WC: Chicago - Part 1: Heels over Head
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Chicago - Part 1/3: Heels over head
Summary: Mozzie was never a people person. But then people don't fall out of the midwestern sky.
Author's notes:
This has been sitting sad and neglected on my hard drive for a long time now. This was my take on the When Mozzie met Neal story, which became obsolete when Forging Bonds and Dentist of Detroit aired. It's an "early work" on a h/c theme that's been frequently done in the fandom, but I've hit a bit of a dry spell in the creative writing department, so I figured to at least wrap up this story, slap a big, fat AC/AU label on it and throw it out there. Maybe it will help to get the creative juices flowing again and hopefully a few of you will enjoy it.
Unbeta'ed, and possibly full of mistakes and inaccuracies.
Sorry for posting in parts. I promise to put the finishing touches on Part 2 in the next couple of days.
Part 1
Heels over Head
Mozzie is not a people person. He knows that by the time he is four. Nowadays, in the age of syndromes, disorders and -itises, his childhood behavior would likely come with a convenient set of acronyms attached to it. He would be filed under any number of initialisms for complex neuropathological terms that have entered the pop psychology mainstream and roll so easily and frequently over the tongues of the plebeian masses.
Back then, his Boho foster parents simply think of him as adorably peculiar and sublimely nonconformist. Most of his schoolmates generally prefer the term ‘weird’. He is not offended by any of those labels. He never feels like an outcast. There is no void in him that aches to be filled with other people’s affection. He has literature and science, words and numbers, philosophy and theorem. He absorbs it all: art and music and history and tabloid magazines and the evening news. He absorbs and processes and rearranges. What ends up filed away in the chaotic cul-de-sacs of his frontal lobe is the World According To Mozzie.
The World According To Mozzie is mostly out to get him. He blames this on his steadfast resistance to adhere to conventional norms of society. He admits that his affinity for beautiful and valuable things owned by others may be a contributing factor. In the World According To Mozzie trust was best reserved for oneself and friendship was a term used by people unable to define the exact terms of their business relationship.
***
The kid enters the World According to Mozzie not with a shout but with a whisper. A whimper, to be more accurate.
His leather-gloved hands stuffed into his pockets, Mozzie strolls over the landscaped museum grounds. He wouldn’t describe it as casing the area. He is a free man. What is to stop him from taking a late night walk through a beautiful park? Certainly not a six-foot wrought iron fence. The sandstone masonry of the Gothic revival building brushes against the sleeve of his heavy wool coat as he strides along the museum wall. His collar is turned up, his brimmed hat drawn low into his face, its top pelted by the heavy raindrops falling from the ominous October sky. Mozzie takes a mental note that in the future he will avoid planning art heists in Chicago during months that have the letter R in it.
His eyes are cast down on his soaked leather shoes that make slopping noises as he treads the standing water that has collected along the building walls. It takes him 54 steps to travel the width of the museum. He rounds the corner to the back of the building. He takes another 23 steps until he stops in his tracks because the water sloshing over his shoes has turned white. This observation puzzles him greatly.
The indistinct noise above his head is almost drowned out by the sound of the rain hitting the brim of his hat. When he looks up, a pasty hand is straining to reach for him but falls a mere two inches short of the top of his hat. The hand is attached to a bare arm that dangles from a shoulder. Between that shoulder and its matching right partner hangs a head, with a shock of dark hair that reaches for the ground in soggy, heavy strands. Wide-open pale eyes look down on him, blinking incessantly to keep the rainwater out. A few inches above, colorless lips are parted and trembling with the effort to form words.
“Help.”
Mozzie ignores the soft, strained plea as his gaze travels upwards. A white ribbed tank undershirt has ridden up-ridden down, Mozzie corrects-to gather under the dangler’s chin. Rainwater streams down a narrow, bare chest that swells and falls rapidly in shallow gasps of breath. A milky white rivulet meanders down a slender flank, cascades over the pronounced ridges of a ribcage, dips through the hollow of a pulsating throat and snakes along a jaw line and a temple where it disappears among wet chocolate brown curls to eventually drip onto the ground. When he spies the upturned bag of talcum powder that is clipped to the dangler’s waste band, Mozzie smiles with undue pride in having discovered the origin of the alabaster water that is ruining his shoes.
Mystery solved, his eyes wander up the left leg of a pair of skintight black spandex pants until they encounter a foot clad in a tightly laced thin sole rock climbing shoe. The foot is quite obviously trapped by a tangle of orange climbing rope that is wrapped around the ankle in several tight coils. The other spandex-covered leg is braced against the stone, keeping the dangler’s position on the wall stable. The orange rope that keeps the body so compromisingly suspended stretches another twenty feet up the vertical surface at which point it disappears from view over the edge of a small window in the gable of the steeply pitched roof.
Mozzie is quite familiar with that particular opening in the museum’s impenetrable shell. He has pored over every detail in the building’s blueprints. He knows that the small window-cut into the gable for ventilation rather than illumination-is the only access point not secured by an alarm. The reasons for this lack of security are obvious. The location of the opening high on the building wall makes access all but impossible and the compact dimensions of the window would prevent anyone who beat the odds and conquered the vertical climb from gaining access to the inside. Anyone but the slippery eel who is currently entangled in his own safety line.
Mozzie takes another sweeping survey of the dangler, taking stock of a few key facts he is confident to establish at this point in time. Male. Slim. Tall. Well, taller than Mozzie, anyway. Young. A kid, really. Hapless and utterly pathetic in his current predicament.
“My foot. Hurts. Please.” The plea from above is renewed with a thin, strained voice.
“And how do you suppose I do that, Houdini?” Mozzie finally addresses the kid swinging over his head. “I can’t just levitate up there. Maybe I should just call the police?” He reaches for his cell phone, and despite the darkness of the late hour he can see the panic that instantly colors the expression of general misery in the kid’s face. His lips close momentarily as he swallows.
“You’re here, too,” The kid croaks. “And I doubt it’s for legit reasons.”
“Maybe so, but I can leave after I make that call. You don’t have the same luxury.” Mozzie pointedly looks up at the tangle of rope trapping the kid’s foot. The kid smiles weakly. At least Mozzie thinks he smiles. It is difficult to judge facial expressions when the face is upside down and shrouded in shadow. There is a brief flashing of a white row of teeth, anyway.
“The groundskeeper’s shed is over there.” The kid’s arm sways wildly as he tries to point in the intended direction. Mozzie knows the layout of the grounds to a tee, and the kid’s orientation is off by a long shot. “I think there might be a ladder in there.”
“You think?” Mozzie doesn’t mean to sound so blatantly derisive, but the kid is a patent amateur. Mozzie knows for a fact that there is 16-foot extension ladder as well as a smaller stepladder stored in the shed, along with a large number of gardening and power tools, all of which he neatly cataloged during an earlier visit to the museum grounds. Some people would call such meticulous reconnaissance obsessive, but Mozzie likes to be prepared for all eventualities. He loves being proven right, even when the beneficiary of his painstaking preparation is clearly undeserving of his efforts. Mozzie sighs with a long look at the wretched youngster above his head.
