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Neal Caffrey had only been tied to Peter Burke on a tracking anklet for a few short months when he became aware of the animosity between his handler and Agent Ruiz from “Organized Crime.” He had innocently asked Peter about the nature of the rift, but to his surprise, Peter immediately shot him down. Of course, that only made Neal more curious, and that was a dangerous thing. He vowed to himself that he would ferret out the dirt; he was a con man, after all. He could do this.
With finesse, he nonchalantly introduced the topic into his everyday interactions with Diana, and then Jones. Diana just gave him the stink eye and told him to mind his own business or she would make his life hell. Jones was a little more civil about it, and said if Peter wanted Neal to know, he would tell him.
It was obvious to the paroled con man that even though he had gained access to the FBI clubhouse, he still had not been entrusted with the secret handshake that would make him privy to all the deep, dark secrets of that cabal. No worries—he could be patient and bide his time.
As the months rolled by, and he finally was able to worm his way into Peter’s home life, he felt comfortable asking Elizabeth about the mystery. She simply gave Neal an inscrutable look and said, “Oh Sweetie, you just don’t want to be poking sticks into that hornet’s nest!”
So, okay then, enough was enough! Neal decided that he was so done with this secretive nonsense. He was not going to obsess over some tidbit of information that, in the long run, would not be worth his fixating on it. After all, the con man had his own secrets, lots of them, which he never intended to share with Peter!
~~~~~~~~~~
It was early spring in Manhattan when Neal found out that White Collar had its own baseball team of sorts, as did every other division in the New York office. Peter asked, and then dictated, that Neal should come and watch the face-off between White Collar and Organized Crime on a sunny Saturday in April. Neal scuttled his plans for a relaxing day of painting on his terrace to accompany Elizabeth to some hard-ass wooden bleachers in a nearby park. The picnic basket filled with gourmet delicacies almost, but not quite, made up for the long hours of sitting and watching grown men slide around in the dirt, and chase balls like hyperactive terriers.
However, White Collar’s opponent today was Ruiz and company, so Neal decided to pay close attention to the interaction between Peter and his archrival. He knew that there was a clue in there somewhere to the “great mystery.” But really, he was so, so over that now, he reminded himself.
It wasn’t long before the bored con man actually began to find the byplay between the athletes quite interesting. Neal began to feel like an anthropologist studying some primitive tribes in a long, lost jungle, because these men were a breed unto themselves. He finally concluded that only self-righteous, mighty alpha males—the chest pounders of the realm—embarked on a path of law enforcement. It was a socially acceptable way to flaunt their testosterone and cause normal people to cower in fear.
In this current “friendly” contest between fellow agents, there was a nodding acquaintance with good sportsmanship, but, if you looked closely, these guys were out to slaughter each other. They intentionally slid into bases, cleats up, with as much force as possible, and Neal could have sworn that some of those wild pitches that struck the better batters were intentional.
Opposing team members got into each other’s personal spaces, and spit flew between contorted faces that were just inches apart. Peter towered over diminutive Ruiz, but that did not stop the little twerp from shoving and provoking Neal’s handler over a controversial call. Peter gave as good as he got, and Neal, usually a dedicated pacifist, was actually hoping that Peter would deck the annoying irritant.
In the end, when the afternoon was over, White Collar had lost the game 6-3. Peter was in a foul mood, and Neal slunk home to the comforting refuge of his loft.
~~~~~~~~~~
October found Neal sitting on that same damn hard bench beside Elizabeth watching a game of flag football. How uncanny that the teams on the field represented White Collar and, you guessed it, Organized Crime. The con man was no fool; there was some definite schedule-finagling going on here.
As he sipped hot coffee from a thermos and tried to keep his teeth from chattering, Neal channeled Margaret Mead, the famous social scientist. It was fascinating to watch the dynamics between the “civilized” men on the field. During four quarters of play, some very angry, determined warriors engaged in a supposedly “non-contact” version of a sport. Somehow, they still managed to produce black eyes and bloody noses from employing broad, punishing shoulders and strategically aimed elbows. It bordered on barbaric blood lust.
“Why are they so hostile to one another?” Neal asked El.
She just rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders, and grimaced.
White Collar lost the rowdy contest of might and mayhem yet again, 28-21. This time Neal tagged along to Casa Burke and fashioned an ice pack for Peter’s jaw.
“You rigged the team schedule, didn’t you,” he confronted Peter, “just so that you’d have another shot at Ruiz.”
“Of course not, Neal. Don’t be an idiot,” Peter was quick to deny.
“Well, I’m not the one with a loose molar, now am I? So, tell me, who’s the idiot?” Neal shot back before hastily collecting his jacket and making his getaway.
~~~~~~~~~~
Neal flatly refused to be a spectator or a participant in the next battle of brawn between adversarial divisions of the FBI. Peter did his best to first cajole, and then shame Neal into donning body armor, gloves, and headgear to shoot paintballs at actual human targets who, by the way, would be shooting back at him!
