Chapter Text
Neal returned to his loft after an abbreviated workday at White Collar. There had been some kind of glitch with the computer system that IT was doggedly trying to remedy. They were having limited success apparently, if the swear words were any indication. Since it was already after 2 o’clock in the afternoon, Peter reluctantly sent his team home for the day. Neal was not surprised to find Mozzie in his personal space, making himself at home with a wine glass in hand. He was slouched across the couch, glasses perched atop his baldhead, and his nose perilously close to an IPad screen. Neal’s cohort was so absorbed in whatever was on that screen that he failed to hear Neal enter the apartment.
“Whacha reading, Moz?” Neal asked, as he tried to peer over Mozzie’s shoulder.
The little man startled, and his body spontaneously shot up at least a foot.
“Don’t do that, Neal! Do you want to give me a myocardial infarction?”
Neal produced a wry smile and promised to be more careful with the status of his friend’s heart health in the future. Although Mozzie appeared unusually edgy, Neal was justifiably reluctant to push the issue of the paranoid little man’s reading material. It might be yet another conspiracy theory espoused by some nutcase on the Web, and then Neal would have to endure hours of Mozzie’s rhetoric on the merits of it. Such instances had occurred more frequently than Neal liked to remember.
But now Mozzie suddenly looked squirrely, almost embarrassed, and that had Neal intrigued. He cocked an eyebrow and asked suspiciously, “Are you looking at porn, Moz?”
“Of course not, Neal! I wouldn’t intentionally corrode my extraordinarily complex mind with base, plebian smut,” he finished haughtily.
“So……what then?” Neal pushed.
The little man just continued to stare at him myopically.
“Moz……just tell me!”
“Well, okay, if you absolutely must know, I’m perusing fiction.” Mozzie was definitely being vague.
“C’mon, Moz, not to perpetrate a pun, but there’s more to this story than you’re telling me.” Neal raised his eyebrows in a come-hither expression. “Spill it!”
Mozzie finally huffed a theatrical sigh and motioned Neal to sit beside him on the settee. In a patient tone, he began his explanation.
“If one is inquisitive and tenacious, one can unearth some interesting and entertaining sites on the Internet’s vast super highway. One afternoon, I happened to be a bit bored, and, while surfing the Web, I came upon a plethora of online sites that support the efforts of amateur writers. These sites have a multitude of genres available for wanna-be Hemingways to post their fictions for others to read.
Initially, I became engrossed in the ‘Espionage’ arena. It was intriguing at first, but then all that cloak and dagger stuff just began to sound like a re-hash of what is currently in vogue on television or on the big screen at your local cinema. There are only so many fresh and innovative ways that a spy can ferret out clandestine information. So, I decided to investigate other avenues and have become addicted to the ‘Crime Fiction’ ilk.”
“Seriously, Moz? So, that’s what you’re so avidly reading right now?” Neal asked dubiously.
“Don’t sneer and look down your nose, mon frère,” Mozzie said fiercely. “Some of these fictions are extremely clever—even brilliant. The plots are carefully thought-out and developed, and quite a fair number of authors know their way around a well-written page. You just have to sift through them a bit. I am not saying that all the efforts are insightful and ingenious. Actually, a multitude of authors are hacks and need to find the ‘spell check’ button on their word processor, not to mention, learn how to use commas. However, I do follow a few of the more talented of the bunch, and I get an email alert whenever one of their stories is posted.” Mozzie turned to look at Neal with a fierce “don’t mock me” glare.
Neal held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t be so touchy, Moz. If the fictions are keeping your attention, then I have no doubt that they are worthwhile. Why don’t you let me read one and see for myself?”
For the next hour, Neal plowed through numerous chapters of a convoluted heist plot set at the Louvre. It was fairly good and kept his interest, but the plodding description of the preliminary tactical plans was a yawn. When he finished, Mozzie looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Well, it was entertaining, but not exactly accurate, you know.” Neal should have known that he couldn’t get away with that single comment. “The author had the schematics for that particular floor of the museum all wrong,” he clarified.