“Wait here.” His mockery is answered by a disgruntled snort. Mozzie smirks complacently as he heads into the darkness of the museum grounds. Traversing the wet grass, he makes a beeline for the tool shed. The door is secured by a heavy padlock that is no obstacle for his lock-picking skills. Lugging the heavy extension ladder across the lawn proves to be the bigger challenge. He curses under his breath as he strains to balance the unwieldy object in his gloved hands. The heavy rain comes to a sudden, much appreciated end. A chilly autumn breeze tears the ceiling of low hanging clouds open, revealing a nearly full moon that casts a pale blue hue on the museum wall. Up ahead Mozzie can see the violent shivers that rattle the strung up body as the cool air brushes over exposed, damp skin. He catches the youngster’s eye that searches for him in the patchy shadows, and immediately the kid tenses in an attempt to still his shaking frame.
With a grunt Mozzie props the ladder against the wall next to the dangling kid and slides the extender out to its maximum height. Clasping both hands tightly around the rungs of the ladder he climbs up one trepidatious step at a time.
“Afraid of heights?” The kid asks, watching his endeavor curiously.
“Among other things,” Mozzie admits, his gaze never straying from his choking hold on the ladder. “Maybe you should give that whole acrophobia thing a try some time, Spiderman. Might keep you out of a boatload of trouble.”
“Yeah. Funny. Hurry, please?” The kid speaks in short, winded bursts.
“I’m moving as fast as I please,” Mozzie insists. “And you are in no position to make demands. Oh geeze.” Mozzie looks down the ladder and the edge of his vision begins to swim. He is at eyelevel with the trapped foot. Slowly relaxing the white-knuckled fingers of one hand, Mozzie reaches inside his coat to pull out the gardening clippers he pocketed in the tool shed. He hesitates as he stretches to sever the rope.
“Uh, I assume you are familiar with the concept of gravity?” Mozzie asks. “You know you’re going to drop like a stone the moment I cut the line?” The kid’s head bops as his gaze darts between the ground looming seven feet below and the taut length of rope above his foot. His midsection tenses when he attempts to jackknife, his arm stretching up to reach the rope. Pointy fingers dig into Mozzie’s coat sleeve, and the man on the ladder shrieks when he feels his precarious balance slip. The desperate grasp on his arm releases immediately. The kid’s upper body snaps back down and an unchecked yelp escapes his lips when the jerky movement sends a jolt of pain into his ankle.
“Just cut it already,” he begs from between gritted teeth.
“Okay, okay.” Mozzie’s heart is still pounding from the near-death experience of being pulled off the ladder. “On three. One-two-“
Mozzie’s third count coincides with a dull thud and a loud grunt coming from where the kid impacts the soggy ground at the foot of the wall.
“You okay?” Mozzie asks and starts his cautious descent down the ladder. There is no verbal reply from below but he can see the kid grappling with the twisted rope around his leg. By the time Mozzie’s shoes are back on safe and solid ground, the youngster has disentangled himself and is struggling to his feet. Finally in a vertical position, he sways dizzily and slumps against the wall.
“Headrush?” Mozzie approaches the kid who nods at him warily and tugs at his tank undershirt to cover his midriff. “How long were you up there?”
“What time is it?” The kid croaks. Mozzie checks his watch.
“Almost midnight.”
“We should get out of here.” The kid ignores Mozzie’s earlier question.
“No, no, no. There is no ‘we’,” the short man declares, wagging his finger in front of the youngster’s face. “There is me and then there is some snot-nosed wanna-be cat burglar who just put the kibosh on a perfectly good art heist three weeks in the planning.” Mozzie points up at the remaining stretch of rope swinging in the breeze.
“Sorry?” The kid’s apology is delivered as a question and accompanied by a shrug and a sheepish smile.
“The thief is sorry he is to be hanged-quite literally in your case, I might add-not that he is a thief,” Mozzie mumbles. Undecided what to do he sweeps his eyes over the soggy wretch leaning against the wall. “Where do you live?” He sighs.
“In town,” the kid replies cautiously, his head inclining in a direction that isn’t anywhere near the city.
“Is your leg broken?” Mozzie nods at the kid’s left limb.
“Don’t think so.” He keeps his weight on the right leg but moves his left foot a little.
“Alright.” Mozzie waves for the kid to follow him along. “I’ll give you a lift into town.” He takes off into the direction of the back gate. The youngster catches up with him in a few hobbling strides and slings his left arm over the short man’s shoulder for support. Mozzie freezes instantly.
“Ahhh, I think this is an appropriate moment to point out that I have a thing about people touching me,” the bespectacled man explains, visibly uncomfortable with the youngster’s proximity.
“But I’m not touching.” The kid wiggles his left hand over the other man’s shoulder and balls it into a fist. “No palm. See? I’m merely draping.”
Mozzie blinks at him, his puzzlement with the kid’s twisted logic and audacity written plainly across his face. He slowly shuffles forward as the kid shifts more of his weight onto his shoulder. Keeping his face straight ahead an his arms stiffly at his sides, he heads for the exit and tries hard not to think about what the kid’s mud and talcum soaked clothes are doing to his dry-clean-only wool coat. After a few steps he feels the draping hand cup his shoulder tightly and he swears that from the corner of his eye he can see a smug grin appear on the youngster’s face.
***
“This is my stop,” the kid declares as Mozzie slows the car to a crawl along the curb of a deserted Hyde Park side street. From behind the wheel Mozzie suspiciously eyes his passenger.
“Sure?” He asks.
“I know where I live, okay?” The kid snaps with an annoyed glare.
“Fine.” Mozzie slams on the brake and the car comes to a stop with a jerk. He waits for the kid to unbuckle.
“Thanks, man,” the youngster says, his sincere gratitude undisguised in the pale blue eyes that seek contact with Mozzie’s. The short man nods but avoids direct eye contact, which always leaves him feel strangely exposed.
“Stay out of trouble. And more importantly, stay out of my damn business.”
“Will do.” The kid opens the door, swings his good leg out and pulls himself up by the frame of the car door. Hopping awkwardly on one foot, he turns around and leans in to look at the driver one more time. His mouth opens as if to say something, but then he changes his mind, allowing an impish grin to spread over his face. He pulls out the wallet that is stuffed in the waistband at the small of his back and holds it out for the other man.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it,” he says with a shrug. With repugnance Mozzie looks at the leather billfold that is soaked with dirty water and-presumably-the kid’s sweat. The youngster’s gaze flits from the wallet to the bespectacled face and back. He drops the billfold on the passenger seat.
“Sorry, man. And thanks again for not calling the cops.” The car door closes, dimming the dome light inside the car. Mozzie watches the kid limp a few steps along the dark sidewalk before steering back out into the middle of the lane. He turns the corner, looking to find a major traffic artery that will lead him out of the unsavory neighborhood. Stopped a traffic light two cross streets down, he decides to circle the block one more time. A drizzling rain has set in by the time he hits the street where the kid asked to be dropped off. Half a block down the road Mozzie spots the shivering youngster standing on the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched and his bare arms wrapped tightly around his body. Undecided what to do, the kid’s eyes sweep the neighborhood.
Mozzie sighs and tries in vain to understand why he cares. He inches the car forward, eventually pulling up in front of the startled kid. He lowers the power window on the passenger side.
“Get in,” he orders plainly. In the dim light of the streetlamp he can see the kid considering the option to make a run for it. Hesitantly he opens the car door and slips back into the passenger seat, placing Mozzie’s wallet on the middle console in the process.
“I want my fifty back,” Mozzie says.
“What fifty?” Mozzie has to give the kid credit. He feigns innocence well.
“The one you took out of my wallet,” the short man replies. “The one that’s sticking out of the back of your pants.” The kid sighs and pulls the bill from the small of his back and places it in the cup holder.
