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“Neal, I need a favor!” Mozzie burst into Neal’s apartment with what he immediately realized was an ill-considered lack of foreboding. The complex decision tree of logistical machinations he’d painstakingly pieced together vanished at the sight before him, and his momentum slammed him into an invisible wall.
El was peering into Neal’s fridge. Not just that—she was barefoot, wearing a black half-slip, and her blouse was hanging open revealing a scarlet lace bra and a scandalous amount of midriff. “There’s no blue,” she was pouting. “Only brie and goud—uh, hi, Mozzie?”
That last utterance ended on a squeak of surprise, echoed by the squeal of a clarinet in the jazz that was emanating from the stereo.
“Mrs. Suit?”
Mozzie tried and failed to drag his gaze away. El stared back, frozen. It was an extremely awkward tableau.
From the vicinity of the dining table came the sound of a pointedly cleared throat. “Moz, I thought you were in Boston.”
Neal stepped in front of El, and finally Mozzie could blink again. His eyeballs were stinging. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then looked at Neal—who was wearing a robe and his tracking anklet, a rather guilty demeanor, and seemingly nothing else.
Mozzie faced a quandary: he endeavored to keep well clear of any government-related business, but if Neal and El were—were behaving in such a way as to antagonize the very federal agent who held the (metaphorical and literal) key to Neal’s freedom, surely Mozzie was bound to intervene. However much he really didn’t want to. “Please tell me it’s not what it looks like.”
“I don’t know, Moz. Does it look like champagne and cheese?” El stepped out from behind Neal, holding a wheel of brie. Her blouse was buttoned now. Small mercies. But then she defiantly slid her arm around Neal’s waist. “We’re celebrating.”
Neal mirrored El’s sideways hug and even bent to press a kiss to the top of her head. The move made his robe gape, revealing a dark bruise on his collar bone; he made no apology or attempt at explanation. “Boston, Moz,” he prompted.
“An opportunity arose. That’s why I’m—” Mozzie stopped. He felt dizzy, ramifications blooming fractal-like in his head. Neal’s appeal to the fairer sex was a matter of record, but surely even the famed Caffrey magnetism couldn’t breach the impermeable bonds of Suit matrimony. Maybe he was dreaming—his local pizzeria’s dairy-free offering sometimes gave him intense nightmares.
He pinched himself hard on the arm, to check. “Ow!” Real, then. He must be misreading the situation.
But when he steeled himself to look again, El and Neal were practically entwined. El’s hand lay on the slope of Neal’s shoulder, as if to reassure him. There was no room for ambiguity.
“I can’t believe you’d do this to Peter!” exclaimed Mozzie, so appalled he forgot to refer to the Suit as “the Suit.”
Neal rolled his eyes. “I knew you’d disapprove.”
“I—” Mozzie stopped short. He prided himself on his iconoclastic non-conformist anti-establishment positions. Surely he, of all people, should be in favor of free love! If El had chosen to dally outside the confines of connubial bliss, and Neal was willing to deceive his second-best friend, who was he to judge?
On the other hand, some of the starch had washed out of Peter’s bland, off-the-rack suits in recent months; Mozzie had almost started to feel a kinship with him. This betrayal was a discomfiting revelation.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he concluded aloud, hoping that would allay his conscience. He wasn’t the one who was cheating on Peter. It wasn’t as if they were asking for his blessing. “But—”
“Exactly,” said Neal, talking over him. “So why don’t you give us some privacy.”
“I need a favor.” Mozzie finally remembered why he was here, and if it no longer felt like a matter of earthshattering urgency in the face of this wanton debauchery, at least it provided a welcome change of topic. “I need you to go to that deli in Tribeca, you know the one that—”
“It won’t wash out,” grumbled Peter, emerging from the hallway that led to the bathroom. “I just had this suit dry-cleaned, too.”
Mozzie jumped and involuntarily covered his eyes, but it was too late: nothing could erase the mental picture of Peter Burke in rolled-up shirtsleeves, briefs and ankle socks, carrying a pair of navy suit pants with a sizeable damp spot on the crotch. Mozzie kept his hand up anyway and howled from the safe cover of darkness, “Madre de Elvis, what is happening right now?”
“What’s Mozzie doing here?” Peter sounded equally appalled. “Jesus, Neal, give me your robe.”
“I’m wearing it.”
“And not much else,” said El, who from the tone of her voice, was finding some humor in the situation. No doubt she’d been exposed to the spectacle of her husband’s naked legs enough times, she no longer found them traumatizing.
Peter, on the other hand, sounded uncomfortable, bordering on desperate. “Well, something. Sweatpants! You must have sweatpants—”
“Not that would fit you,” said Neal. “Didn’t I say you should keep a change of clothes here?”
“Not really the time for I-told-you-sos, babe. Here, hon, wear this throw blanket. It’s cashmere.”
“Great. Humiliation with a dash of luxury.”
Mozzie started to lower his hand, then paused. “Is it safe?”
“All clear,” said El. “And anyway, it’s not as if Peter’s knees are going to make you break out in a rash.”
“See, you say that, but—” Mozzie opened his eyes cautiously. The three of them were clustered together, Peter behind the other two, all of them adequately albeit unconventionally clad, all of them regarding him with varying levels of accusation.
Clearly his initial conclusion had been wildly misjudged. He hardly dared jump to the next obvious supposition. Better to just ask. “So. The three of you. What?”
“Yes.” El raised her chin. “All three of us are together. Okay?”
Peter squeezed her shoulder, and she deflated slightly and bit her lip.
“The three of us,” echoed Neal. “We’re—”
“Neal, we’re criminals. This is wrong on so many levels.” Mozzie threw up his hands.