So, for the next twenty minutes, he and Mozzie discussed all of the inconsistencies and plot holes in the story. Actually, Neal found himself having fun. So, they read another fictional entry and continued with their little pedantic game of one-upmanship. This entertaining flight-of-fancy exercise continued for several days, with both Neal and Mozzie agreeing that the panache of their own past escapades was hands-down more grand than anything that they had yet read.
After one session of scornful snorting on Mozzie’s end, Neal suggested that Mozzie should try his own hand at penning an intriguing tale of astonishing criminal expertise and finesse.
“Can you just go onto the site and submit your own efforts?” Neal asked curiously.
“Well, first you have to sign up with a valid email address, and request an invitation to join whichever archive collection that you prefer,” Mozzie explained. “Then you have to agree to all the conditions of that site, which are usually pretty generic and loose. But, overall, it’s easy to do.
Once you are accepted as a member, you can then post your entry. Most of these sites are managed overseas, and your work can be read by anyone with an Internet connection around the globe. The administrator keeps track of the number of hits and downloads that your story receives, and readers can give you kudos, if they really like your work. Other members of the site can post comments regarding your efforts that you can either respond to or ignore. As a reader, they can bookmark stories or designate them as a ‘favorite.’ It’s really a pretty easy process.” Mozzie had a wistful look in his eyes.
“Mozzie, just think, you could inspire millions with the depths of knowledge in that shiny little dome of yours,” Neal dangled temptation in front of his friend. “You could be the next James Patterson.”
That was enough incentive to motivate the little man. He beat a hasty exit from the loft and was incommunicado for the next three days. Neal had begun to worry when his phone went unanswered time after time, but then the newly minted author suddenly re-appeared one evening with a flash drive in hand. There were bags under his bloodshot eyes, and he had a manic air about him.
“Okay, Neal, here it is,” Mozzie rambled excitedly as he stuck the little technological storage gizmo into a USB port on Neal’s laptop.
“Moz….here’s what?” Neal found himself a bit baffled.
“The story, Neal! The story! I’ve been working on it non-stop since we last talked. It’s only a little over 25,000 words, but it’s sufficient to spin the tale that I wanted to tell.”
“Mozzie, have you even slept since you left here three days ago?” Neal now was a bit worried about his friend’s physical state as well as his mental status.
“Yeah, in fits and spurts, but I was really on a roll. There were a few false starts before I finally got all of the pieces in play, but I eventually found my groove. I managed to attain this creative headspace, ya know, and my muse stayed with me for the duration. I want you to read this story. You can be my ‘beta!’”
At Neal’s wary, puzzled look, Mozzie explained that a “beta” was a person who read a story and made sure that everything made sense, and offered advice to improve it, if necessary.
“So,” Mozzie continued without waiting for Neal’s response, “after we critique the effort, I’ll post it. I have my pseudonym already in play—it’s ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel.’ Now read the story, Neal, and do not be kind because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Just tell it like it is. I can take criticism!”
“Your alter-ego is ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’?” Neal was beyond flabbergasted and made that “you’ve got to be kidding me” face.
Mozzie looked chagrined at Neal’s lack of enthusiasm for the innovative nom de plume.
“If your high school education was worth anything, my cynical young friend, I’m sure that, at some point, Emma Orczy’s adventure novel set during the Reign of Terror in France would have been required reading. The hero, Sir Percy Blakeney, was a wealthy, pseudo-narcissistic English baronet—a playboy by day. However, that is just his cover identity. He transforms into a formidable swordsman, imaginative planner, master of disguise and quick-thinking escape artist when it is necessary for him to rescue innocents from the guillotine. He represents the original hero with a secret identity that was the precursor for future heroes like Zorro and Bruce Wayne of Batman fame.” Mozzie now had a vindicated air about him.
