Chapter Four: Russian Roulette
"When I was eight years old, my father began bringing home his new partner. He instructed me to call this man Uncle Austin even though he was no blood relation to me. I hated calling him my uncle, but I was too afraid of my father to disobey. So, I did as I was told," Neal said then took a bite of his sandwich and a long sip of coffee, wrapping the fingers of both hands around the mug to warm them.
Detective Austin Hanks had been with the local police department for 13 years. He was a large man with pock marks on his face and a tattoo of the Madonna on his forearm. Officer Laurence Caffrey's original partner had died in the line of duty, and there had always been unfounded speculation that Laurence was somehow involved because he was the only officer left standing. No one wanted to ride with Officer Caffrey, and he received much strife from fellow officers. Laurence went through a string of partners in the five and a half years between the shoot-out and Detective Hanks joining alongside him. They became fast friends and partners—in more than one way.
"You know it doesn't have to be this way," Detective Hanks said as they ate together at the Caffrey table. Marian served them, and Neal hid out in his room. They scooped up large spoonfuls of chili and shared the bottle of Jim Beam between them.
"Meaning," Laurence asked.
"Meaning…okay…think about it this way: we put our lives on the line every day and bring home the most disgraceful paychecks at the end of the month. We can resolve that problem. We can get back what they owe us and no one needs to be the wiser," Austin said. He waited a few moments for his new partner to take in what he was saying.
"How ya figure that," Laurence questioned.
"Come on, man. Think about it. A door accidently left unlocked. A few TV's missing here and some VCR's missing there. The market is hot for these items. Maybe a little cash goes missing from the back room safe. The store has insurance, so no one really gets hurt," Austin informed Laurence.
Laurence smiled wickedly, nodding up and down at the realization that this was the solution to his family's financial problems. He kicked himself for not thinking of this for himself.
"Hey, where's that boy of yours," Austin said loudly.
Neal could hear Austin's question from his room but chose to ignore it and stay put. He knew he didn't stand a chance if together they were to raise their hands against him. Uncle Austin was even bigger than his father.
"Boy," Laurence screamed.
Nothing.
Laurence didn't miss a beat, "Don't make me come in after you!"
Still nothing.
"Where's that boy at," Laurence directed at Marian. She was frightened for her son but obliged his question.
"In his room," Marian answered.
"Boy, if you don't get your ass out here immediately, you're not gonna have one to sit on for a month," Laurence bellowed.
Neal was terrified and stuck. His body wouldn't get off the floor where he had been sitting.
"Go get that bastard now," Laurence screamed at Marian. She jumped and bounded down the hall toward his room.
She found him in the corner with his knees drawn up. His eyes caught hers as she entered his room. His fear was physically evident, but he said nothing to her as she grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Now don't aggravate him. You be a good boy, okay," she instructed. Her fingernails dug into his arm.
Standing before his father and the man whom he had been instructed to call Uncle Austin, Neal's heart thumped loudly through his chest.
"You know, I've been thinking," Austin said.
"Yeah," Laurence answered.
"He's perfect…he's perfect," Austin repeated.
Neal could feel his blood pressure drop as his fingers grew cold and there was a swishing sound in his ears. Oh God, he thought. Perfect for what, but he didn't have the nerve to ask.
Detective Austin Hanks patted the young boy several times on his face. "Just look at him…he's perfect. He's a smart little fucker, and he's small for his age. We can use both to our advantage. This is the best idea I've had yet," Austin excitedly announced.
He went on to share his idea with his partner, the boy's father. "We can train him. Think about it. He can slip in and out of places that we can't. I can teach him to lift a wallet and extract the money and cards long before the owner will ever miss it. We can go to the next level with this little fellow," Austin laughed, smacking young Neal on his back a little too hard, forcing Neal to bump into the table and knock the Beam bottle over, spilling its contents on the chrome kitchen table.
Laurence grabbed the bottle, turning it back up; he then shoved the boy's face into the bourbon puddle that had started running toward the edge of the table. Neal strangled through his inhale of bourbon that burned up through his nose and into his mouth. Austin grabbed Laurence's hand and pulled it back so the boy could be released from the alcohol he was being forced to suck in through his mouth and nose.
