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"How many engines should we have? Two?" Neal selected the red marker and waited for instructions.
"Five," said Mikey. "Six, seven." He traced his finger over the black outline in front of them.
"I think five is probably enough to start with, don't you? We can add more later, if we need extra power. Now where do they go—two at each side, and one at the back, right?" They were sitting on the living room floor, designing an airship for explorers based on Mikey's blueprints, which were wobbly but nonetheless impressively sophisticated for a three-year-old, in Neal's biased opinion.
Someone knocked on the front door in iambic tetrameter, and Mikey jumped up. "I'll get it!"
"Hey, hold on." Neal sprang to his feet, grabbed Mikey and hefted him into a fireman's lift, making him giggle. "How about we go together?" said Neal. "Let's see who's come to visit."
But Mikey was squirming so much he started to slip, and before they got to the door, El came downstairs, laundry basket under one arm, and answered it herself. "Hey, Moz. Were we expecting you?"
"Hi, El. I have an emergency. I need to borrow your husband."
"Which one?" said El. "Peter's not here."
"The other one, obviously. How would the Suit be any use in a crisis?" Mozzie barged inside in a gust of cold air. He was bundled up for the crisp fall day, with a blue cap and a fuzzy red scarf, and his glasses fogged in the warm room, making him look like a character out of one of Mikey's picture books. He took them off, cleaned them and put them back on, then blinked at Neal. "Oh, there you are. Come with me. There's no time to lose."
"What's going on, Moz?" Neal let Mikey slide gently to the ground, caught him by the arms and swung him like a pendulum. "Mikey and I are at a critical stage in our airship design, aren't we, buddy?"
"No time to explain," said Moz. "Lives are at stake!"
El dropped the laundry basket and reached for the phone. "I'll call Peter."
"No! No Suit intervention!"
"You said—" Neal put Mikey down. "Moz, if lives are at stake, we need to call Peter. He has resources—"
"A life," said Mozzie. "A canine life. I'm on the trail of a puppynapper."
"You don't own a puppy," said Neal, but he reached for his coat and scarf. What with work and family life, he didn't see as much of Mozzie as he used to, and most of the contact they did have was professional, via Mozzie's import business supplying BPE, but he couldn't turn down a cry for help from his old friend.
"I'll call you back," said El into the phone. She and Neal exchanged glances, and she grinned. "Go. We're fine. Monster can help me sort the laundry, can't you, baby?"
"I'm not a baby! And I want to go and help look for the puppy," said Mikey, pouting. "He can come and live here, and I'll build a pillow fort in my room for him to live in."
"Sorry, buddy," said Neal. "I'm pretty sure the dog already has a home, right, Moz? And we already have Satchmo. You stay here with Mom, and we'll finish our design specs tomorrow." He ruffled Mikey's hair and kissed El. "See you later, Goldilocks. I'll call if I'm going to miss dinner." He shrugged into his coat. "Okay, Moz, where to?"
*
Neal stopped on the curb. "Besthaven Bouquets," he read. "Moz, did you steal this?"
"Borrowed," said Moz. "We need to blend in."
"The only place this van would blend in is a bloodbath." It was decorated with a retina-searing design of poppies, with lime-green lettering. "Borrowed or borrowed?"
"From a friend, with permission," said Moz. "Allons-y, Neal! We need to visit Dan Figari's warehouse, and I refuse to go there alone."
Neal climbed into the van, glad of his black coat. At least he wouldn't clash, which was more than he could say for Mozzie's scarf. "I thought you said Dan Figari was a stand-up guy," he said, once they were on the road.
"You know he built his business off the back of my fire sale to help Mr. Jeffries and the group home in Detroit."
Neal did know because he'd heard this complaint many times before. "He gave you a fair price for your stock," he said now, patiently.
"That's not the point," said Mozzie. "Anyway, there's an eighty-three percent chance the trail starts there."
"Right, the trail." Neal resigned himself to a long afternoon. "Whose dog are we rescuing, exactly?"
"She's a six-month-old pedigree chocolate poodle called Mirabelle, worth ten grand, and she belongs to a judge on Her Majesty's Privy Council. She was wearing a diamond-studded collar when she was stolen from the Hilton Midtown, but the collar showed up on eBay and has been recovered. What we don't have is the dog."
"We?" Neal was pretty sure he was missing the most important piece of the puzzle.
Moz used the wipers to clean the windshield. "Sterling Bosch, European Division."
"Wait, you're working for Sara now?"
"I'm not working for her. I'm consulting." Mozzie turned left, heading toward Queens. "Her client is distressed, and she needed someone on the ground in New York to find the dog. Someone with street contacts. It's strictly a one-off arrangement."
