"I still can't believe you've got Mozzie in an FBI-monitored hotel," El called from the kitchen.
Peter made it down in his tuxedo, buttoning his jacket.
"We call it a safe house, and Diana's headed there for company," he said, and El chuckled at this. He saw what El was doing. "Ooh, muffins."
He tried to take one but she pushed his hand away.
"Ah, ah, no. These are for Mozzie." She closed the lid of the box.
"Oh, seriously? You really feel that bad for him?"
"Him, Diana cooped up together in that room..." She giggled, and Peter just understood.
"You're amused by all this. You just want to go there on your own, don't you?"
"Yeah. Can you blame me?"
"No. But you'll need permission from the head agent if you want to see him."
"Oh, really?"
"Mm-hmm.
She snug her arms around him and gave him one hot and tender kiss.
"Please?"
He was tempted to let her have another try, but let it go.
"Permission granted." Peter was sure Diana would love to get a moment away from Mozzie. She and Jones had played Rock-Paper-Scissors about who was about to join the sting and who should babysit their very odd subject of annoyance.
"Thank you," El said, smiling. "All right, now, on a serious note, this case that you're doing with Neal, is it dangerous?"
"No, it's more fun than dangerous. You saw 'The Sting,' right?"
"Yeah, something to do with horses and betting. If the mob's involved, how could it not be dangerous?"
"Uh..."
Peter could not answer that because there was danger involved. But it was more fun element than dangerous ones. Luckily a knock on the front door saved him.
"Door's open, Neal."
And in walked his pet convict, also in a tuxedo. They said hey to each other. The kid glanced at Peter up and down and turned to El.
"Who knew the ball-'n'-chain cleaned up so nice?" 'Ball-'n'-chain'? Thank you for that one, Peter thought. But it was not far from the truth either.
"Ah, you don't look so bad yourself," she returned. "So, who's Newman and who's Redford?"
"I'm Newman," Peter said at once. "He's Redford." Newman was the wise and experienced, and Redford the young and stupid. And talented. And handsome. As someone else he knew and cared for. "Did you talk to de Luca?" he asked the kid.
"Yeah, he's dropping Leo at the parlor in an hour."
"We should go."
"Oh, wait. Before you go, hold on. I got to get this." El brought out her phone to take a picture. "All right, prom picture." Peter and Neal posed, holding each other shoulders. "Say 'cheese.'" They did. El smiled. "Beautiful. Be safe, please."
"We will," Peter assured her.
They walked towards the front door.
"What do you say, Newman? You ready to scam half a million dollars for the Detroit mob?"
Peter grinned.
"Let's go, kid."
Neal walked into the parlor the FBI had arranged on short notice. He was impressed. A big organization with money could be an effective source of results. Screens showed current odds and races. And not to forget the twenty or so people who filled the room with enthusiasm and realism.
He caught Peter looking at him from the bar, smiling. He walked over there.
"Not a bad setup," he told his handler.
"Glad you like it. Building it was like pulling teeth."
"Dentist humor," Neal noted. He also saw something he rarely saw before the bad guy was caught. "You're enjoying yourself."
"Yeah."
"Looks like we got company," Jones said, tending the bar. "There's de Luca's guy."
"All right, I'm on it," Neal said and grabbed two glasses of sparkling wine. He slid over to the goon and handed him one of the glasses.
"Looks like the kind of place someone could lose a lot of money," Leo said. "O'Leary close?"
"Yeah, our guys clocked him leaving his office ten minutes ago."
"Well, by the time he gets here, there's gonna be five races left on the card. That's five chances to get the money. Can you do it?"
"Yeah."
They clinked their glasses together and took a sip.
Peter got a call from El.
"Hello darling," he said since he was the Dentist. De Luca's thug was the only stranger there, and he was probably out of hearing distance, but Peter took his job seriously.
"Oh, that's a new one," she said. "I'll make it short. I just wanted to tell you that Mozzie is worried."
"Of course he is." That man was built out of concern and worry.
"No, seriously. The thought that this gangster threatens people he cares about, and that he is locked up in a room and can't do anything about it, it really bothers him."
"Hmm…" Peter heard something in El's voice that he could not quite place. Then he saw O'Leary coming in. "Got to go, darling."
Neal followed Peter as he approached their new guest. O'Leary was just passing through their security check being scanned by a metal detector. These things were expected in illegal betting places like this, but in this case, it was also for the safety of all the FBI agents. Fewer guns, less violence, and fewer deaths. Simple maths.
"Mr. O'Leary, delighted to have you," Peter aka 'the Dentist' greeted him.
"My regular place was shut down." A face like stone. He was a man ready to kill if he could but now he had to stand with being humiliated by his mark.
"Shame." Peter glanced down at the man's briefcase. "We'll need to check your briefcase."
Without a word, O'Leary put it on a table in front of Neal. He snapped it open and looked at wads of hundred-dollar bills. He made a check in the compartments in the lid and then sent O'Leary a glance, once of knowledge. They were supposed to be partners in taking this competitor down.
Neal returned the briefcase. Peter smiled.
"My associate will show you around. Have a good time."
Peter left, and Neal was alone with O'Leary.
"So, walk me through this," he mumbled.