"Hey man, there's no need for that," Austin said to Laurence. Tears ran down the boy's face—not because he was crying but because the bourbon burned and stung his nostrils and throat. He coughed several times and wanted to spit. He swallowed instead.
"Don't you ever fuckin' tell me how to raise my boy," Laurence shouted. The two, remaining seated at the table, were at a standoff. For a few moments, Neal thought his savior had arrived.
"Hell, man, I don't give a shit what you do with the little bastard…just so he's able to be trained," Austin responded.
Neal's heart sank. It was too good to be true.
Laurence forced Neal's face back down into the bourbon—just to make a point to Austin as to who was in charge in the Caffrey household. Neal sucked in the alcohol and tried to swallow it quickly in an attempt to minimize the amount of burning. Laurence then backhanded the boy and commanded him to go back to his room. "You'll get the belt later," Laurence nefariously hollered at the boy, "I just wanna finish my chili before it gets any colder. Now get the hell out of here."
Neal went as quickly as he could to his room and used his bedspread to wipe the remaining alcohol off his face. His nose and mouth hurt and burned. As promised, Neal got the belt later.
"Oh my God," Peter stammered.
Neal said nothing in response. He took another bite of sandwich and finished his coffee. He stood to pour himself another cup.
Peter looked up at him, still in disbelief. He had no idea how a father could do that to his own child. Peter's dad had been an amazing father, so he in no way could grasp what Neal was telling him. There were no words appropriate to the situation that were immediately coming into Peter's mind that he could speak aloud.
"Just getting some more coffee," Neal said as he recognized the inquisitive look on Peter's face.
Peter just nodded at him and looked down at the crust that remained from his sandwich. He looked to see that Neal had only eaten a few bites of his sandwich but remembered that Neal always used good manners and wouldn't eat and talk at the same time.
When Neal returned to the table, Peter stated, "Go ahead and eat. You've got to be hungry."
Neal acknowledged he was and took another bite. Peter ate a few chips.
After a few moments, Neal looked Peter dead-on in the eyes and stated, "Don't feel sorry for me. I'm okay. I've been okay about this for a long time now. I made it out and made a life of my own. I'm okay."
"Neal," Peter responded, "I can't possibly imagine that you haven't in some way been affected by this."
Neal knew that Peter didn't know the half of it. He wondered what would be swimming around in Peter's mind if he knew the whole story. He also believed that Peter would never think of him the same way if he knew everything. No one knew everything, and Neal had intended to keep it that way.
Peter saw Neal slightly rocking himself back and forth in his chair. He recognized that movement as something Neal did to comfort himself. "When did the abuse start," Peter questioned, knowing that that question was like dropping a bomb between them.
"Jesus, you don't mess around," Neal answered.
Peter just continued to look at him in his eyes to gauge Neal's physical reactions and hints that he was crafting his language to tell half-truths and only the bits and pieces that he wanted Peter to know. Neal appeared to be physically uncomfortable as his body language shifted into defensive mode.
"It doesn't really matter, Peter," Neal responded.
"Okay…how about this Uncle Austin. So he was the one who trained you? And you were…what…eight years old when you started? And your mother allowed that," Peter questioned.
"Yup, my mother loved my father. I had ruined her life," Neal acknowledged, remembering that October day in their car.
"You were a child…you were their child," Peter said, not understanding or having been privy to the early events in Neal's life. "How could you say such a thing," Peter questioned.
"I know I ruined her life. Her family dissociated with her because she got pregnant out of wedlock. I have never, to this day, even met any of my mother's family," Neal declared, leaving out the part that his mother had told him on several occasions that he was to blame for ruining her life. "She was an aspiring artist who by day had to serve coffee to agitated and impatient customers at the local café and by the evening had to serve a hot and ready meal to my mean and ungrateful father and his partner…in crime…literally," Neal laughed at his pun. His facial expression dropped as he continued, "I know my being born ruined her life."
"That's crazy…it doesn't even make sense! How can you say that," Peter irritably stated.
The tension in his voice caused Neal to shift back in his chair a little more.