"Fine," said Neal. "You're a temporary insurance retrievals consultant. What do we know about Fifi's kidnapper?"
"Her name is Mirabelle, and not much. The eBay account was a dead-end. That's why we're going to Figari's. As you know, he supplies New York's criminal community with everything from lockpicks to climbing shoes, and he has a very loyal clientele."
"Even for pet supplies?"
Mozzie shrugged. "Where do you think I got Percy the Rat, may he rest in peace?"
Neal had been to Figari's warehouse once before, when he was out of his anklet for a case and had tagged along on one of Mozzie's shopping expeditions. "I don't remember the pet section."
"Dan moved the livestock to the back room after Angry Jerry let the snakes out one time," said Moz. "Angry Jerry was trying to steal a boa constrictor, but it got into the rabbit enclosure. You can imagine the carnage."
Neal winced.
"It took Dan over a week to recapture the other snakes. Some of his customers still swear he didn't get them all, and they're slithering around behind the surveillance equipment."
"What do you think?" Neal didn't mind snakes in their tanks where they belonged, but a surprise encounter wasn't high on his to-do list.
"I've never seen one, and I know every inch of that warehouse. I think Dan encourages the rumor as a security measure."
"Okay, good," said Neal. "Now change the subject before you jinx us."
*
The warehouse was much as Neal remembered it: a barn of a place, filled with endless aisles of grey metal shelving, lit with old-style fluorescents. Office supplies in one corner, including blank security cards and laminators; a wide selection of pagers and burner phones; binoculars, miniature cameras and safe-cracking equipment in a locked case against one wall; wigs, toupees and other fake facial hair; spray paint for blacking out CCTV cameras; voice disguisers and phone hackers; cotton gloves and hairnets; several different models of briefcases and suitcases with secret compartments; and yes, at the back, fish tanks, terrariums and other pet supplies, and a door marked "Live Animals." Neal picked a ski mask off the sale table and rubbed it between his fingers, the synthetic yarn black and itchy. It was mostly low-end stuff, all of it, but he could easily spend fifty bucks here and use the equipment to steal thousands. Tens of thousands.
Or he could have once. He was Victor Moreau now, respectable businessman, husband and father. He had a new life. He put the ski mask down, obscurely relieved when Mozzie beckoned him to the counter where Dan Figari was labeling packs of molding clay—useful for making key imprints—with a pricing gun. A kid's abstract finger-paintings were neatly taped to the wall by the cash register.
Figari was a thin, quiet man with sleeve tattoos peeking out from the rolled-up cuffs of his ancient grey sweater. He lowered the pricing gun as they approached. "Hi, Mozzie. What can I do for you?"
"Dan, this is my friend Victor. You've never seen him before, and you're not seeing either of us now," said Mozzie, giving Figari the kind of handshake that suggested a large-denomination banknote was changing ownership. "Now, we need to know if anyone's made an unlikely purchase of puppy kibble or chew toys in the last two days."
"Well, now that you mention it," said Dan, tucking the note into his pocket without looking, "Lester Krasny was in here yesterday. He bought some chow, a collar and leash, and two bottles of Nature's Miracle, but when I asked what kind of a dog he'd got—you know, just being friendly—he said a schnauzer, but Iris and Eddie saw him walking a poodle in the park yesterday afternoon." Dan leaned on the cabinet behind the counter and folded his arms conclusively.
"Lester Krasny," said Mozzie. "I should have known."
The name rang a faint bell. "Didn't you used to play chess with Lester Krasny?"
"Precisely. He was always looking for a shortcut, an easy win. He never planned more than one or two steps ahead."
"Okay, so let's go take him down."
Dan and Mozzie both blinked at him, united in their outrage.
"Have you even met me?" said Mozzie. "We're not taking anyone down, Neal. This is a rescue mission, pure and simple. We'll retrieve Mirabelle and create a false identity to take the heat."
"It's Victor," said Neal.
"Right," said Dan. "I thought I recognized you. Didn't you get shot dead some years back?"
"We were never here," said Mozzie, slapping another bill on the counter and hustling Neal out the door and down the staircase, past the tattoo parlor and the pawn shop.
"Sorry, Moz. My subterfuge is a little rusty." Neal climbed into the garish florist's van.
"Don't mention it," said Mozzie. "You owe me a hundred."
Neal waited, but Mozzie didn't start the van. "Where to now?"
"How should I know? Part of the beauty of the Big Apple is how easy it is to disappear. I mean, back in the day Lester lived with Harry von Horst—"
"Why do I feel like I'm in a Damon Runyon story?"