“Moz, when was the last time that you rescued anybody from having their head sliced off?” Neal asked gently.
“It’s metaphorical, Neal! I’ve made up my mind and I’ve already registered under that pseud, so just deal with it!” With that being said, an agitated Mozzie collapsed onto Neal’s couch and was snoring almost immediately.
Neal covered the little guy with a fleece throw and stared at his laptop. He knew that he had better read this effort that seemed to be a monumental labor involving blood, sweat, and tears. More than likely, when Moz woke up, there would be a quiz.
**********
As Neal got into the fiction, he found that Mozzie really had a way with the written word. His story immediately drew you in with intrigue and suspense, and it moved along at a steady clip that kept you guessing and on edge. Interestingly, Neal found himself rooting for the anti-heroes to succeed in their audacious endeavor. That did not come as a complete surprise, because even though heavily disguised in hyperbole, Neal recognized himself and Mozzie as the rogue scoundrels in this account.
“Trent Adams” was the tall, dark Adonis with thick chestnut hair and a smile that turned the ladies into giddy, tongue-tied schoolgirls. They swooned at one glance from his ice blue eyes and were putty in his hands. His other esoteric attributes and talents were varied. He could paint, sculpt, and forge precious metals into works of art. He was a master at any physical endeavor from fencing to riding polo ponies.
His partner in crime was “Morgan Daniels,” a soft-spoken genius with 20/20 eyesight, a sculptured physique and a mane of blond hair atop his 6’2” frame. He was really the brains behind the robberies, cons, heists, and schemes that were alluded to in the story. The two men were inseparable and unstoppable when they carried out a daring caper.
Neal knew this particular escapade quite well. It was a re-enactment of the time that he had stolen a countess’ jewels from her private yacht in Monaco in 2002. The words on the page described how “Trent” had engineered a chance meeting with the countess on the steps of the Monte Carlo Casino. They had drinks that quickly progressed to wooing her for the better part of a week. The middle-aged matron reveled in his attention, and he was an overnight guest aboard her private yacht. It was moored a bit offshore from the harbor, since it was simply too huge for any available berth. While she slept, the con artist had scoped out the place and located the wall safe in the solarium.
The next day, while the lady visited a luxurious spa for a few hours of pampering, Trent donned scuba gear and surreptitiously swam out to the yacht, cracked the less than challenging safe, appropriated a cache of very valuable baubles, and swam back to shore. “Morgan” met him as he emerged from the water and took the hand-off of loot as well as the scuba gear. He provided Trent with slim, well-tailored slacks and a polo shirt. Without a minute to spare, the ersatz, handsome boy-toy met the countess as she walked from the salon with every tendril and curl of her new coif in place. Trent then drove them, at breakneck speed in his red Ferrari, down the winding roads of the beautiful coast to have dinner in a cozy little hideaway. Later that night, he begged off another night on the yacht, saying he wanted to try his hand at Baccarat at the casino. He promised to see her the next day.
As soon as the lady set foot in the small launch that would ferry her off to her private mini cruise ship, the Ferrari was secreted in the back of a white box truck driven by Morgan. The two men raced all night towards Provence, France, where they rendezvoused with a talented jeweler, who, for a pre-arranged price, removed the precious stones from their mountings. Morgan also had a fence lined up to sell the loose gems. After everyone was paid off and the Ferrari returned to its unsuspecting owner’s garage, they left France with quite a tidy profit.
Neal discovered that reading about his exploits was almost as much fun as having carried them out. Not many people were savvy to how much planning and foresight was necessary for a good robbery, heist, or con. Mozzie, with his gift of perfect recall, provided all of the details with a flourish. This little fiction gave credit where credit was due, and it was a proud testament to ingenuity and precision. The next Pulitzer Prize winner for literature slept through the night on Neal’s cramped little couch.
**********
That evening, when Neal returned from his day job, Mozzie met him at the door.
