordered the bottle for Mac and a pitcher of beer for Methos. Methos rounded the corner from the door, his expression genial, but his wary gaze sought the other immortal in the bar. He found Joe and MacLeod and relaxed. As Joe waved him over, Methos spoke to a teenage boy who had entered with him.

"Hi Joe, MacLeod," Methos said when he reached their table. "This is Neal. He just saved my life. I want to buy him a drink."

"Really?!" MacLeod asked. "How did this happen?"

"He's just unlucky," the boy started to explain. "And he shouldn't..." Neal broke off with a glance at Methos. He had a grin entirely too large for his face.

"Neal ..." Methos said, with a warning note in his tone.

"And he should watch where he's going," Neal finished, looking sidelong at Methos. "Now do I get my drink?"

"Absolutely." Apparently Neal had passed whatever test Methos had set for him. Methos pulled out a chair for Neal, stole another from a nearby table, and poured from the pitcher into the only glass.

"Neal, these are my friends Duncan MacLeod and Joe Dawson. Joe's the owner of this fine establishment. This is Neal Starkweather."

"Pleased to meet you," Neal said politely, shaking Joe's hand, then MacLeod's. "Duncan MacLeod. Didn't you just acquire the entire Cartier Collection for buying one painting?"

Joe winced. He knew MacLeod didn't want to talk about this.

But the Highlander was gracious. "Yes, that was me," he allowed. "Did you see it on the news?"

"No, I heard it on the street. Everyone at the Academie's talking about it."

"The Academie?"

Methos spoke to Joe. "What's this about a painting?"

"Tell you later."

"Yeah," Neal replied. "Pouchet Academie of Fine Arts. Where we had our construction accident today." He finished the beer and poured himself another. How long would Methos go without his own drink, Joe wondered.

"What happened?" Joe asked Methos.

"Let Neal tell it. If he's careful." Methos gave Neal another warning look. Neal grinned that impossibly huge grin again, and lifted his glass in Methos' direction.

"I was just leaving the Academie - they let me come back today to get my things. I was kicked out, you see-and I was looking up at the sky so I actually saw the construction crane on the roof. A huge section of wall was falling right where Adam was. Adam ... didn't see it. I just happened to be looking up. Hell, it was right where I would have been in a second when it hit. So I yelled, and grabbed him and we got out of the way."

"You know, I saw that on the news, too," Joe said. "They said no one was there."

"That's because your Adam seems to be very shy of cameras. And I certainly didn't want to talk to any more Academie staff today."

Neal finished off the beer and twinkled at Joe. "Can I order a whiskey?" he asked.

Joe sighed. The laws and the customs about underage drinking were more lenient in France than in the U.S., but Joe had some personal feelings on the subject, as well. And, as a foreigner owning a Parisian business, he didn't like to take chances. "How old are you, kid?."

"It doesn't matter," Methos said. "He's not ordering; I am." Methos reached over and filled Neal's glass from MacLeod's scotch bottle, ignoring the Highlander's affronted expression. Neal watched with open amusement.

"So Duncan, why did you want the amateur painting?" Neal asked.

The boy seemed pretty casual with his new acquaintance, Joe thought.

"I didn't. I bought it for Dawson," MacLeod replied.

"For Joe?" Neal turned to Joe.

No, for Dawson For Mr. Dawson.

"Then, do you have the painting here?" Neal's grey eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Yeah, Mac brought it by. Why? Do you want to see it?"

"Could I?"

"What painting?" Methos sounded impatient.

MacLeod broke in. "Adam, why don't you go get it for him? Then we'll tell you everything. It's over behind the bar."

With Methos beyond hearing range, MacLeod leaned over to Neal. "Okay, Neal, what is it you aren't telling us?"

"What?" Neal's expression was shocked.

"About the accident?"

"Oh." Neal looked relieved, then regretful. "I can't tell. I promised."

This answer, Joe could see, confounded the Highlander, who took promises very seriously. It was also clear to Joe that Neal wanted to tell.

"Okay, kid, give, give it all, give it now, or you'll never get another drink in my place."

Neal grinned that infectious grin, glanced toward the bar, and gave. "It's just that he didn't notice anything because he was reading a book while he was walking. He didn't want me to tell you that part."

Joe and MacLeod laughed.

"He was reading while he was walking down the street?!" Joe asked.

Neal nodded.

"I've seen him do that," MacLeod chuckled.

"And you gave him shit for it, I hope."

"Shh, here he comes."