"Ha ha. But Harry got done for grand theft auto in 2015, and since then, Lester's been the textbook definition of 'no fixed abode.' He was staying with Stephanie Rivo for a while, but they broke up last February."
"You think Stephanie will give us a forwarding address?"
"We could ask, but she's not exactly Miss Congeniality," said Moz. He straightened the ends of his scarf. "Or you could use your contacts. Unofficially."
"Moz, are you saying you're willing to rely on government-sourced intel? I'm shocked. Can I get this on the record?"
Mozzie scowled. "Shut up, and make the call."
So Neal called Peter and talked him into running a credit check on Lester, which led them to a maxed-out credit card, then a phone number.
"According to the carrier, the phone is currently located in a hostel in Hell's Kitchen. I'll text you the address," said Peter. "Be careful out there, and bring that puppy home." His voice was warm and smiling.
*
Lester's hostel room was sad and empty. There was a damp patch on the ceiling, and a small suitcase spilling over with crumpled clothing in the closet, and the whole place smelt of mildew, dog and Nature's Miracle. There were also food and water bowls in the corner, and scattered across the bed, evidence of a clumsy attempt to forge pedigree papers.
"Well, this is depressing," said Neal, looking out the tiny window. The view was a rust-stained concrete wall. "Where do you think he's taken—"
He was interrupted by a high-pitched bark in the hallway.
"Never mind." Neal tensed for a showdown and looked at Moz, who was turning to the door. "How do you want to handle this? You distract him, and I'll grab the dog?"
"Seriously?" Mozzie rolled his eyes and opened the door to the poodle. She was attached by a leash to a tired, weasely man with straggly hair, who looked like he could barely take care of himself, let alone a puppy. "Hey, Lester."
Lester started, and his gaze flicked from Moz to Neal and back. "Mozzie. What are you doing here?"
"Bad news, man. Mirabelle comes under the Friends and Family Plan. She belongs to one of Sara's clients. I have to take her back." Mozzie clapped him on the shoulder and hauled him and the dog into the room. He shut the door and leaned on it to block Lester's escape, but his face was kind.
Lester sagged like an old mattress. "Aw, damn! It was Stephanie's idea. She said if I created a diversion so she could get the collar, then I could have the dog. Said she's worth thousands, and I'm dead broke, Mozzie. I just blew my last dollar on puppy supplies. Princess here wouldn't eat regular chow, so I had to get the high-end stuff—do you have any idea how much that costs?" He bent and patted the puppy. "Such a princess. She won't even pee unless she's off-leash. I was going to make big money, once I found her a good home. Oh, hey—" He straightened and scratched his neck. "How about if I cut you in?"
Mozzie shook his head, took the leash and handed it to Neal, who crouched down and petted the puppy himself, checking her for injuries or signs of maltreatment. She licked his hands eagerly and tried to jump up on him. She seemed none the worse for her adventure.
Moz was still talking to Lester in a low voice. "For what it's worth, I hear Tom Dudkowski's looking for a wheelman for a museum job. I can put in a word for you."
Lester eyes lit up. "I appreciate it, Mozzie. That would save my ass. And give my best to Sara, won't you?"
"I owe you one," said Mozzie solemnly, shaking his hand. "Come on, Victor."
"How does he know Sara?" asked Neal, frowning, as they made their way back to the van. Sure, Neal had enlisted her to help out with a few schemes when they'd been dating, but he'd never exposed her to the kind of down-and-out criminal class Lester Krasny represented, and he'd thought Mozzie would be more careful of her. "What did you do, put together a crew, pull a heist and fence the score together?"
Mozzie stopped and glared. "What's it to you?"
The puppy barked.
"Nothing, it's just—" Neal caught himself. Mozzie wasn't reckless, and Sara could take care of herself. She and Moz had been together for years now, and by all accounts they were surprisingly happy. "You're right. It's none of my business."
Mozzie sent a text message, put his phone away and got out the van keys, jingling them in his hand. "If you must know, when she's in town, we sometimes go dancing."
The infamous HMS Dancehall. It had started up, or transformed into its current incarnation—Neal was hazy on the history—while he was working for the FBI, and he'd never been invited. Nor much interested either, to be fair. It certainly didn't seem like Sara's style, but what did he know.
"Sounds like fun," he offered, by way of apology.
Mozzie checked his watch. "Listen, I don't have to get Mirabelle back till six, and I know a discreet little wine bar down the block from here—"
"The drinks are on me," said Neal, promptly.