“You walk around this part of town dressed like Baryshnikov with money sticking out of your belt, people are going to get the wrong idea,” Mozzie points out.
“There’re no fifties to be made in this neighborhood,” the kid mumbles and buckles in. He catches the other man’s scandalized look. “Or so I hear.”
Mozzie shakes his head and shifts the car into gear, mentally charting the shortest route to his rented apartment.
***
By the time they reach the front door of the fourth floor walk-up, Mozzie is exhausted from dragging his limping charge up the stairs. Sliding out from under the kid’s arm, he unlocks the apartment door, hits the light switch and motions for the kid to step inside ahead of him. The youngster hesitates for a moment before hobbling past the bespectacled man, bracing one hand against the wall for support. He comes to a halt a few steps into the room and takes a sweeping glance around the sparsely furnished living room. Seeing nothing that captures his interest, he turns around and watches as the other man shrugs out of his heavy overcoat.
“What’s with the scarf?” The kid asks, his curious eyes focused on the printed silk accessory tied around Mozzie’s neck. His mocking undertone is obvious. “Trying to make a fashion statement?”
“Says the guy in the wife-beater and spandex pants,” Mozzie replies, his eyebrows raised. “Who are you supposed to be? The romantic lead in the ballet version of Die Hard?”
The kid stares back at him blankly.
“Die Hard? John McClane? Ring any bells?” Mozzie rolls his wrist in a beckoning motion, as if the gesture can somehow crank the kid’s memory. He only reaps vacancy in the kid’s eyes.
“I see.” Mozzie heaves an exasperated sigh. “You were too occupied with your Nintendo to watch the most awesome action motion picture ever made. Kids these days!”
He studies the kid standing in his living room, unsteadily balanced on his uninjured leg, the ball of the left foot barely touching the floor. Even in the glaring light of the ceiling fixture the kid’s age is hard to pinpoint. He is tall, 5’10’’ maybe 5’11”, if he stood up straight. He is slender. No, skinny, Mozzie corrects himself. Lanky arms are dangling from the angular, narrow shoulders exposed by the sleeveless undershirt. His collarbones stick out too prominently under the shirt’s straps. The wet white cotton clings to his body, the arc of his ribcage clearly visible above his concave midriff. His slim frame is lined by lean, sinewy muscle.
The hard lines of his body under his clingy thin clothing seem nearly incompatible with the soft, delicate teenage face visible under the untamed shock of chin-length brown wavy hair clinging to his face. The skin on his chin and jaw is pink and smooth. Mozzie would bet a large sum of money that the kid shaves for sport but couldn’t grow a bona fide beard if his life depended on it. He looks tired, the signs of exhaustion evident in his hollow cheeks and slightly parted lips, but his bright blue eyes are wide open and display a degree of childlike curiosity that-Mozzie presumes-will stick with the kid if he lives to be a hundred.
Mozzie is an expert on putting an age on pretty things, and he cannot deny that the overall package is pretty. The kid will be breaking hearts left and right, if he hasn’t already left a throng of devastated teenage girls in his wake. Mozzie takes another sweeping look at his late night guest and decides that the kid is neither old enough to drink nor old enough to vote in the state of Illinois. He is most definitely too young to be hanging upside down from museum walls in the middle of the night. The boy isn’t older than sixteen, seventeen if Mozzie wants to be generous. No carbon dating needed. Mozzie also knows that he can safely wager his car that the kid will vehemently deny the fact that he is underage.
“Anyway,” Mozzie says, slightly unnerved by the kid’s expectant stare. “Why don’t you go thaw out and get cleaned up with a hot shower. I’ll order some Chinese.”
The kid’s eyes narrow and he appears hesitant about his choice of words.
“I don’t know where you think this is going, Mister,” he starts and straightens his back, gaining the extra inch.
“Mozzie,” the shorter man interjects.
“Mozz,” the kid parrots incorrectly.
“Mozzie,” the other man insists.
“I don’t know where you think this is going, Mozz,” the kid starts over with a sigh, “but I’m not doing that.”
“What?” Mozzie’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.
“That.” The kid points both index fingers directly at the shorter man. “If you catch my drift.”
Mozzie only chuckles, a mildly amused smile on his lips.
“I’m not passing judgment,” the kid rambles on, blushing noticeably. “It’s just not for me. And I don’t need the money. Okay? I can leave right now if I gave you the wrong impression.”
The shorter man raises his hands in reconciliatory gesture.
“Calm down, kid. Don’t let the fashion-forward exterior fool you. I prefer my dates a little more Rubenesque,” he explains, his hands tracing a curvy female silhouette in the air, “and a little less Andy Warhol.”
The kid stares back at him with a puzzled expression, a deep furrow appearing between the curly strands of hair drooping over his brow.
“Rubens was a 17th century painter who-“ Mozzie begins to clarify.
“I know who Peter Paul Rubens was,” the kid cuts him off sharply, the volume of his voice taking the other man aback. “He was a Flemish Baroque painter. I also know who Andy Warhol was.”
He pauses, his eyes defiantly bearing down on the shorter man.
“I’m not stupid.” The words are spat out rather than spoken. Mozzie can detect the slightest twitch in the kid’s leg and he is sure he would have stomped his foot to illustrate his point if it wasn’t for the pain in his ankle. The kid has a temper and no appreciable talent to keep it in check. Mozzie would be more than happy to read this boy like a book in a game of poker if there was actually anything other than lint to be shaken out of the kid’s pockets. If the kid actually had pockets, Mozzie muses with another quick glance at the spandex pants.
“I wasn’t implying that you’re stupid,” Mozzie states calmly. The picture of the kid is something to behold. With his blue eyes full of fury, his smooth jaw set rigidly and his lips tightened into a thin, pale line, he stands with his chest rising and falling rapidly. Under different circumstances the lanky figure with his balled fists would be at least marginally intimidating. Given the ridiculous outfit the kid is wearing and given the fact that he is caked in talcum powder and mud and shivering in his wet clothes, Mozzie has to use all of his self-control to stifle the belittling smirk that threatens to creep onto his lips.
“Listen, kid.” He pauses to give the teen a chance to throw his name into the mix. His unspoken request remains unanswered.
“Listen, kid, I apologize if I insulted you or made you feel uneasy in any way,” Mozzie states with sincerity. “Now, if you feel like it-and please don’t feel obligated-you’re welcome to use my bathroom to shower or take a bath or do whatever you need to do to get warmed up. There’s a robe hanging behind the door. Towels are in the closet off of the bathroom. There are also clothes. Borrow whatever you want.”
“I for myself will sit down on my couch and order some food. I’m famished,” he continues. “I’d be happy to take a look at that leg of yours, now or after you’ve changed. Unless you would like me to drive you home right away?”
The kid looks from Mozzie to the apartment door, weighing his options. Mozzie doesn’t know what is waiting for the kid at home, but whatever it is, the kid obviously thinks that spending a few more hours in a stranger’s house is the lesser of two evils.
“I’d like some Lo Mein, please. And Mongolian Beef. And some potstickers,” the kid requests brashly and hobbles off in the direction of the bathroom.
***
The kid takes his time in the bathroom. Mozzie sits on his couch, thumbs distractedly through the latest issue of Newsweek and listens to the sounds coming from behind the bathroom door. The shower runs for a good fifteen minutes, Mozzie checks his watch twice. When the water is finally turned off, the kid has obviously no intention to hide the fact that he is rummaging through a stranger’s bathroom cabinets. Mozzie hears the drawers and doors open and shut repeatedly. Plastic bottles are tipping over and something crashes from the counter to the floor, accompanied by a muted string of expletives. The racket is followed by several minutes of silence, then Mozzie hears the creaky closet door open. Clothes are being pushed around on their hangers, the wire hooks scraping noisily over the hanger bar.