Neal was part of the White Collar team now, Peter reminded him, and should feel honored to be asked. When that had no effect, Peter then resorted to lording his power over Neal—“I could insist that you participate,” he threatened.
“And I could tell Reese Hughes of your blatant misuse of authority,” Neal retorted.
In the end, Neal and Elizabeth spent the afternoon at the Guggenheim, followed by an epicurean feast at the new Thai restaurant that all the city’s food critics were salivating over. When they got home, they found Peter trying to rinse blue paint out of his hair and from underneath his nails.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Neal began tentatively.
“Then just don’t!” was Peter’s ill tempered reply. So, that left no doubt about the outcome.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next day, Neal made sure to saunter into the coffee break room when Jones was getting his morning shot of caffeine.
“So,” the con man asked curiously, “how did the contest go yesterday?”
“Man, it was a close one,” Jones enthused. “Cyber Division was the first to bite the dust. The only kind of weapon that those geeks know how to fire is located on a joystick aimed at a flat screen. Piece of cake! Behavioral Analysis put up a decent effort, as did the pencil pushers in Finance. Who would have thought that the bean counters could be so sly?”
Jones stopped to take a sip of coffee and Neal noticed a tiny fleck of yellow paint on the man’s left earlobe. When Neal mentioned it, Jones’ hand self-consciously went to the spot.
“Yeah, a Counter-Intelligence dude winged me, but I drilled the slick bastard before he could finish me off!”
“Sounds like it was killed or be killed out there,” Neal remarked cynically.
Jones didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “Yep, you got that right.”
“So, the eventual outcome of this ‘Hunger Games’ exercise was……,” Neal prodded.
Jones looked disgusted. “It just burns me up that Ruiz and some of his sneaky bunch were the last men standing. I swear that they were cheating by using earbuds to communicate with each other.”
Neal silently sighed. It would seem that the Hatfield-McCoy feud was alive and well, and most likely destined to go on ad infinitum!
~~~~~~~~~~
One afternoon in May, Peter breezed by Neal’s desk and beckoned the young man to follow. The con man had been doing a bit of surreptitious research for Mozzie, so he quickly closed the offending site on his computer and hastily erased his search history. He’d get that information on rare minted U.S. coins later.
“Come on, Caffrey, we need to go.”
“Care to give me a clue or two, just to make it interesting?” Neal teased as they entered the elevator.
“Today is the last day for me to do my firearms qualification for the year,” Peter informed him.
“So, one might say that ‘you’re under the gun’ at this juncture,” Neal deadpanned.
“Lame, Neal, just lame!” Peter grimaced.
“So exactly why am I going with you?” Neal wanted to know. “Am I like your ‘second’ in a duel or something?”
“You are coming with me because you’ve been acting squirrelly lately, and I know that you’re up to no good, probably with Mozzie. So, I’m keeping you under my thumb today and for the foreseeable future. Trust me, Neal, I am saving you from yourself, and you can thank me later.”
Neal deigned to huff out an affronted snort, and then gave Peter the cold shoulder during the entire ride to the indoor shooting range where all agents had to appear when it was time to qualify. He stayed put when Peter exited the car.
“Come on Neal,” Peter said impatiently.
“I’d prefer to wait in the car,” Neal sulked. “The ventilation in those indoor ranges doesn’t adequately get all the smoke and lead particles out of the air, and I don’t need those pollutants settling into either my pores or my nostrils.”
“Get out of the car, Neal,” Peter said ominously.
“Have I mentioned that the 140 decibels resulting from firing a gun in closed quarters can ruin a person’s hearing even with ear plugs and muffs? I certainly don’t relish getting those annoying ‘Miracle Ear’ advertisements coming to me in the mail.”
“Get out of the car now, Neal! Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Well, if my hearing goes, then you will have to be repeating yourself, Peter. It will be all your fault because you made me come with you.”
At Peter’s narrow-eyed squint, Neal knew that he had pushed the envelope as far as he could. Grudgingly, he exited the car and trudged behind his handler. Once inside, Peter took the clipboard to sign in, but then suddenly stiffened and frowned. Neal quickly glanced over the agent’s shoulder and, of course, Fate being the whimsical bitch that she is, there was Joseph Ruiz’s name spelled out, big and bold, on the last line.
Okay, that clinched it. No way in hell was Neal going to let Peter go back to the shooting area alone. It would be like two Wild West gunslingers facing off against each other at high noon in front of a dilapidated, dusty saloon while salaciously painted ‘ladies’ cheered them on. So, he grabbed a pair of earplugs and muffs, as well as safety glasses, and stuck to Peter like a leech.