*
They took a sidewalk table under canvas, the flimsy space rendered comfortable with a gas-burning patio heater. It was getting dark, but the bar was only moderately busy, and they soon had two glasses of good Beaujolais on the table between them.
Neal slipped the handle of the leash around his chair leg so the puppy could bask under the heater and sat back, raising his eyebrows at Mozzie. "So, give. You didn't really need my help to find Fifi. What's this really about?"
For once, Mozzie didn't correct the misnomer. He unwound his scarf and bundled it on the table, then gave a small serious smile. "You're right. The truth is I've been thinking about my legacy."
That could mean literally anything: founding a charity, or breaking into Area 51 with a video camera, or trying to bring down the entire military-industrial complex. Neal waited.
"Good partnerships are hard to find, Neal. From Gerhard Wagner to Mosconi himself, we solved dozens of arcane, elaborate treasure hunts together."
"Good times," said Neal. "But—"
"I know, I know. You've retired." Mozzie waved that aside. He took a mouthful of wine and swallowed it thoughtfully. "I've decided it's time to lay down my own trail of clues, epic in scope and fiendish in intricacy, and I was—" He glanced casually at Neal and took another sip of wine. "I was wondering if you'd care to assist in the endeavor."
Neal tried to play it cool, but he couldn't help smiling. After years of Mozzie's aiding and abetting his adventures and saving Neal's skin countless times, it was only fair the tables finally be turned. "I'd be honored."
"It could take some time, maybe even years, to design and implement," Mozzie warned.
"An ongoing project." The prospect of evenings together devising codes and plans was nostalgic and pleasing, echoing all those hypothetical heists they'd never gotten around to. Neal had missed arguing logistics with his friend, late into the night. He raised his glass. "To your legacy. I'm in—on one condition."
Mozzie tilted his head enquiringly, his face ruddy in the light from the space heater.
"Next time Sara's in town, you two take me and El to the HMS Dancehall for a night out."
"No Suit?"
"Peter can babysit," said Neal. "Trust me, it's not his scene. He'd rather stay home with ESPN."
Mozzie grinned. "Deal." They clinked glasses. "I'm thinking of calling the treasure hunt A Winters Game."
After his real name, Teddy Winters. "Nice," said Neal. "So, what's the prize? It has to be something incredible."
"I have some ideas. Probably best if you don't know, since you're not just in bed with, but literally married to the FBI now." Mozzie was clearly in a good mood. He gestured expansively with his glass and added, "I have some ideas for a starting point too—"
He broke off when the puppy pawed his leg, whining.
"What's wrong with her?" said Mozzie.
"What do you think? Fifi needs to pee." After two years of parenting, the signs were familiar even in a poodle. Neal gulped down the rest of his wine and dropped some bills on the table. "There's a park down the block."
"Oh, fine." Mozzie grabbed his scarf and put it on. "Come on then. But afterwards we're going straight to the Hilton."
"I should get going too." If he left soon, Neal could still get home in time to help out with dinner.
They left through the canvas door and strolled down the block amid the endless stream of workers going home, to the vocal annoyance of many. The current tried to part around them, but the pavement was too crowded, and people inevitably ended up stuck behind them or tripping over Mirabelle.
"She's a British dog. She doesn't understand New York sidewalk etiquette," snapped Mozzie in response to an impatient young woman with a briefcase, and then, thankfully, they reached the park.
There were a few trees, a tiny playground and an even tinier lawn, all edged with a wrought iron fence. It was more like a front yard than a real park, plus mostly empty and poorly lit, but the traffic and street noise sounded far away, and it was what Mirabelle needed.
Neal followed her toward the trees. "Go on, girl, do your business."
She sniffed around a trash can and tugged him over to the nearest tree, but when she got there she didn't go, just danced unhappily at the end of her leash. What had Lester said? She was such a princess, she wouldn't pee on-leash.
Neal sighed and bent to release her. "Keep close, okay? When you're finished, we'll take you back to your people."
"Neal, what are you doing?" called Mozzie from behind him, his voice rising in alarm. "Can't you see there's a—"
Something large and shapeless hurtled right at Mozzie's head. Without thinking, Neal leaped forward and snatched it out of the air, his hands closing on a tangle of mesh and sinew which hissed in his face. He shouted and dropped it instinctively, letting it thud to the grass where it twitched and writhed. A snake in a net bag.
"What the hell?" said Neal.
"It's Angry Jerry," said Mozzie. "And he's taken Mirabelle!"
A burly figure was lumbering toward the nearest exit with Mirabelle clamped under his arm. She barked, and he swore gruffly. Neal's pulse kicked up. No one stole a puppy on his watch. He took off after them, dew-damp grass slipping under his feet, and managed to cut them off before they got more than a few yards. Then he hesitated. Angry Jerry didn't seem to be armed—except for the snake—but he was big enough to do some serious damage anyway.