"I was difficult for her to handle. I hated school and didn't do well conforming to its rules and expectations. I got in trouble a lot because I guess I just didn't understand how to play the game when I was little," Neal said.
Peter smiled, realizing that he wasn't shocked at that statement. Life for Neal, Peter deduced, was all about playing the game. At some point in his life he had learned that and was able to use the game to his full advantage. For some reason, though, he must not have ever learned how to play the educational game because he didn't manage to make it out with a diploma. Peter was baffled at the paradox: here sat one of the most intelligent people he had ever met, and he didn't even have a high school diploma.
After some silence, Neal conceded, "Yeah, Uncle Austin and my dad started training me for work when I was eight."
"Oh my God," Peter responded in revulsion, "You were just a child."
"Peter, if you're going to hear this stuff, then you're going to have to be ready…you're going to have to toughen up," Neal advised.
Peter found that statement amusing but unsettling. "Okay," he responded.
"Because you have to remember that I'm okay…I really am," Neal offered.
Peter wasn't really sure if Neal was trying to fool himself or Peter with that statement. If he was indeed trying to fool himself, then he decided to let Neal continue to believe that. It was safer that way for right now.
"So they trained you to break into stores and steal appliances," Peter asked.
"No, I was just taught to slip through heating vents and jimmy locks open. They did the stealing. All I got out of the deal was not being smacked around so much. They needed me 100 percent, so my father's physical abuse lessened during the times of their robberies," Neal acknowledged.
"So how long did this last," Peter questioned.
Neal sat back with a smile, "Oh my God, for several years. It was a sweet little set up they created. Eventually, Uncle Austin got tired of the game and wanted to move on to bigger and better things."
"Why," Peter questioned.
That question confused Neal. "I don't know…he just wanted more money, more danger, more something…I'm really not sure," Neal stated.
"Oh," Peter said, taking a sip of coffee.
"So we then moved into cons," Neal said with a broadened smile.
The truth was Neal enjoyed the cons. He was about 12 years old at the time they started, and learning the art of becoming a confidence man was pleasurable to him. For the first time in his life, Neal felt wanted and needed. He got to pretend to be someone other than Neal Caffrey. It never occurred to him during this time that he was in fact just being used by the adults in his life. All he knew was that the man he called Uncle Austin was proud of him and seemed to enjoy his company and enjoy teaching him the tricks of the trade. Neal became fascinated with the deception and twisted language of the con. He lived for Uncle Austin's broad smiles when he would successfully emerge with the fine Italian leather wallets inconspicuously lifted off wealthy business men. "Uncle Austin taught me everything I know about the art of the con and thievery," Neal smiled as he appeared to be thinking about the man whom he called Uncle Austin.
"So what was your father doing during this time," Peter asked.
The corners of Neal's mouth fell down immediately, and his eyes widened. "It wasn't good," he acknowledged.
The relationship Neal began developing with Detective Austin Hanks incited a worsening relationship between himself and his father. Laurence could see that Austin came to revere his young son, and he didn't like it. Neal was his property—nothing more than a tool in his belt. He began to feel resentful of Neal's involvement, but he also knew that Neal was an essential part of the equation.
To punish his son between jobs, Laurence would often lock Neal in his room withholding food and beverage. In the stillness of the late evening hours, Laurence would retrieve his son and enact physical retributions on him until Neal could no longer stand up by himself.
The emotions inside Peter were brewing, and he questioned his ability to continue listening without displaying his anger and sorrow. He knew Neal would stop talking altogether if he saw that Peter was getting angry or upset, so he swallowed down his emotions. Calmly, Peter stated, "I just can't fathom this, Neal."
Neal paused for several moments. "Remember…Peter," he started to say.
"Yeah, I know, you're okay…I heard you," Peter answered. Peter just shook his head and breathed in a large breath of air.
"A couple of years later he actually got worse. I'm not really sure why…except he seemed jealous that Uncle Austin liked me...I guess," Neal interjected.
Two years into the con game jobs when Neal was 14 years old, Laurence's physical violence toward his son upgraded to mental cruelty.
