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"C'mon, Carl," Frank says, and he's still the only one calling Carl by his first name when they're out in the field like this. "You said it yourself: the guy's a paper hanger. You think he's got a real gun in there?"
Fox and Abernuthy look studiously neutral with a subtle hint of disapproval, as if Carl's already said, no, yeah, sure, Frank - let's just ignore every procedure on the book and rush right in there, shall we? 'cause that sounds like a swell plan.
(Perversely, for a moment, he's tempted to say it anyway, just to live down to their expectations.)
"Maybe," he says instead, because he feels that when you've written the goddamn book, you owe it to yourself to play by it. "Maybe not. Doesn't matter, does it?"
Frank looks rebellious. Frank doesn't have a gun. If Carl has his way, Frank's never going to get one, either. Guns are for people with the judgment to know when to shoot other people.
"You want him to get away?"
"No, I don't want him to get away," Carl says calmly. "I just don't want you to get shot, all right? Unless it's by me - and that's a joke, in case you couldn't tell."
Abernuthy smirks. Carl wonders if there's an office pool. There probably is.
Once they get back to the office, he'll have Frank look into it, clear the bastards out by timing his next joke just right. Might make a few bucks in the process, take Frank out to dinner someplace nice.
"I could tell," Frank says. "Hey. How about I just knock on his door, get him to come out, hands where you can see them, all nice and easy? Would that be all right with everyone?"
"Everyone's not in charge of this team," Carl says. Fox stops nodding abruptly. "I am."
Frank gives him a look. "So?"
There's a whole lot of assumptions in that look, not all of them wrong. Does Carl think the guy who's holed up in that hotel room three hundred feet away is smarter than Frank is? No, indeed, he does not.
Does he believe Frank can make good on his offer? Indeed, he does.
But. Is he willing to ignore procedure only because procedure, in this case, might mean waiting for another couple of hours, instead of making a collar within the next fifteen minutes?
"So we all stay right where we are," Carl says. "No arguments, no exceptions."
"Can I go to the bathroom?" Frank asks.
There's a conversation preceding Frank's being put into the field, albeit minus a gun or a badge, and when it happened, it went something like this:
Is the subject, Frank Abagnale Jr. likely to abuse the privilege of being allowed to leave the office in the company of no less than three well-trained agents?
Answer: no, but -
Is the subject, Frank Abagnale Jr. likely to pose an active or passive threat to the well-trained agents in whose company he will remain at all times?
Answer: well, no, but -
Is the subject, Frank Abagnale Jr. likely to possess knowledge and skills that will prove valuable in the field and that will aid the other agents in completing their task?
Answer: I guess so, yeah, but -
"Mr Robinson?"
Carl knows how fast Frank can be. Barry Allen. The Flash.
On some level - on most levels, it shouldn't surprise him at all to see Frank walk up to their unsub's hotel room door, wearing a hotel uniform, hat and all, fitting as well as if it was made for him.
Fox and Abernuthy exchange a grin, like this is all part of a joke - 'that Frankie, eh?' Carl can imagine them saying to each other in his head. 'Say what you want about the kid, but he's a sharp one. Plenty keen, too, but hey, can you blame him?'
"Mr Robinson, are you there?"
But what the fuck do you expect me to do when someone starts shooting at him, huh? What, you think I should just keep a cool head, pretend like he's just one of the guys, who knew what they were getting into? You assholes ever thought about that? Of course you didn't.
Of course you didn't.
Mr Robinson, also known as Mr Jones, also known as Mr Greenshill, and so on, et cetera does not have a gun, real or otherwise, as it turns out. Frank spends some good thirty minutes going over what the man does have, which is a not all that impressive collection of papers and ink.
"You mad at me?"
Carl considers. There's a good dollop of 'mad' in him, yes. He's not sure that he'd go so far as to say that it's aimed at any one person in particular though, let alone that that person is Frank.
"I didn't say 'no'," he says. "You think I should be mad at you?"
"You didn't say 'no'," Frank agrees. "I could tell it was what you meant, though."
"You could, huh? That's a neat trick, reading other people's minds. Where'd you pick that up?"
Frank glances at him, looking vaguely hurt, as if he wants Carl to be angry. "So what, you're okay with what I did? Maybe you should be. I mean, we did get the guy. No fuss."
"So what you're saying is: it would be all right for me to be yelling at you if, say, you were lying in a hospital bed right now, a little bit the worse for wear after someone'd pulled a couple of bullets out of you? Is that what you would do, if you were me? Or if you were pretending to be me?"
Frank smiles a little - it looks better on him than the hurt, but he still looks too damn young. "Yelling at someone in a hospital bed would make you look like kind of a jerk, huh?"
"Well, if I start screaming now, it'll just make me look unstable," Carl says. "But, Frank, seriously. Don't do something like this again. I mean it. This is me, saying 'no'."
"I won't do something like this again," Frank says. "Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."
Carl grimaces. "Too vague, huh?"
"Hey," Frank says, "I just made twenty bucks winning a bet. Treat you to lunch?"