Work Text:
He hit the ground running with the klaxon of the bank alarm assaulting his ears. He and the two other men quickly fanned out in the wide, dark alley and raced for the street. The slightly overweight but determined security guard was not far behind. Shots rang out and pinged off of the concrete pavement and cinderblock walls. He felt a burning pain in the calf of his left leg, but the adrenalin high kept him going until he was able to hustle down subway steps and board an uptown-bound train just before the automatic doors slammed shut. He was thankful that at 2 AM he had the car almost to himself. The only other commuter was a seemingly intoxicated street person several rows in front, snoring loudly with a plastic shopping bag between his feet.
Neal leaned his head back and tried to take deep breaths to slow his bounding heart rate. He had no idea where the rest of the crew had scattered, and, if truth be told, he didn’t want to know. He was the third person of the trio assembled to hit the First Financial Bank off of Spring Street in Lower Manhattan. He was recruited for his skills in gaining access to the vault and cracking the safe which was supposed to contain a shipment of gold ingots. The other two men claimed to have inside information from an employee who provided the building’s blueprints, the location of the vault and how to de-activate the alarm system. Obviously someone forgot to mention additional security in the form of a night guard. Neal vowed that from now on, he would only work alone or with Mozzie, who was always meticulous in his preparations.
When he had finally stopped panting and his muscles began to unknot, an intense throbbing ache in his left lower leg presented itself front and center. When Neal glanced down, he saw a small puddle of blood pooling around his foot. He cautiously lifted his pant leg and noted torn tissue on his calf embedded with gritty chunks of what appeared to be cement. More than likely these were fragments kicked up by a bullet that had first hit the pavement and then ricocheted. The welling and dripping of blood, although not a copious amount, was still managing to freak him out.
He exited the train a few more stops later, and laboriously climbed the stairwell to the street. He limped several more blocks into a seedy, rundown industrial area. Some enterprising investor had decided that this was the perfect time and place to renovate the old buildings and turn them into high rent lofts for up and coming New Yorkers. The work had started and ended within a month when the cost overruns had begun. Now empty hallways were littered with debris, and graffiti adorned doors and walls.
Neal slowly and painfully descended the stairs to the basement and stopped at a door festooned with a ferocious-looking dragon. Using his set of lock picks, he quickly gained access and made his way down a dank corridor until he came to another door. Again, he made short work of that lock and went down still farther into the bowels of the building to the sub-basement. “One more, just one more,” his mind chanted over and over. Finally, the last door opened into a spacious and fastidiously maintained area containing every creature comfort one could want. Neal had ultimately made it to “Wednesday,” one of the numerous but obscure bolt holes that Mozzie had situated throughout unlikely places in the city.
Neal knew that Mozzie wasn’t here. He had left a few days before to scout out a museum in Chicago, but right now his esoteric digs would provide a safe harbor for Neal.
Feeling slightly nauseated as he studied his wound, he nonetheless set about tearing away the lower part of his trousers and, using copious amounts of soap and water, began to clean the calf muscle and pick out all the small pieces of gravel that he could see. Then, gritting his teeth, Neal poured alcohol over the macerated skin. The world went white for several seconds, and Neal sat down hard onto the tile floor of the small bathroom. Taking deep breaths to quell the dizziness, he then applied bactericidal ointment and a sterile gauze dressing. The last thing that Neal accomplished before passing out on the bed was to swallow 600 mg of Ibuprofen.
Much later, Neal tried to swim back to surface consciousness. He had no concept of time or how much of it had passed. The only thing that he did know was that he felt hot and achy and he couldn’t muster the strength to rise from the bed. After awhile, it didn’t seem important that he move. In an apathetic stupor, he was content to just lie there and stare at the ceiling. Eventually little mind-movies began to play in his brain courtesy of a high fever.
The first feature of this cinematic venture was himself as a young child with his father. Neal knew he really didn’t have memories of that because he had only been three when his father disappeared. The only reason he could “see” his father was that the man’s image was frozen in time for Neal by a candid Polaroid picture. The person in the photo did not speak to him; he simply smiled and then began walking away and Neal felt the loss. Remembering his mother from later years was easier, but it was best not to go there for fond memories.
Neal knew that he must be straddling that nether world between lucidity and dreaming because it seemed as if he was standing back watching himself as scenes unfolded. Now he somehow knew that he was in a small town in the Midwest, but it wasn’t St. Louis where he had spent his youth. There were big, comfortable-looking houses on the street and “really” old cars parked at the curb. For a second he was confused, and then it came to him. He recognized this place. This was “Carvel,” the fictional suburb made famous in those old Andy Hardy movies produced by MGM in the late 1930s and early 1940s. The series, which served to make a young Mickey Rooney famous, was a favorite of Neal’s when he was growing up and had discovered the joys of watching old black and white films.