It has been thirty minutes since the kid has disappeared in the bathroom when the doorbell rings, drawing Mozzie’s attention away from the noises behind the wall. The short man hoists himself up from the sofa, and saunters to the door to receive his delivery of Chinese food. He quickly checks the contents of the takeout boxes, before tipping the deliveryman generously.
Mozzie sets the food on the small dining table and briefly considers transferring the contents of the boxes to proper serving ware. Given the late hour he decides to forgo the extra effort. Instead, he simply lays out plates, tea mugs, silverware and cloth napkins, along with the single-use chopsticks included in the delivery. Reasonably happy with the table setting, Mozzie wanders over to the stove and sets a pot of water to boil for green tea.
When he hears the bathroom door open and close behind him, he turns around to find the kid standing in the living room, holding his bunched up wet clothes. He is wearing one of Mozzie’s dark long-sleeve denim button-down shirts and a pair of drawstring gym pants that Mozzie doesn’t remember owning. For a moment the short man is stumped by how the clothes can simultaneously look too large and too small on the lanky kid. The youngster’s bare feet are sticking out under the too short pant legs, his left ankle expertly wrapped in a crisp white stretch bandage.
“You okay with me borrowing these?” The kid asks, smoothing his hand over the shirtfront, his eyes searching for a sign of approval in the other man’s scrutiny. “I pulled them from the back of the closet. Didn’t look like you were going to wear them anytime soon.”
“That’s fine.” Mozzie nods towards the bandaged foot. “How’s the leg?”
“I helped myself to some stuff from your med kit.” The kid’s reply is delivered without a trace of an apology for his unsanctioned search of a stranger’s bathroom cabinets. Mozzie doesn’t fail to notice that his question remains unanswered. The short man shrugs. Maybe this kid wouldn’t be a complete donkey at the poker table after all.
“You can hang your clothes over the radiator to dry. Dinner is on the table. You may take a seat. I’ll be over with the tea in a minute.” Mozzie decides to do the kid a favor by not watching his awkward limp to the heater and on to the dining table. He pours the hot water over the tealeaves.
Turning back to the table with the pot of tea in his hand, Mozzie catches the kid with his hand fishing for a dumpling in one of the takeout containers. His mouth is already stuffed as he hurriedly chews on one of the pan-fried potstickers.
“Whoa-oh-oh.” Mozzie rushes to the tableside. “A man's manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait,” he quotes in the most scolding tone he manages to produce. “And right now your portrait says Conan the Barbarian.”
The kid shoots him an apologetic look, retracts his greasy fingers from the dumpling container and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Mozzie sighs with exasperation at the complete lack of etiquette and slides into the seat across from the kid. He pours two cups of green tea. There is a shadow on the kid’s brow as he ponders something.
“Manners are the hypocrisy of a nation. Balzac.” The youngster finally quotes with a hint of triumph in his lopsided smile.
“My house, my rules. Haversham!” Mozzie replies and cringes with the realization that he is sounding like an adult. The kid looks to be wracking his brain yet again.
“Never heard of him,” he finally admits with a slight shake of the head.
“You’ve just subscribed to his newsletter,” Mozzie retorts. “Now sit up straight, get those elbows off the table, put the napkin in your lap and eat like you have opposing thumbs. Please.”
Attentively the kid watches as Mozzie settles in and serves himself from the takeout containers. When he picks up his chopsticks and begins to eat at a leisurely pace, the youngster perfectly mirrors his posture and mannerisms. Mozzie isn’t sure whether he is being flattered or mocked.
By the time Mozzie has finished his plate, the kid has piled seconds onto his and is hungrily digging in. Mozzie leans back in his chair and watches for a moment. It doesn’t look like the kid is planning on finishing his meal anytime soon.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Mozzie says. “I’m going to pour me a glass of Zin.” He walks over to the kitchen counter and pulls the cork from the open bottle of red wine. He fills a Bordeaux glass a little over halfway and then adds another half inch with a shrug.
“Not quite so much for me, thank you,” the kid says without looking up from his plate of food.
“Hah!” Mozzie bursts out. He grabs a second glass from the cabinet and carries it over to the table, along with the bottle of wine and his full glass. The self-satisfied grin that spreads over the kid’s face when he places the wine glass in front of him amuses Mozzie greatly. He tips the bottle and pours a small sip of Zinfandel into the empty glass before pulling the bottle away. The kid’s grin morphs into a disappointed frown as he picks up the glass and swirls the tiny amount of liquid around the bottom of the bowl.
“You’re kidding me, right?” The youngster looks up at Mozzie from under the long strands of hair that fall into his face.
“You may not be old enough to drink.” Mozzie smiles. “But you’re old enough to have a palate. Tell me what you think.” The short man takes a sip of his wine and gestures the kid to do the same. The youngster assertively picks up the piece of stemware and empties its content into his mouth. Mozzie suppresses a smirk when he watches him swirl the liquid around his mouth before swallowing.
“You first,” the kid says.
“Hmm.” Mozzie’s face turns overly serious. “Brooding and complex. With hints of blackberry and clove.” He announces.
“Yes.” The kid nods eagerly. “But you’re wrong. It’s raspberry, not blackberry and I’m getting a little pepper in addition to the clove.”
Mozzie’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. He studies the kid whose unwavering gaze meets him in an open challenge. Mozzie doesn’t do eye contact. He has never opted for contacts over his heavy-rimmed glasses because he wears them like a shield. A shield that is currently being hacked to pieces by a pair of insolent blue eyes that refuse to give away the bluff that may be hidden behind them. Unexpectedly, and mercifully, a slow blink of fatigue robs the blue eyes of their focus.
“I’m twenty-two,” the kid states blankly, sounding a little weary.
“Uh-huh.” Mozzie nods and takes a swig of his wine. The youngster turns his attention back to the remaining food on his plate, eating with less haste than before. Mozzie sinks onto his chair and leisurely finishes his glass of wine and a second while looking on as the kid wordlessly polishes off every bit of remaining food from the takeout containers. So much for having leftovers for lunch tomorrow, Mozzie thinks with a sigh. Across the table the kid washes the last bite down with a swig of lukewarm tea and then bends down to recover the napkin that has slipped from his lap to the floor. He wipes his mouth before slumping back against the chair.
“Stick a fork in me,” he groans, rubbing his belly. “That was great. Thank you. What do I owe you?” Mozzie chuckles.
“What do you have?” The kid only shrugs.
“That’s what I thought,” Mozzie says and gets to his feet to clear the table.
“I could help with the dishes?” The kid offers. Mozzie carries the plates over to the sink. He pulls a dishtowel from a hook and tosses it at the kid who catches it with one hand and a grin.
“Clear the rest of the table, please, and then you can dry.” Watching the kid get to his feet, Mozzie instantly regrets assigning him the task of shuttling garbage and dishes from the table to the kitchen area. The youngster doesn’t seem deterred by his injured foot and hobbles across the room in good spirits, taking several trips to and from the table before finally appearing by Mozzie’s side to dry off the plates and cups stacked on the wooden drying rack.
“So Mozz-“ he starts after working in silence for a moment.
“It’s Mozzie,” the other man replies.