Methos returned with the portrait, which Neal accepted reverently. He ran his hand, fingers spread, just over the surface of the canvas, not quite touching it. Holding it inches from his face, he inspected different areas of it closely. The face of Phillipe Cartier, proportions a little off, and details a little muddy, looked back at him. You'd think he thought it was great art, Joe thought. What a funny kid.

MacLeod explained what had happened at the auction.

"Sounds to me like the Cartier Collection should go to Dawson, MacLeod," Methos said. "He's the one who valued the portrait."

"No way!" Joe exclaimed.

MacLeod smiled. "He wants me to have the fun of dealing with it."

"No, it's okay," Neal spoke up, sounding earnest. He relinquished the portrait to Joe with obvious reluctance, and went on. "You valued it as a present to Joe. You valued it because he did. That should count." Neal was very serious.

An embarrassed silence followed. Methos wore a small smile. Joe thought he was starting to see why Methos liked this kid.

"Well ..." MacLeod started. Someone had to say something.

"What would be wrong," Neal added, "would be if you just bought it so the auction could continue."

Of course, there had been that, too. Joe glanced at MacLeod and could have sworn he saw a blush darken the man's swarthy skin.

Joe admired the boy's ease. Not bravado, Neal just seemed experienced beyond his years. Joe revised his estimate of the young man's age. The older Joe got, he reflected, the worse he became at guessing the ages of the very young. Neal hadn't protested when Joe had assumed that he was under the drinking age, but he sucked down the beer and scotch with the ease of practice. And he held them well enough.

A sudden suspicion gripped Joe, just as a sudden tension gripped Neal. Neal stood and excused himself to find the WC.

Ah hah! Joe turned to see who appeared around the corner of the entry area.

A glance back at his tablemates puzzled him. They showed no alarm, and only the slightest interest in Neal's departure. Methos reached casually for the folder Neal had left behind.

But there was a newcomer to the bar, and he made a beeline for their table. Tall, dapper, a touch too well-dressed to fit in with most of Joe's regular crowd, and wearing a murderous expression. He halted at their table and demanded of Methos, "I saw you with him. Where's Starkweather?"

Methos blinked at him, looking mild. "Pardon?"

The man glanced around, his dark gaze searching. He took in the two glasses, one belonging to MacLeod and one now being cradled by the unassuming, slouched "Adam." Joe saw Methos shift to cover Neal's folder with his elbow.

"You heard me. You came in here with him. Where did he go?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Who are you, by the way?"

"I am no one you want to fuck with," he sneered, his cultured tones low and menacing. He turned Methos' chair, with the immortal still in it, to face him. He leaned down and put his other hand on the far arm of the chair, trapping him. "Now, I want him and I'm going to have him. Where. Is. He."

Methos shrank.

That was enough for Joe.

"Look, buddy, don't cause any trouble here, or I'll have to ask you to leave."

The man turned his smoldering gaze on Joe. "And who do you imagine you are, old man?"

"I'm the owner," Joe replied, keeping his voice civil.

The man swept his gaze over Joe. "And you're going to make me leave," he said.

Joe clenched his jaw. He hated when confrontations threatened to turn physical. Once his adversary realized he was dealing with a man with no legs, he either taunted Joe or retreated in resentful chivalry. Both results sucked, and one of them was coming soon. Joe searched for Pierre, his bouncer.

"No," MacLeod said from his end of the table, "I am." Blocked in his booth bench by his friends on either side in chairs, Duncan MacLeod nonetheless managed to radiate menace. Even Methos blinked at the Highlander.

The man released Methos' chair and resumed his arrogant stance. "I know you," he declared, his tone melting into mock admiration. "You're Duncan MacLeod. That was some scam you pulled with the Cartier collection." His expression was openly speculative. "Just how did you bribe DesPres?"

"You'd better leave, now," MacLeod replied, his voice, if possible, even more threatening. Joe looked admiringly at the Highlander.

The man tipped his head back to regard MacLeod through half-lidded eyes. He nodded slowly, a grudging capitulation to the larger man's strength. He looked again at Methos.

"You tell that snake that if he doesn't stay away from my fiancée, I'll slice his balls off and stuff them down his fucking gullet." He threw a wad of bills on the table halfway between Joe and Methos. "Here's for your trouble," he added.

The three men watched in silence as the intruder used a circuitous route to the door, studying the faces of the patrons as he went.

"Mac, you didn't have to do that," Joe said, despite being very glad that he had.

"Of course I did." MacLeod scowled. "I think we should know some more about your friend, Adam."