"I installed a worm on the central computer that delays every feed," Neal told him. "We'll get the race results three minutes before my boss, giving us a small window to place the bet."
"He's bound to realize the feed's delayed."
"Yeah, which is why we have to hit it hard and fast if we're gonna do this." Neal nodded to the screen on the wall showing a race. "Desktop Dan's about to make a break in the final furlong."
As it were, Desktop Dan was not looking like a winner. But as they watched the horse made a break on the inside and Desktop Dan made it first over the line. To the very enthusiastic crowd in the room who cheered or screamed depending on what they were supposed to bet on.
As it were it was of course no worm at all, but five minutes old transmission thanks to the FBI. Neal's phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text.
"The hatchet to win at Finger Lakes with Poinseddia coming in second," he told O'Leary. "A straight exacta bet of twenty G's will net you six hundred. Five races left and counting. Are you in?"
O'Leary sent him a glare and walked up to the betting booth. Neal sent Peter a glance. Time to see if this would work.
"Finger Lakes, seventh race, straight exacta. Hatchet to win, Poinseddia is second. Wager…" O'Leary glanced at Neal who nodded. He took a wad from his briefcase. "Five thousand dollar wager."
Jones standing beside the booth sent them a little shake with his head. Too small amount.
"All bets are closed," Jones called out.
O'Leary returned to Neal and showed him the slip.
"Five grand's the minimum bet," Neal said. "You got a lot more than that on you."
"Slow and steady wins the race, right, boyo?"
This could be problematic. He glanced at Leo, de Luca's man. He was not happy. Fantastic.
O'Leary won that race, of course, as he did with the next three. The final race was coming up, and their last chance of making him do that last huge bet that would be the finale they needed.
"Four in a row," Jones told him, pouring him a drink. "Must be the luck of the Irish."
"Must be. I think I'll put another five down." Neal had passed him earlier and handed him the information for the last and final race of the day.
"O'Leary's still betting the minimum," Peter mumbled to him.
"Can you blame the guy? He's cautious."
Leo approached and moved his jacket just enough to show his gun. Oh great, the man got a gun inside. Was it made of carbon fiber, making it harder to detect? Or had someone just been neglectful?
"One race left," Peter mumbled to him. "If O'Leary doesn't bet big, the FBI's out a hundred grand, de Luca won't be happy—"
"And Mozzie will never be safe," Neal said. Peter nodded. "I'll talk to O'Leary, see if I can—"
"You're fired."
"What?" Did Peter…? A rush of fear ran through him. He did not want to go back to prison.
"Publicly. By me, right now." A glint in his eyes, a little smile. Neal understood. Peter's jaw tensed, and his shoulders grew more prominent; that man could really be intimidating when angry, even when it was just an act. Neal thought quickly.
"Look, I-I don't know who is stealing the money from the registers, but it's not me."
"No, it is you. It is you!" Peter grabbed the front of his clothes, and Neal sent him a terrified look. What was he doing? "You know what?! Come here!" Peter had it under control. He shoved him up against the bar, not nearly hard enough to do more damage than Neal sweeping down a few glasses for effect and attention.
"Hey!"
"You were trouble ever since you came to work for me with your glossy smile and those annoying little hats."
"You love my hats!"
"The hell I did! All right, you're insubordinate, you never do what I tell you to do, and every time I turn my back, you're off doing who-knows-what with God-knows-who!"
Peter picked that line from real life, alright. Did that count for the hats as well? Probably. He knew it was an act, but it hurt. Just enough to be helpful for the show. He corrected his outfit as Peter turned to the audience.
"I'm sorry, folks. I'm sorry."
"You know, you ungrateful bastard," Neal yelled at him. "I have had your back since day one, and anytime anything goes wrong, I'm the first person you blame!"
"'Cause you're a con!" Peter yelled back. "It's who you are, and it's all you'll ever be."
That hit Neal like a sledgehammer. Then Jones was between them, pushing him away as if Neal would hit Peter. Well, it was better drama to think that was possible. Violence was not his thing.
"You're fired! Get out of my sight!"
"You know what? With pleasure."
"Good."
"And the next time your hot wife gets lonely... tell her to call me."
That really hit Peter under the belt, but the more, the better; it just got more realistic. And he just showed Peter that there was no reason to pull more than needed from reality.
Neal marched towards the door. O'Leary tried to catch up.
"You know my number," he told him.
"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa." O'Leary stopped him. "That's it? You're just gonna walk out?"
"You heard the guy. I'm done here."
"There's one race left. I can't take this guy down without you."
"You can't take this guy down with a minimum bet."
It took him just a second or two to make his decision.
"All right, all right, I'm all in."
"It's too late." A bit of gambling, but it made it more realistic. If he was fired for real, he had no interest in his boss' downfall either because he was no longer second in command.
"I cut you in thirty percent."
There was the tune for the first call, the warning that there was not much time left to place a bet.
"All right," Neal agreed.
And O'Leary walked straight up to the counter and put the remainder of the content in his briefcase on a bet.
Neal glanced at Peter, who had been accompanied by Leo, who must have been worried about the turn of events. Peter brushed his finger on his nose, like in 'The Sting'. Neal did the same. No matter what had been said, they were friends. Then he was led out by Jones to keep the show up for O'Leary.