“Fine. Mozzie. How come you’re not asking me for my name?”
“Does it matter?” Mozzie replies with a shrug.
“No. I guess not.” The kid sounds a little disappointed.
“What’s in a name?” Mozzie ponders.
“Shakespeare? Really?” The kid smirks at him from the side. “Dude, it’s 2:30 in the morning.” Mozzie tries hard to suppress the smile that threatens to take over his put on pensive look. He realizes he likes the kid, and that thought worries him. He yanks the dishtowel from the youngster’s grip and tips his head in the direction of the living room.
“Well, the poetry reading is over. Now go and crash. The couch is all yours. I’ll bring you a blanket and a pillow as soon as I’m done here.” Mozzie finishes the dishes, allowing the remaining few pieces to air-dry. He turns off the overhead lights leaving the table lamp by the couch the only source of light. He briefly disappears into the bedroom and pulls the knit blanket from his bed. Stuffing one of his two pillows under his arm, he makes his way back to the couch. The kid is lying flat on his back, his bandaged foot resting elevated on the armrest. His eyes are closed and Mozzie can tell from the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest that he has already drifted off into exhausted sleep. The short man drapes the blanket over the sleeping form and places the pillow on his chest. The kid’s arms wrap around the soft cushion immediately. He rolls onto his side with a contented moan and burrows the side of his face in the pillow.
***
The kid is dead to the world until ten the next morning. Mozzie quietly moseys around the apartment, following his usual routine of stealing the daily newspaper from his neighbor’s doormat and reading it over a cup of coffee. He finishes the funnies by 9:30, folds the paper and tosses it into the recycling bin. Indecisively Mozzie watches the sleeping kid who hasn’t moved an inch since his host got out of bed three hours ago.
The short man strolls over to the fridge and takes out a carton of eggs and a wilting bunch of green onions that has been living out its final days on earth in the obscurity of the vegetable drawer. Mozzie predicts that the smell of his legendary omelets will rouse even the soundest sleeper from his dreams. By the time the butter is melting in the pan, his theory proves to be correct when the kid’s head pops up over the back of the couch.
“Morning,” Mozzie announces cheerfully. The youngster sinks back into the couch cushions with the trademark groan of a groggy teenager. Mozzie turns back to the stovetop. Shortly after, the shuffling noises behind him announce the kid’s return to the world of the living. Rubbing his eyes and raking his fingers through his mussed hair the youngster materializes by Mozzie’s side and heads for the refrigerator. He rummages through its contents but comes up empty.
“You got any chocolate milk?” He asks, peeking over the open fridge door.
“Lactose intolerant,” Mozzie replies. “There’s OJ on the bottom shelf.”
The kid pulls out the orange juice and shakes the carton to estimate the remaining volume. He unscrews the plastic cup and greedily pours the juice directly into his mouth.
“Savage.” Mozzie stares at him in sheer disbelief.
“C’mon. It was almost empty anyway. One less glass to wash.” The kid puts the empty carton back on the shelf, closes the fridge and gently shoulders the other man aside to inspect the omelet sizzling in the frying pan. “That smells divine.”
“Go sit down.” Mozzie’s order sounds vexed enough to prompt immediate compliance by the youngster.
“Thank you,” the kid utters meekly when a plate of food and a steaming mug of coffee is shoved in front of him. “I guess cream is out of the question?” Instead of an answer a bowl of sugar cubes is placed on the table with a heaving sigh. He waits politely for the other man to cook his own omelet, the enticing smell of the food in front of him testing his patience. He places a sugar cube on a teaspoon and partially submerges it in the coffee. When the sugar is thoroughly soaked he spoons the cube into his mouth savoring the sweetness as it dissolves on his tongue. He repeats the process with four more lumps of sugar until he feels the short man tower over his chair.
“You know, somebody really needs to teach you a lesson about table manners.” There is a brief hesitation in the kid’s movement and Mozzie suddenly cringes at his own choice of words. He has spend enough time in the foster system and at the margins of society to know that kids like the one at his table have had more than their fair share of life lessons inflicted on them, and rarely in an academic fashion.
“You know what they say about drinking coffee?” He quickly redirects the conversation as he lowers himself onto his chair. “You should drink it either bitter as life or sweet as love. I can tell which option you prefer.” Just for show the kid drops three sugar cubes into his mug and stirs the syrupy concoction.
“Go ahead. Eat. Your food is getting cold. You shouldn’t have waited for me,” Mozzie urges.
“I was just minding my manners,” the kid states sulkily and sticks his fork into the fluffy egg. “You know, mirror of my portrait or soul or something.”
“Smartass,” Mozzie replies, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He takes a bite of his breakfast and watches the expression of culinary bliss appear on the kid’s face as he shovels the omelet into his mouth. He knows he has been forgiven for telling him off earlier.
“Good, huh?” Mozzie is shamelessly fishing for praise. The kid swallows hastily to clear his full mouth.
“Yeah, it’s great. You need to show me how to do that.” For some reason the prospect of a cooking lesson sounds appealing to Mozzie. He pushes his half-eaten omelet across the table for the kid to finish.
“What time is it?” The kid asks between bites.
“A little after ten.” Mozzie checks his watch.
“I need to be at work by noon,” the youngster says, taking another sip of coffee.
“So, attempted theft is more of a hobby of yours then?” The kid shrugs and doesn’t look up from his plate.
“Take my advice and don’t quit your day job, Spiderman. Leave the art heists to the professionals.” The blue eyes that glance up at the short man are filled with wounded pride.
“It wasn’t my idea,” the kid mumbles.
“If you are the brawns then I don’t think I want to meet the brains behind the operation,” Mozzie mocks. A fork is slammed loudly onto the table as the kid’s temper gets the better of him.
“No, I didn’t plan the operation,” The kid states, anger flaring in his eyes. “And no, I didn’t want to be hungry for six weeks so that I could lose the ten pounds that kept me from fitting through that damn window. And no, I didn’t enjoy almost breaking my neck on that wall when the rain set in and made the rope slippery. And no, I didn’t ask to be left hanging out to dry by the people who send me there.”
Mozzie swallows hard.
“I’m sorry, man,” he says quietly. He chews on his lip as the fight is slowly leaving the kid’s eyes and the youngster turns to finish his breakfast. “Out of pure curiosity, which painting were you going to steal?”
“The Degas in Hall C,” the kid replies.
“Good choice.”
“I know. I picked it.” The youngster scrapes up the last bits of food and empties his coffee. “If it was up to me, I still would have taken it. I just would have done it a different way.”
“How?” Mozzie asks, an eyebrow raised in intrigue. The kid’s eyes sparkle with cryptic exhilaration as if he is about to divulge a secret he had been holding back for a long time.
“I’ll show you.”
***
Mozzie’s car pulls into the lane behind the row of three-story terraced houses.
“Stop there.” The kid in the passenger seat points to a parking space by a group of trash bins. Mozzie complies and kills the engine. The youngster is already out of the car and bending a piece of chain-linked fence aside. He gestures for the short man to step through the opening. After fixing the hole in the fence the kid leads him through several backyards, following a complicated path through well-concealed gaps in wooden and wire fences. They finally come to a stop at the bottom of a fire escape that leads up the back of one of the houses. The kid walks over to a crate left by the corner of the building for no apparent reason. He drags the wooden box under the fire escape and climbs on top. When the kid reaches for the bottom rung of the sliding ladder, Mozzie covers his ears against the grating noise that is about to make the hair on the back of his neck bristle. The ladder slides down smoothly and noiselessly.