Apparently, Ruiz had arrived just a few minutes before them. He was still in the process of loading a paper silhouette onto the clips of the automatic pulley system that would retract to the desired distance from the shooting window. He turned when he heard Peter and Neal enter.
“Well, if it isn’t Pete Burke and his ‘Pound Puppy’ partner,” Ruiz crowed.
“Shut up, Ruiz,” Peter responded testily. “I’m here to qualify and then we’re leaving. I don’t have time for your snide rhetoric because some of us have cases to solve.”
Without another word, Peter grabbed his own paper target in the lane next to his nemesis and began attaching it. The objective of the whole exercise was to empty a clip of bullets into an outline of a head and torso. There were concentric circles strategically placed on the head and chest with point values. Without further snarking, each man proceeded to send his target out the specified 10 yards, don the protective eye and ear gear, pick up his weapon, and fire away. Neal had placed himself safely in a corner as far from the explosive concussions as possible.
Afterwards, with the air thick and smoky, each man reclaimed his target and quickly added up his points. Of course, like any competitive combatants, they had to compare notes to see who came out on top. Both men had definitely met the standards to pass qualification, but their scores were identical. Neal rolled his eyes when the two alpha dogs decided to make it the best out of three.
Again, Neal felt like he was in a war zone. Even with the earplugs and ear coverings, the staccato blasts were drilling their way right into his brain. He so wanted to ask, “Are we done yet?” However, much to his dismay, the tie remained unbroken. Neal heaved a sigh of relief when Peter finally decided that the contest was over and began collecting his belongings. However, Ruiz wasn’t finished being an irritating creep.
“Not bad, Burke, not bad. But then you have to be really sharp since you have no back up. I mean, what’s ‘Dapper Dan’ over there going to do if you’re in trouble—beat the perp to death with his hat?”
Neal could see a vein pulsating in Peter’s temple and his fists clenching. “Come on, Peter,” he urged his handler, “let’s just go.”
However, Ruiz wasn’t finished now that he realized he had gotten Peter angry. He was fiendishly determined to embarrass and mortify him as well.
“Have you ever even held a gun, Caffrey?” Ruiz demanded.
“I don’t like guns,” Neal started to answer automatically. He had just gotten that sentiment out of his mouth when Ruiz tossed a pistol in his direction that the con man juggled awkwardly.
“Well, why don’t I give you your first lesson, pretty boy, just in case you ever attempt to save your partner’s ass.”
Neal looked helplessly in Peter’s direction, but his handler didn’t notice because his glowering eyes were shooting lightning bolts at Ruiz. The Organized Crime agent didn’t see the rage because he was busy rummaging among the stacks of targets on a back shelf.
“I’m going to make it a little easier for you, Caffrey,” he said magnanimously. “This target is a bit bigger so you might even manage to hit it a time or two.”
Just as Ruiz said, the piece of paper was a fraction longer and depicted the more detailed image of a scowling man from head to knees. The bad guy was in a slightly crouched posture, with a gun in his hand that was aimed straight ahead. Ruiz secured it to the clips and then began loading the revolver.
“This is a Glock 23,” he explained. “It holds thirteen rounds. Just squeeze the trigger slowly. Oh, and try to aim while you’re at it. Definitely wouldn’t want you to shoot yourself in the foot or your partner in the back,” he finished maliciously.
Neal heaved yet another sigh. He just wanted this little farce over and done, so, he let his finger linger on the automatic black button on the wall to send the target on its way. The image of the dangerous shooter flew back along the gallery track to the extreme limit of 25 yards.
“Whoops!” Neal said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”
Ruiz rolled his eyes. “Just get on with it Caffrey!”
So Neal did. He made a production of removing his suit jacket, handing it to Peter, and then unbuttoning his vest. Next, he donned all the protective headgear slowly and methodically, stretching out the preparations just to annoy Ruiz. Finally, he spread his feet shoulder width apart, assumed a two-handed grip, and began firing non-stop with not a second between each round. The air suddenly reeked of cordite, and echoes reverberated off the walls after his little performance. Neal then summoned the target back, slowly released the clips, and looked with consternation at his handy work.
“Aw, darn! Not one of my shots made it above the waist,” he commented forlornly.
When Neal looked over at Peter and Ruiz, they were a study in awed confusion, both of their mouths hanging open as they stared. It took quite a bit of effort for Neal to stifle a laugh as the two men gazed at the neat little circle of twelve holes that outlined the paper perp’s crotch. The thirteenth perforation was centered directly in the middle of that precise little ring.
~~~~~~~~~~
Peter was strangely silent in the car as they returned to the FBI building. Finally, Neal couldn’t stand the tense atmosphere anymore.
“So Peter,” he wheedled, “since I have restored and upheld your honor today, are you finally going to explain the legendary mystique that surrounds you and Ruiz?”
“Not a chance, ‘Dead-Eye Dick,’ not a chance,” Peter muttered darkly.
The con man just rolled his eyes.