Mozzie ran up, holding the snake bag by its handle at arm's length. He placed it at Angry Jerry's feet and took half a step back. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm taking possession of this here pedigree poodle, worth ten large on the black market—and I'm mostly doing it to piss you off, Mozzie." Angry Jerry was a heavyset man in his late fifties with a rough English accent. He shifted his weight from side to side, his free hand clenching into a big meaty fist. Mirabelle whined miserably and scrabbled fruitlessly for freedom. "Lester called Steph to moan about you pinching it, and Steph tipped me off."
If Neal expected any kind of evasive maneuver or step toward self-preservation, he was disappointed. Mozzie put his hands on his hips, far from cowed. "I'll take the puppy; you return the snake to Figari."
Angry Jerry scooped the snake bag off the ground and waved it in Mozzie's face. "Why should I, when I can unleash all the torments of hell upon you right now? I wouldn't have to touch a hair on your head—not that you have any, you bald bloody wanker."
"You realize that's a corn snake," retorted Mozzie. "It's non-venomous, moron. And I'm sure you also know the community takes a dim view of animal mistreatment. I could have you thrown out of the HMS for this."
"You sack of shit, don't you dare." Angry Jerry raised his fist like a club.
Mirabelle growled and released a stream of urine down his front, glistening in the half-light, making him swear again, louder.
"Listen, Jerry," said Mozzie, standing his ground. "Listen carefully. I know you tried to frame me for the Lenox Hill diamond job."
"I never fucking did!"
"Everyone knows, man," said Mozzie. He stepped forward and wrested Mirabelle from the man, and she burrowed against him gratefully. Mozzie sighed. "You know what? Sooner or later, I have to face the fact that I've retired from the life. I don't have time for vendettas anymore. I'm calling a truce."
Angry Jerry lowered his fist, his simmering fury turning to confusion. "What do you mean, a truce?"
"I mean I'm taking you off my list. No, I'm burning my list. So you can stop trying to get revenge for whatever wrong I supposedly did you, and get a life," said Mozzie severely. "Now take that poor, abused snake back to Dan's warehouse where it belongs."
"Only after you call Nuria and tell her about the truce."
Mozzie rolled his eyes. "Tell her yourself. Are you okay, Mirabelle? Did the nasty man try to asphyxiate you with his BO?"
Angry Jerry scowled at him for a long, tense moment, then swiped ineffectually at his damp coat and stomped off into the gloom.
"Moz, that was heroic," said Neal.
"Yeah," said Mozzie. "I need to sit down. No, I need another glass of wine. Maybe a bottle."
"Why don't you come home with me for dinner after we've dropped Mirabelle at the Hilton, and we'll open a Cabernet?" Neal put the poodle back on her leash and gave the wrist strap to Mozzie. "I thought for sure he was going to wallop you."
"That makes two of us," said Mozzie. "And I can't believe he was tailing us from the wine bar and we didn't notice. That's just shameful." They walked through the rush-hour streets, back toward the van. "My only possible excuse is that he was too inept to even ping my foul-play-dar."
"Do you think he'll stick to the truce?" asked Neal, concerned for his friend's safety. Angry Jerry didn't seem the type to let bygones be bygones.
"Probably not," said Mozzie. "He has the memory of a narcoleptic goldfish. That's the third time I've promised to take him off my list."
"Well, I'm just glad you're okay," said Neal, patting him on the shoulder. "And that that snake was harmless."
"Actually, I'm only seventy-five percent certain it was a corn snake," said Mozzie. "It could have been a copperhead. Hard to tell them apart in the dark."
Neal's skin crawled. "I'm so glad I didn't know that before."
Under the sodium streetlights, the van's obnoxious poppy design was washed out and relatively inoffensive. Neal got in the passenger side and took Mirabelle, hooking his fingers securely through her collar to avoid further incident.
Mozzie started up the van and took a right. "And I've been thinking, you can bring Peter to the dancehall if you want. That would keep the numbers even—June needs a dance partner too. Just so long as he promises not to arrest anyone."
"Thanks, Moz. I'll ask him." Neal grinned, anticipating Peter's reaction to the prospect of socializing with New York's criminal underworld. Then he blinked and sent his friend a sidelong glance. "You do realize you just invited a licensed federal agent into your den of thieves?"
"Yes, but he's your federal agent," said Mozzie. "You've trained him. Plus, Angry Jerry will probably be there. Let's call him insurance."
END