Methos sat up and smiled a bright smile. "Well, if you measure the worth of a man by his enemies ... Who was that guy?"

"Girard Delanoye," MacLeod provided. "Owner of an almost bankrupt appraisal company. And Neal is ...?"

"An orphan and itinerant artist." Methos uncovered the notebook and slid it into the middle of the table, where it nudged the cash Delanoye had left. MacLeod took possession of what turned out to be a sketchbook.

No one touched the cash.

"Not someone Delanoye should see as a threat," MacLeod mused, studying the sketches.

"Not unless she really likes him," Joe suggested. "I think your friend skipped out, Adam."

"And leave his sketchbook? I doubt it."

"He saw Delanoye coming, you know. He left you to deal with him."

"That's okay. I can take it."

Joe smiled, and met MacLeod's amused glance. Surprising show of loyalty from the resident cynic.

"A bankrupt business, you said?" Methos asked MacLeod.

"Uh huh. That's the rumor."

Methos poured more beer into Neal's glass and drank it himself. "So, I suppose he's marrying someone with money."

MacLeod looked up. "I don't know. I haven't heard of his engagement."

"And Neal the poor artist loves her but she doesn't know he exists," Methos said dreamily.

"Doesn't work," Joe pointed out. "If she didn't know Neal existed, Delanoye wouldn't be so pissed off."

Methos brightened. "That's true! But if she's interested in Neal, why is she engaged to M. Manners?"

"Obviously," MacLeod said, "because her father wants her to marry Delanoye."

This wasn't a game to the Highlander, Joe suspected by the way MacLeod scowled. He wondered what the immortal was remembering.

"Not these days, MacLeod," Methos said. "The girl gets a say in it now. A pretty big one."

"It's still not easy to go against your family," Joe said. "And you may not have any of this right, you know."

"These stories only turn out well in the movies." MacLeod continued to brood over the sketches.

"Yes," Methos mused, "how do these stories end? Usually the father or the fiancé has the boy killed ..."

Joe started, but MacLeod seemed nonplused.

"Or banished," the Highlander said with a dark look.

"Or enslaved," Methos returned, causing MacLeod to blink.

"Or bought off," Joe said.

The other two men looked at him, then at the cash.

Joe smiled.

"Joe, you're a genius," Methos declared, sweeping up the money.

"Hey!" MacLeod protested. "That was for Joe's trouble."

"No it wasn't. It's a bribe for me to keep Neal away from the girl."

"I don't want his money!" Joe cried.

"And Joe doesn't want it," Methos continued.

"You can't do that!"

"Why not? I'm sure Neal could use a stake to get started. There are other girls. This is a terrific opportunity for him. We'll get Delanoye to buy him off."

"What is this 'we'? I'm no part of this. And you stay out of it!"

"Okay, MacLeod, I'll do exactly what you say," Methos promised, stuffing the cash in his pocket.

"Adam," MacLeod warned.

"Guys, guys, we may have this all wrong!" Joe tried to keep the peace.

Methos ignored him. "Is he any good?" he asked MacLeod, indicating the sketchbook.

"What?"

"His drawings. Are they any good?"

MacLeod gave Joe an exasperated look. He shoved the sketchbook at Methos. "See for yourself."

"Your opinion would be better informed. What do you think of his drawings?" Methos seemed very earnest.

Somewhat disarmed, MacLeod allowed the change of subject. "They're ... good. But he's not drawing what he wants to draw."

"What do you mean?" Methos' gaze on the Highlander was intent.

"Well," MacLeod turned the book so a drawing faced the other men. "He's put careful detail into drawing the people, but his real energy went into the sky."

Methos studied the drawing, then returned his avid gaze to MacLeod. MacLeod turned a page.

"And here. It's all sky and sea and it's great. He shouldn't bother with the people. Maybe he's trying to learn that kind of detail. Or maybe someone told him there's no market for skies. But that's what he wants to draw. That's probably why he was looking up today."

MacLeod took a drink of his scotch. Methos studied the sketchbook, his head cocked at an interested angle. Joe didn't bother trying to see the pictures. He'd had enough art today. His heart was still racing from the near confrontation. He envied the immortals their ability to shrug off such an encounter. One of the benefits of being life-long warriors, he supposed.

The older life-long warrior looked back at the younger. "You should tell him that," he said.

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I don't tell artists how to do their art. It's none of my business."

"What is your business, MacLeod?" Methos almost sounded angry. "Have you given that any thought? What do you think we are here for?"

MacLeod gave him a sharp look. Joe stopped breathing. Did he mean immortals?