Neal glared at him. “It really isn’t.”
“I didn’t even know you were suit-osexual!”
“That’s not an orientation,” said Peter, joining in the glaring.
Mozzie took a deep breath, intending to try and defuse the situation, but he couldn’t entirely swallow his reproach. “Neal, how could you keep this from me? We’re supposed to be partners!”
Neal shrugged. “There never seemed a good time to mention it. I knew you’d freak out.”
“Why, because the G-Man who controls your fate decided to seduce you? Yes, surprisingly enough, I’m not showering you with rose petals and confetti.”
“Actually, I seduced him,” said Neal quickly, turning to grab Peter’s hand. “Him and Elizabeth. Believe me, it took some convincing.”
Peter had turned so red, he clashed with the cashmere throw.
“Aw, I thought I seduced the two of you,” said El wickedly. “Wasn’t it my idea? Anyway, it’s pretty much a moot point by now.”
Mozzie blinked. “By now? Exactly how long has this been going on?”
Neal sighed, released Peter’s hand and took down a champagne flute from the shelf above the kitchen counter. He carried it to the table, where three of its brethren were waiting next to a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. The others watched, with only Ella Fitzgerald to break the silence, as he popped the cork, poured four glasses, and distributed them.
El touched hers to Neal’s and Peter’s, making the crystalware chime. “It’s our one-year anniversary,” she told Mozzie.
He gaped.
“To many more,” said Neal to the Suits.
“Yeah.” Peter cast an awkward glance at Mozzie. “Close your eyes.”
Mozzie went one better and turned 180 degrees, trying to screen out the audible kissing noises. Racking his brains for any hint or clue that this had been going on under his nose for a year. Twelve months! Fifty-two weeks! Talk about a long con!
“You okay, tiger?” asked Neal, sotto voce, interrupting his ruminations.
“I’m fine,” replied Peter. “You’re worth a lot more effort than trial by Mozzie.”
“You know I can hear you, right?”
“You can turn around now,” said El. “Hey, I guess we get an anniversary party after all. Congratulations, Moz—you’re the first person we’ve told.”
The implication was plain, and Mozzie had no choice but to raise his glass to the occasion. “I’m happy for you. Confused, bewildered, and a little hurt no one thought to confide in me sooner, but happy. Joyeux anniversaire!”
“Thanks, Moz.” She stepped forward and clinked glasses with him in a toast.
Neal followed and did likewise. “Thanks, man. I know we can count on your discretion.”
El laughed. “You know, it was actually kind of fun sneaking around behind your back like secret undercover agents.”
“Out-paranoi-ing the master.” Mozzie suppressed a pang. “Kudos.”
Peter groaned. “Remind me, why are you here?”
“Oh, that’s right.” Mozzie hastily gulped his mouthful of champagne. The favor. “Neal, you know that little deli in Tribeca?”
“The one that blacklisted you?”
“How do you get blacklisted from a deli?” wondered El.
Mozzie declined to enlighten her, instead keeping his focus on Neal. “Yeah, that one. I need you to go there and buy me a 32-ounce jar of sauerkraut.”
“Is that code for something illegal?” Peter’s gaze sharpened.
Really, the Suits were so easily distracted, it wasn’t surprising Neal had managed to lure them into bed. Mozzie pressed forward with the mission at hand. “It’s time sensitive.”
“What could possibly be time sensitive about sauerkraut?” said Peter.
That elicited a grin from Neal. “Paint us a picture, Moz.”
Mozzie wished he’d had the time and foresight to assemble some visual aids. He made do with descriptive gestures. “If I can get the sauerkraut to Fat Tony by 10pm tonight, he’ll let Hazel Kumiega breed her queen with his prize-winning Turkish Angora tom; and if that bears fruit, Hazel will let Jackie the Flounder borrow her luxury yacht for a week. In a show of gratitude for this largesse, Jackie the Flounder will provide proof of the Boeing Honeywell Autopilot conspiracy to Devlan—” He held up his hands to pre-empt further derailment. “Don’t ask. And in return, Devlan will bequeath me with his recently deceased great-uncle’s mint condition American Flyer PRR Steam Engine #314, thus completing my set.”
Peter looked perplexed. “All that for a toy train?”
“A comprehensive antique model train collection worth thousands! For the price of a jar of Krueger’s hand-made sauerkraut!”
“It’s the kind of deal Mozzie lives for,” said Neal.
“I can buy you sauerkraut,” said El.
“No, I’ll do it.” Neal glanced around the room. “But does it have to be tonight? I have plans. Obviously.”
“Tonight, or the whole orchestration collapses like a cheap soufflé,” said Mozzie.
Peter and Neal sighed in unison, then exchanged wry glances, whereupon a light of devilry entered Neal’s eyes.
“I’ll do it on one condition.”
Mozzie sensed a trap. “What kind of condition?”
“How are you at removing stains from suit pants?” Neal winked at Peter.
“That depends. Do you have protective biohazard-wear?”
“What exactly are you implying?” Peter’s hackles were definitely not feigned this time.
Neither was the stern angle of Neal’s eyebrows. “Do you want this sauerkraut or not? Hey, you were the one who crashed our anniversary party.”
“Fine,” said Mozzie, surrendering to the inevitable. “I suppose rubber gloves will suffice.” He went to the kitchenette in search of some.
Behind him, Neal told the Suits, “I’ll be half an hour, forty minutes tops.”
“We’ll be here,” said Peter.
“If you’re going to a deli, maybe pick up some blue cheese while you’re there?” added El.
There were more kissing noises. The whole situation was still highly surreal.
“What are you waiting for, Suit?” Mozzie pulled on the rubber gloves and said four words he never thought he’d say to a G-Man. “Give me your pants.”