The central theme of the series was the close, loving relationship between a young, reckless Andy Hardy and his patient yet strict father. Lewis Stone, a venerable actor of his time, was cast as a judge in this small fictional town. As such, his morals and integrity had to be above reproach, and he spent most of each of the dramas striving to impart these character traits to his son. Andy Hardy usually managed to use the time allotted in the movie to get into minor trouble involving girls, money or bending the truth. Inevitably it led to repeated “man-to-man” talks between father and son. Of course, eventually Andy would feel contrite and do the right thing to please his dad.
Neal smiled in his dream state. He loved those old movies because they depicted a softer, gentler time where people had supportive families who loved them no matter what. And they always had happy endings……you know, a “God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world” feeling. But then Neal’s contentment faltered because the features of actor Lewis Stone suddenly morphed into those of Peter Burke!
It was now Peter Burke who was patiently pointing out the folly of Neal’s ways and urging him to do the right thing. “Peter, you can’t be here,” Neal exclaimed. “This isn’t where you’re supposed to be!” Nonetheless, Peter continued to lecture Neal, but it was the sad, disappointed look on his face that was almost Neal’s undoing.
“I’m sorry, Peter, but I just can’t change who I am.” Neal pleaded. “I know that I’m not who you want me to be, but I don’t know how to be any different!”
Peter, looking heartbreakingly resigned, started to walk away. Neal lunged for him and tried to grab his arm, desperate to keep him there. Everybody seemed to walk away from Neal and he couldn’t let it happen again!
“Please, Peter, please,” he moaned. “Don’t go! Don’t leave.”
Firm hands on his shoulders forced him back down, but they didn’t seem to be “dream Peter’s” hands. Then Neal felt a sharp sensation in the crook of his arm. Was he being tied up? And who was that person who was moaning, thrashing and rambling incoherently? Neal gave up trying to make sense of it and let his mind take him elsewhere to a more pleasant place. He let himself feel the warmth of the sun on his skin and inhaled the coconut essence of Kate’s suntan lotion as they lay on a beach in France. It felt so wonderful to see her again after searching for so long. But Neal knew that he hadn’t found Kate yet, so this was definitely a dream, or maybe he was just in the process of dying. Oddly enough, Neal didn’t feel afraid of death. He simply felt disappointed that he had failed to do so many things before he made his final escape from life.
He had always wanted to try his hand at re-creating the “Mona Lisa” and “Girl with the Pearl Earring.” He had wanted to sculpt marble like Michelangelo, and work liquid gold into exotic treasures as the ancient Egyptian artisans had done. He wanted to learn to skydive and try to ride a bucking bronco. Even though Neal had traveled the world, there were still places that he wanted to see, like the Great Pyramid and theTaj Mahal, penguins at the South Pole, and the inside of Peter Burke’s home.
Neal knew that it wouldn’t be difficult to break into Peter’s house and lurk around. But what he really desired was to knock on the door and be invited in. He wanted to be welcomed to sit on the couch in front of the fireplace and admire the collection of knickknacks on the mantle, to rummage in the refrigerator for snacks, to see the rose bushes that Elizabeth probably carefully pruned each spring in the back yard, and to finally meet and pet the dog. Neal desperately wanted to feel the warmth of that cocoon, a haven very much like the home in Carvel where Andy Hardy lived.
Eventually everything just faded away and there was nothingness until Neal opened his eyes and blearily tried to reconcile the fact that Mozzie was seated beside him in a chair. The myopic, bald little man was quietly reading a huge tome on his lap with the intimidating title “Indoctrination, Mind Control, and Exit Strategies.” Neal also became aware that intravenous tubing was attached to the inside of his forearm delivering a slightly yellow-tinged liquid into his vein. Neal was confused.
“Hey Moz, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“Well, welcome back, mon frere,” Mozzie said as he raised his nose from the book and scrutinized Neal with a studied air of concern. “If you are adequately alert and with it now, you may recall that this is one of my safe houses that you let yourself into. I get an alert on my phone whenever the walls of one of my fortresses have been breached. After I hightailed it back to New York, I found you here, grossly infected from that wound on your leg, and totally out of your mind. IV antibiotics have now worked their magic and you are again among the living, or should I say, the walking wounded.”
Neal processed all of that information and then admitted, “You know, Moz, I was having some really weird dreams.”
“Neal,” Mozzie said as he fixed the young man with a stern, no-nonsense stare, “when you are sufficiently healthy, we have some very serious deprogramming issues to address and implement!”