“Well, what did you think?”
“Moz,” Neal began in earnest, “you really have a gift and a talent for story-telling. You capture the reader’s attention immediately, and proceed to take him on a wild ride of adventure and nail-biting suspense. Your grammar and punctuation are perfect with no dangling participles or split infinitives. In one word—it’s ‘great’.’’
Mozzie actually blushed at the accolades. “Well then, I guess we’ll post it and see what everyone else thinks.”
“Wait a second, Moz,” Neal pleaded. “Isn’t this site supposed to be for fictional stories? Do you think it’s wise to put something that we actually did—a crime—out there on the Web?”
“Neal,” Mozzie began patiently, “nobody is ever going to suspect that it isn’t a fictional story. It’s so bold that it appears to be the stuff that dreams are made of rather than real life.”
Neal’s forehead was furrowed in concern. “Yeah, but what if somebody remembers that robbery, like the actual countess, and then tries to find out the author of the story who laid it out word for word?”
Mozzie just sighed. “Neal, will you just chill! This is one little site among hundreds of similar sites on the Internet. What are the chances that somebody is going to read it and reconcile this story with an event that happened over a decade ago in Monaco? That countess has probably been married a few times since then to a duke or two, and now has a new collection of gaudy trinkets. And, finally, the statute of limitations on the crime expired years ago.”
Neal finally gave in with some trepidation, and the deed was done. The following morning, a pounding on his door awakened him before his alarm went off at 6:30 AM. He opened it to an ebullient Mozzie, who was hopping from one foot to the other and had his laptop clutched to his chest.
“I’m a sensation, Neal! I’ve been watching my story on the site during the night, and in less than twelve hours, I’ve had almost 800 hits, not to mention 75 kudos and just as many enthusiastic positive comments. Readers love it—well, they love ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel.’ But in reality, they love us, Neal!”
Mozzie’s excitement was contagious, and Neal insisted on reading some of the comments that had been posted. As Mozzie had maintained, all of the remarks were flatteringly positive.
“Are you going to respond to those people who said something?” Neal asked.
“Well, it would be haughty and rude not to respond,” was Mozzie’s answer.
“Please, please, Moz, keep things brief and general in nature. Don’t pontificate or go off on a rant. You definitely want to remain anonymous, so don’t give out any clues as to your identity.”
“I will be the epitome of conciseness and courtesy, but I certainly do intend to be available to my public,” the new author proclaimed.
Neal groaned and got ready for work.
**********
Over the following days, it was hard not to be drawn into the exhilaration of watching Mozzie’s list of readers and admirers grow. The numbers climbed into the thousands, and avid sycophants urged “The Scarlet Pimpernel” to please write additional stories. They hungered for more of Trent and Morgan’s intriguing adventures.
So, Mozzie obliged. A good author writes about what he knows. Thus, he penned the saga of the robbery at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg when he and Neal managed to remove several delicate Faberge Eggs from the vast underground storage vault. His story was precise down to every last detail, including their access point inside a ventilation shaft, and their egress through a tunnel not found on any architectural plans. Mozzie prided himself on authenticity. Nobody could ever fault him for not being accurate.
This story was a huge success as well, and Mozzie was now hooked on hubris. Other tales of successful larcenies across Europe unfolded. There was one about the Matisse that somehow walked out of the Louvre. Then followed the one about the beautiful natural pearls belonging to the wife of an Imperial Emperor of the Han Dynasty that disappeared from a museum in Beijing. Another very popular one discussed the fantastic Vinland Map that was discovered to be a forgery by Danish experts.
As tale after tale found their way into words on the screen, Neal once again experienced the adrenalin high of a well-executed heist, and felt a vicarious thrill as he relived those glory days. They were his alleged “claims to fame” that the authorities suspected but could never prove. He had almost forgotten how really good he had been, and now found himself trying to wrestle the beast of temptation into submission!