“I keep her well greased,” the kid says with a grin. “Sorry, but this will require conquering more vertical distance. Third floor, please,” he adds as he invites the short man to take the lead up the ladder.
“Credit my keen observational skills, but something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve slunk up there?” Mozzie hesitantly starts climbing up, his limbs shaky with the prospect of falling to an untimely death.
“Let’s just say I’ve brought the occasional date in via the scenic route. The sunset is quite breathtaking from up here,” the kid replies with phony prep school enunciation. He follows Mozzie closely up the ladder. “Just keep your eyes up, Moz. I’m right behind you. Next stop: penthouse.”
Mozzie doesn’t breathe until he has reached the top floor landing. He steps onto the grate and wills his eyes to keep staring at the brick wall instead of the void below. The kid appears by his side with an elegant dismount from the ladder. His eyes briefly sweep over the shorter man to verify that he has survived the climb without psychological fallout. Facing the double-hung window he pulls a small pin from the bottom right corner of the sash and then slides the window up slowly. He pokes his head inside and pauses to listen. When the kid’s face reappears, his index finger is pressed against his lips, asking for silence. He waves Mozzie to follow him as he steps through the window.
Climbing inside, Mozzie finds himself in a small bedroom.
“The penthouse, huh?” Mozzie asks taking in his surroundings. The room is in a state of carefully controlled chaos. Stacks of books are piled high against the walls, a narrow bookshelf overflowing with them. There is no closet or space for a dresser, but a few clothes lie neatly folded in a laundry basked by the twin size mattress on the floor.
Leaving the other man standing by the window, the kid weaves his way around the boxes of art supplies that litter the limited floor space. He walks over to the only door in the room and slowly and soundlessly turns the key to a locked position. Crossing to the far side of the room he stops in front of an easel that has been rigged from scrap wood.
“Check this out,” the kid whispers, his face lit up by a proud grin. He turns the piece of canvas sitting on the wooden frame, blinking at Mozzie expectantly.
“Ta-dah!”
The painting is a reproduction of the Degas at the gallery. Mozzie approaches the canvas, mindful not to trip over the numerous obstacles scattered on the worn hardwood floor. He leans in until his face is inches from the painted surface. He studies the painting in detail for the better part of two minutes, ignoring the kid, who twitches with impatience by his side.
“You did this?” Mozzie finally asks, looking up at the kid. The boy nods eagerly.
“Good technique. Your brushstroke is almost perfect.”
“It’s perfect,” the kid states matter-of-factly.
“You’re right,” Mozzie admits graciously. “Unfortunately, your choice of paint and canvas is atrocious.” The youngster looks genuinely hurt.
“Do you have any idea how expensive period oil paint and canvas are?” The kid glares at him with his mouth set in resentment.
“I do,” Mozzie replies calmly. “And I have a storage locker full of them. What I don’t have is a hand like yours.” He can’t help but smile as the kid’s jaw drops in amazement. There is an undisguised flare of desire in the youngster’s eyes as the wheels in his head process the implications. Wide-open blue eyes dart from the canvas to Mozzie and then, suddenly, to the bedroom door.
There are voices outside the door and Mozzie’s heart sinks when he sees the naked fear that instantly replaces the pride and ambition in the kid’s expression.
“Your dad?” Mozzie mouths voicelessly. The youngster only looks at him blankly. For a moment his gaze bounces to the top of the bookshelf before returning focus to the recessed door panel. With a curious frown Mozzie scans the topmost bookshelf and finally zones in on the unmistakable shape of a gun handle sticking out from under a stack of magazines.
The voices outside the door grow faint and Mozzie dares to move. He brushes by the kid and wordlessly pulls the handgun from its hiding place. The kid has the grace to look discomfited.
“It’s not loaded,” he says defensively.
“Do you think the guy holding the other gun knows that?” Mozzie asks. He turns the small caliber gun over and finds the clip missing. With quick, fluent handling he pulls back the slide. A single round jumps out of the chamber. Mozzie catches the bullet and holds it up between his thumb and index finger. The kid avoids his eyes. Mozzie tosses the bullet and then the unloaded handgun onto the mattress.
“I think you should go,” the kid mutters, still avoiding eye contact.
“I think so, too,” the short man replies, his disappointment unhidden. Mozzie glances at the painting. “How much for the Degas?”
The kid looks up, confusion evident in his face. He shrugs. Mozzie pulls out his wallet and takes out several bills. He holds them out and the kid closes his fist around the wad of cash without counting.
“That’s 300 Dollars,” Mozzie says. “Those hands of yours are the ticket to any life you want. Use them to create or destroy-the choice is yours.” He grabs the canvas and steps onto the fire escape through the open window.
“You know where to find me, kid.” With a sigh, Mozzie looks down the rusty ladder before lowering himself slowly down the rungs.
***
A half hour later, Mozzie maneuvers the shopping cart through the narrow aisles of the Italian deli. He crosschecks the contents of the cart against his mental shopping list. Fresh pasta, canned San Marzano tomatoes, imported tomato paste, garlic and onions, assorted fresh herbs, ground veal from a local farm, 10-year-aged Parmesano Reggiano-all the essential ingredients to Mozzie’s top-secret spaghetti and meatball recipe. He stops at the wine rack and scans the exclusive collection of Italian reds until his searching eye finds the bottle of Sangiovese he is looking for-the one with the subtle note of “something” he hasn’t been able to figure out, the one he has been aching to test against a more sensitive palate than his own. Mozzie steers the cart towards the registers, making a quick pit stop in the dairy section to replenish his diminished supply of orange juice and eggs. His gaze brushes over the lactose-laden part of the dairy shelf that he is largely unfamiliar with, his eyes skipping over the selection of yogurts and prepackaged cheeses until his focus locks in on his target.
“What the hell are you getting yourself into, Mozzie?” He murmurs to himself as he grabs the half-gallon of chocolate milk and adds it to his cart.
On to Part 2
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Chicago - Part 1/3: Heels over head
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Pre-canon, Alternate canon, Neal Mozzie friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Drama
Summary: Mozzie was never a people person. But then people don't fall out of the midwestern sky.
Author's notes:
This has been sitting sad and neglected on my hard drive for a long time now. This was my take on the When Mozzie met Neal story, which became obsolete when Forging Bonds and Dentist of Detroit aired. It's an "early work" on a h/c theme that's been frequently done in the fandom, but I've hit a bit of a dry spell in the creative writing department, so I figured to at least wrap up this story, slap a big, fat AC/AU label on it and throw it out there. Maybe it will help to get the creative juices flowing again and hopefully a few of you will enjoy it.
Unbeta'ed, and possibly full of mistakes and inaccuracies.
Sorry for posting in parts. I promise to put the finishing touches on Part 2 in the next couple of days.
Part 1
Heels over Head
Mozzie is not a people person. He knows that by the time he is four. Nowadays, in the age of syndromes, disorders and -itises, his childhood behavior would likely come with a convenient set of acronyms attached to it. He would be filed under any number of initialisms for complex neuropathological terms that have entered the pop psychology mainstream and roll so easily and frequently over the tongues of the plebeian masses.
Back then, his Boho foster parents simply think of him as adorably peculiar and sublimely nonconformist. Most of his schoolmates generally prefer the term ‘weird’. He is not offended by any of those labels. He never feels like an outcast. There is no void in him that aches to be filled with other people’s affection. He has literature and science, words and numbers, philosophy and theorem. He absorbs it all: art and music and history and tabloid magazines and the evening news. He absorbs and processes and rearranges. What ends up filed away in the chaotic cul-de-sacs of his frontal lobe is the World According To Mozzie.