Leaning against the wall several inches away from the stench of his father's soured bourbon breath, Neal was frozen in fear. He said nothing. He stood statuesque.
"Take it, you little bastard," Laurence screamed at Neal, forcing his Ruger .357 handgun into his son's visibly shaking hands. The gun was a lot heavier than Neal expected and his hand drooped down.
Neal stood there holding the handgun as if it were a snake that would lunge forward at him.
Laurence continued, "Okay, so now we're gonna play a little game. Do you feel lucky?"
Silence.
"What…I didn't hear anything you little shit! You damn well better answer me when I ask you a question," Laurence screamed directly into Neal's ear.
"Yes…sir," Neal answered.
"Yes sir, what? Yes, you feel lucky…or yes you understand that you had better answer me when I address you," Laurence screeched again in his ear.
"Both, I guess, sir," Neal answered.
"That's a good boy. So, here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna spin the chamber and then point the gun right here," Laurence instructed, thrusting the .357 into Neal's right temple.
Neal's eyes widened so large that Laurence became amused. He delighted in seeing his young son petrified. Marian took several steps forward. She felt conflicted by her emotions. Neal, after all, was her only child and she loved him even though for years she believed she had nothing inside of herself to give him. Austin sat across the table from Laurence witnessing this malevolence. He sat silently then poured himself another shot. He knew what his partner was doing was wrong, but he also knew that it was in his and Neal's best interest not to get directly involved.
"That's right…you spin it like this," Laurence said physically moving Neal's fingers on the chamber to make it spin. He then physically forced Neal's immobile hand to hold the .357 up to his temple.
Neal felt as though he would pass out. Tears streamed down his face. He could see his father's mouth moving and feel him moving his fingers and hand. He was a rag doll puppet under his father's control. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal could see his mother move forward.
"No…don't you dare," she uttered toward her husband.
With no hesitation, Laurence took the gun, still in Neal's hands, and slapped Marian across the mouth with it. Neal's index finger was still attached to the trigger.
Laurence Caffrey had never taken up his hand against his wife. At that moment, she stood before him with blood dripping from her split lip. Neal panicked and ran to his room. Marian burst into tears and sobbed over the kitchen sink, blood from her split lip being absorbed into the kitchen dish towel. In all of the years she had loved and taken care of her husband, he had reciprocated by never striking her.
"Here, have a drink," Austin offered Laurence.
Glancing around the room to see where his wife and son were, Laurence took the shot and swallowed it in one gulp, slamming the shot glass onto the table.
"Hit me again," Laurence ordered Austin.
"Okay…then we can talk about the next gig…okay…Laurence," Austin said, trying to distract his partner away from the whereabouts of his wife and son.
"The next gig…we got one," Laurence questioned.
"Sure do," Austin answered. They both swallowed another shot of Beam and began plotting out the next con game.
Neal lived to hear the two men planning their next con. He knew the con would allow further training, proper food and beverage, and a reprieve from violence. The con game became his lifeline to living.
That night Neal's mother left her husband and son, retreating somewhere unknown to them both. She left no note…no nothing. She left their apartment with only her purse and the clothes on her back. She was just gone.
Neal was sad about losing his mother. He had loved her very much. She had, however, been figuratively gone for so long that her physical presence didn't even linger in their haunted apartment after her escape.
When realizing that he may not ever see his mother again, Neal sobbed in his bedroom. He wanted to die. His father didn't bother him for days, and by that time, a new normal was being established that didn't involve Marian in the equation.
The new equation involved food from takeout menus, the two partners, Neal, and a nightly game of Russian Roulette.
It was several days into his father's new mentally tortuous game that Austin confided in Neal that there weren't any bullets in the gun and to just play along. He promised the boy that he would also teach him the art of shooting a gun in case he ever needed to pull one against his father. He made good on his promise. He trained Neal in marksmanship unbeknownst to Laurence.
Neal survived this way for several years until he was 17—when his life turned in a different direction.
To the present day, Neal's sharp-shooting abilities have never alleviated the fear of guns he developed from that first night of Russian Roulette. Also to this day, he has never seen nor heard from his mother again.