"Oh, don't look at me like that." Methos retreated to his beer. "I don't know anything. But teaching might be a good guess, don't you think?"

MacLeod glanced uncomfortably at Joe. "I am no art teacher," he protested.

Methos leaned forward, over the sketchbook, every line of his body tense. He spoke with more intensity than Joe ever remembered hearing from his laconic friend.

"You've spent half your life living with artists. Loving them, supporting them, sharing their dreams."

Like Tessa, Joe thought. Who was this man who looked just like their Methos?

"You don't have to teach him. Just tell him what you told me."

"Why? Why does it matter so much to you?" MacLeod was clearly as bewildered as Joe.

"I owe him something. He saved my life. I can't help him with his art. You can."

"Adam," Joe put in, after a brief glance around at the staff and other customers, "you are not going to convince me that that boy really saved your life."

"He saved me from a death." Methos echoed Joe's conspiratorial tone. "Dying usually hurts, I'll have you know. Not to mention I'd probably have to move. I hate moving. At the very least I owe him a favor."

"So you're going to help him with his love life."

Joe regarded his retiring friend, thinking it hadn't been so long since Alexa's death.

Methos smiled. "That, I can do."

Joe matched gazes with the Highlander in a moment of mutual, perfect understanding. Then they both regarded the world's oldest immortal as he regarded the world's oldest alcoholic drink.

To Joe's surprise, Neal reappeared. "Is the coast clear?" he asked with his oversized grin.

"Yeah, he's gone." Methos grinned back at him. "Are you seeing his fiancée?"

Neal sat down. "No. She's not his fiancée. She called it off. Isn't he a nice guy?"

Feeling indulgent toward Methos had not left Joe feeling indulgent toward Neal. "You gonna apologize to your friend for leaving him to deal with that jerk?"

Neal turned a surprised, guileless expression on Joe. "Oh, he was okay," he said, indicating the immortal. "He's in his place. Anyone can see that. You're always strongest when you're in your own place."

Joe saw MacLeod's lips twitch.

Hmph.

Neal returned to Methos. "What did he say?"

"Just that you should stay away from his fiancée. Who is she?"

"Madeleine Pouchet. The most wonderful woman I've ever met."

Well, the boy wasn't afraid to sound like a love-sick idiot. Joe wasn't sure if that was in his favor or not.

"Would that be Pouchet of the Pouchet Academie?" MacLeod asked.

"Yeah. He's her father."

"Does he want her to marry Delanoye?"

Neal looked surprised. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess." MacLeod smiled a tight smile.

"Well, she doesn't love him. She loves me."

"How did you meet her?" Joe asked.

"At the Academie. But they pulled my fellowship when Madeleine started seeing me. They said my talent in the initial interviews had been overrated."

Neal kept his tone light, but Joe saw through him. The boy suddenly had Joe's sympathy. So young to be dealing with that kind of criticism of his work! And it hurts so much more when you're young and unsure, Joe remembered. He wished now that he had had a look at the boy's sketches.

Joe found himself feeling maudlin, and he hadn't even had anything to drink. There was definitely a song in this. "Don't fall in love with the headmaster's daughter" or something less stupid than that.

"I see," Joe answered. He met the gazes of the other men and was relieved to see them looking maudlin, too.

"Well!" Methos said, falsely hearty. "Neal, how would you like to help me install a hard drive?"

"Adam," the boy replied, gravely, "I can think of nothing I'd rather do."

"Good." Methos stood. "Because Joe is giving us free drinks while we work on it."

"I am?" Joe asked.

"He is?" Neal asked.

"I'm quite sure you said that, Joseph."

Neal collected his sketchbook, and watched the two men with an amused expression.

"I think I want you sober when you work on my computer, Adam."

"Don't be silly. I'd be completely inept."

"More so than usual?"

"Be nice to me or I won't put in the additional memory I brought. Come on, Neal. Joe will see to it that they bring a pitcher of beer back to us regularly. Won't you, Joe?"

Methos herded the young man toward the office.

"Don't hold your breath!" Joe called after them.

MacLeod leaned forward, looking concerned. "Joe, you don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"You don't have to give him free drinks just because he's holding your computer hostage."

Joe chuckled. "It's okay, Mac. It's part of the deal."

"It is? But ..."

Joe levered himself up, preparing to go check with his bartender about the pitchers. He picked up the portrait.

"Don't try to figure it out, MacLeod," he advised, smiling.

The Highlander shook his head, wide-eyed. "Okay, I won't."