The World According To Mozzie is mostly out to get him. He blames this on his steadfast resistance to adhere to conventional norms of society. He admits that his affinity for beautiful and valuable things owned by others may be a contributing factor. In the World According To Mozzie trust was best reserved for oneself and friendship was a term used by people unable to define the exact terms of their business relationship.
***
The kid enters the World According to Mozzie not with a shout but with a whisper. A whimper, to be more accurate.
His leather-gloved hands stuffed into his pockets, Mozzie strolls over the landscaped museum grounds. He wouldn’t describe it as casing the area. He is a free man. What is to stop him from taking a late night walk through a beautiful park? Certainly not a six-foot wrought iron fence. The sandstone masonry of the Gothic revival building brushes against the sleeve of his heavy wool coat as he strides along the museum wall. His collar is turned up, his brimmed hat drawn low into his face, its top pelted by the heavy raindrops falling from the ominous October sky. Mozzie takes a mental note that in the future he will avoid planning art heists in Chicago during months that have the letter R in it.
His eyes are cast down on his soaked leather shoes that make slopping noises as he treads the standing water that has collected along the building walls. It takes him 54 steps to travel the width of the museum. He rounds the corner to the back of the building. He takes another 23 steps until he stops in his tracks because the water sloshing over his shoes has turned white. This observation puzzles him greatly.
The indistinct noise above his head is almost drowned out by the sound of the rain hitting the brim of his hat. When he looks up, a pasty hand is straining to reach for him but falls a mere two inches short of the top of his hat. The hand is attached to a bare arm that dangles from a shoulder. Between that shoulder and its matching right partner hangs a head, with a shock of dark hair that reaches for the ground in soggy, heavy strands. Wide-open pale eyes look down on him, blinking incessantly to keep the rainwater out. A few inches above, colorless lips are parted and trembling with the effort to form words.
“Help.”
Mozzie ignores the soft, strained plea as his gaze travels upwards. A white ribbed tank undershirt has ridden up-ridden down, Mozzie corrects-to gather under the dangler’s chin. Rainwater streams down a narrow, bare chest that swells and falls rapidly in shallow gasps of breath. A milky white rivulet meanders down a slender flank, cascades over the pronounced ridges of a ribcage, dips through the hollow of a pulsating throat and snakes along a jaw line and a temple where it disappears among wet chocolate brown curls to eventually drip onto the ground. When he spies the upturned bag of talcum powder that is clipped to the dangler’s waste band, Mozzie smiles with undue pride in having discovered the origin of the alabaster water that is ruining his shoes.
Mystery solved, his eyes wander up the left leg of a pair of skintight black spandex pants until they encounter a foot clad in a tightly laced thin sole rock climbing shoe. The foot is quite obviously trapped by a tangle of orange climbing rope that is wrapped around the ankle in several tight coils. The other spandex-covered leg is braced against the stone, keeping the dangler’s position on the wall stable. The orange rope that keeps the body so compromisingly suspended stretches another twenty feet up the vertical surface at which point it disappears from view over the edge of a small window in the gable of the steeply pitched roof.
Mozzie is quite familiar with that particular opening in the museum’s impenetrable shell. He has pored over every detail in the building’s blueprints. He knows that the small window-cut into the gable for ventilation rather than illumination-is the only access point not secured by an alarm. The reasons for this lack of security are obvious. The location of the opening high on the building wall makes access all but impossible and the compact dimensions of the window would prevent anyone who beat the odds and conquered the vertical climb from gaining access to the inside. Anyone but the slippery eel who is currently entangled in his own safety line.
Mozzie takes another sweeping survey of the dangler, taking stock of a few key facts he is confident to establish at this point in time. Male. Slim. Tall. Well, taller than Mozzie, anyway. Young. A kid, really. Hapless and utterly pathetic in his current predicament.
“My foot. Hurts. Please.” The plea from above is renewed with a thin, strained voice.
“And how do you suppose I do that, Houdini?” Mozzie finally addresses the kid swinging over his head. “I can’t just levitate up there. Maybe I should just call the police?” He reaches for his cell phone, and despite the darkness of the late hour he can see the panic that instantly colors the expression of general misery in the kid’s face. His lips close momentarily as he swallows.
“You’re here, too,” The kid croaks. “And I doubt it’s for legit reasons.”
“Maybe so, but I can leave after I make that call. You don’t have the same luxury.” Mozzie pointedly looks up at the tangle of rope trapping the kid’s foot. The kid smiles weakly. At least Mozzie thinks he smiles. It is difficult to judge facial expressions when the face is upside down and shrouded in shadow. There is a brief flashing of a white row of teeth, anyway.
“The groundskeeper’s shed is over there.” The kid’s arm sways wildly as he tries to point in the intended direction. Mozzie knows the layout of the grounds to a tee, and the kid’s orientation is off by a long shot. “I think there might be a ladder in there.”
“You think?” Mozzie doesn’t mean to sound so blatantly derisive, but the kid is a patent amateur. Mozzie knows for a fact that there is 16-foot extension ladder as well as a smaller stepladder stored in the shed, along with a large number of gardening and power tools, all of which he neatly cataloged during an earlier visit to the museum grounds. Some people would call such meticulous reconnaissance obsessive, but Mozzie likes to be prepared for all eventualities. He loves being proven right, even when the beneficiary of his painstaking preparation is clearly undeserving of his efforts. Mozzie sighs with a long look at the wretched youngster above his head.
“Wait here.” His mockery is answered by a disgruntled snort. Mozzie smirks complacently as he heads into the darkness of the museum grounds. Traversing the wet grass, he makes a beeline for the tool shed. The door is secured by a heavy padlock that is no obstacle for his lock-picking skills. Lugging the heavy extension ladder across the lawn proves to be the bigger challenge. He curses under his breath as he strains to balance the unwieldy object in his gloved hands. The heavy rain comes to a sudden, much appreciated end. A chilly autumn breeze tears the ceiling of low hanging clouds open, revealing a nearly full moon that casts a pale blue hue on the museum wall. Up ahead Mozzie can see the violent shivers that rattle the strung up body as the cool air brushes over exposed, damp skin. He catches the youngster’s eye that searches for him in the patchy shadows, and immediately the kid tenses in an attempt to still his shaking frame.
With a grunt Mozzie props the ladder against the wall next to the dangling kid and slides the extender out to its maximum height. Clasping both hands tightly around the rungs of the ladder he climbs up one trepidatious step at a time.
“Afraid of heights?” The kid asks, watching his endeavor curiously.
“Among other things,” Mozzie admits, his gaze never straying from his choking hold on the ladder. “Maybe you should give that whole acrophobia thing a try some time, Spiderman. Might keep you out of a boatload of trouble.”
“Yeah. Funny. Hurry, please?” The kid speaks in short, winded bursts.
“I’m moving as fast as I please,” Mozzie insists. “And you are in no position to make demands. Oh geeze.” Mozzie looks down the ladder and the edge of his vision begins to swim. He is at eyelevel with the trapped foot. Slowly relaxing the white-knuckled fingers of one hand, Mozzie reaches inside his coat to pull out the gardening clippers he pocketed in the tool shed. He hesitates as he stretches to sever the rope.
“Uh, I assume you are familiar with the concept of gravity?” Mozzie asks. “You know you’re going to drop like a stone the moment I cut the line?” The kid’s head bops as his gaze darts between the ground looming seven feet below and the taut length of rope above his foot. His midsection tenses when he attempts to jackknife, his arm stretching up to reach the rope. Pointy fingers dig into Mozzie’s coat sleeve, and the man on the ladder shrieks when he feels his precarious balance slip. The desperate grasp on his arm releases immediately. The kid’s upper body snaps back down and an unchecked yelp escapes his lips when the jerky movement sends a jolt of pain into his ankle.
“Just cut it already,” he begs from between gritted teeth.
“Okay, okay.” Mozzie’s heart is still pounding from the near-death experience of being pulled off the ladder. “On three. One-two-“
Mozzie’s third count coincides with a dull thud and a loud grunt coming from where the kid impacts the soggy ground at the foot of the wall.
“You okay?” Mozzie asks and starts his cautious descent down the ladder. There is no verbal reply from below but he can see the kid grappling with the twisted rope around his leg. By the time Mozzie’s shoes are back on safe and solid ground, the youngster has disentangled himself and is struggling to his feet. Finally in a vertical position, he sways dizzily and slumps against the wall.
“Headrush?” Mozzie approaches the kid who nods at him warily and tugs at his tank undershirt to cover his midriff. “How long were you up there?”
“What time is it?” The kid croaks. Mozzie checks his watch.
“Almost midnight.”
“We should get out of here.” The kid ignores Mozzie’s earlier question.
“No, no, no. There is no ‘we’,” the short man declares, wagging his finger in front of the youngster’s face. “There is me and then there is some snot-nosed wanna-be cat burglar who just put the kibosh on a perfectly good art heist three weeks in the planning.” Mozzie points up at the remaining stretch of rope swinging in the breeze.
“Sorry?” The kid’s apology is delivered as a question and accompanied by a shrug and a sheepish smile.
“The thief is sorry he is to be hanged-quite literally in your case, I might add-not that he is a thief,” Mozzie mumbles. Undecided what to do he sweeps his eyes over the soggy wretch leaning against the wall. “Where do you live?” He sighs.
“In town,” the kid replies cautiously, his head inclining in a direction that isn’t anywhere near the city.
“Is your leg broken?” Mozzie nods at the kid’s left limb.
“Don’t think so.” He keeps his weight on the right leg but moves his left foot a little.
“Alright.” Mozzie waves for the kid to follow him along. “I’ll give you a lift into town.” He takes off into the direction of the back gate. The youngster catches up with him in a few hobbling strides and slings his left arm over the short man’s shoulder for support. Mozzie freezes instantly.
“Ahhh, I think this is an appropriate moment to point out that I have a thing about people touching me,” the bespectacled man explains, visibly uncomfortable with the youngster’s proximity.
“But I’m not touching.” The kid wiggles his left hand over the other man’s shoulder and balls it into a fist. “No palm. See? I’m merely draping.”
Mozzie blinks at him, his puzzlement with the kid’s twisted logic and audacity written plainly across his face. He slowly shuffles forward as the kid shifts more of his weight onto his shoulder. Keeping his face straight ahead an his arms stiffly at his sides, he heads for the exit and tries hard not to think about what the kid’s mud and talcum soaked clothes are doing to his dry-clean-only wool coat. After a few steps he feels the draping hand cup his shoulder tightly and he swears that from the corner of his eye he can see a smug grin appear on the youngster’s face.
***
“This is my stop,” the kid declares as Mozzie slows the car to a crawl along the curb of a deserted Hyde Park side street. From behind the wheel Mozzie suspiciously eyes his passenger.
“Sure?” He asks.
“I know where I live, okay?” The kid snaps with an annoyed glare.
“Fine.” Mozzie slams on the brake and the car comes to a stop with a jerk. He waits for the kid to unbuckle.
“Thanks, man,” the youngster says, his sincere gratitude undisguised in the pale blue eyes that seek contact with Mozzie’s. The short man nods but avoids direct eye contact, which always leaves him feel strangely exposed.
“Stay out of trouble. And more importantly, stay out of my damn business.”
“Will do.” The kid opens the door, swings his good leg out and pulls himself up by the frame of the car door. Hopping awkwardly on one foot, he turns around and leans in to look at the driver one more time. His mouth opens as if to say something, but then he changes his mind, allowing an impish grin to spread over his face. He pulls out the wallet that is stuffed in the waistband at the small of his back and holds it out for the other man.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it,” he says with a shrug. With repugnance Mozzie looks at the leather billfold that is soaked with dirty water and-presumably-the kid’s sweat. The youngster’s gaze flits from the wallet to the bespectacled face and back. He drops the billfold on the passenger seat.
“Sorry, man. And thanks again for not calling the cops.” The car door closes, dimming the dome light inside the car. Mozzie watches the kid limp a few steps along the dark sidewalk before steering back out into the middle of the lane. He turns the corner, looking to find a major traffic artery that will lead him out of the unsavory neighborhood. Stopped a traffic light two cross streets down, he decides to circle the block one more time. A drizzling rain has set in by the time he hits the street where the kid asked to be dropped off. Half a block down the road Mozzie spots the shivering youngster standing on the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched and his bare arms wrapped tightly around his body. Undecided what to do, the kid’s eyes sweep the neighborhood.
Mozzie sighs and tries in vain to understand why he cares. He inches the car forward, eventually pulling up in front of the startled kid. He lowers the power window on the passenger side.
“Get in,” he orders plainly. In the dim light of the streetlamp he can see the kid considering the option to make a run for it. Hesitantly he opens the car door and slips back into the passenger seat, placing Mozzie’s wallet on the middle console in the process.
“I want my fifty back,” Mozzie says.
“What fifty?” Mozzie has to give the kid credit. He feigns innocence well.
“The one you took out of my wallet,” the short man replies. “The one that’s sticking out of the back of your pants.” The kid sighs and pulls the bill from the small of his back and places it in the cup holder.
“You walk around this part of town dressed like Baryshnikov with money sticking out of your belt, people are going to get the wrong idea,” Mozzie points out.
“There’re no fifties to be made in this neighborhood,” the kid mumbles and buckles in. He catches the other man’s scandalized look. “Or so I hear.”
Mozzie shakes his head and shifts the car into gear, mentally charting the shortest route to his rented apartment.
***
By the time they reach the front door of the fourth floor walk-up, Mozzie is exhausted from dragging his limping charge up the stairs. Sliding out from under the kid’s arm, he unlocks the apartment door, hits the light switch and motions for the kid to step inside ahead of him. The youngster hesitates for a moment before hobbling past the bespectacled man, bracing one hand against the wall for support. He comes to a halt a few steps into the room and takes a sweeping glance around the sparsely furnished living room. Seeing nothing that captures his interest, he turns around and watches as the other man shrugs out of his heavy overcoat.
“What’s with the scarf?” The kid asks, his curious eyes focused on the printed silk accessory tied around Mozzie’s neck. His mocking undertone is obvious. “Trying to make a fashion statement?”
“Says the guy in the wife-beater and spandex pants,” Mozzie replies, his eyebrows raised. “Who are you supposed to be? The romantic lead in the ballet version of Die Hard?”
The kid stares back at him blankly.
“Die Hard? John McClane? Ring any bells?” Mozzie rolls his wrist in a beckoning motion, as if the gesture can somehow crank the kid’s memory. He only reaps vacancy in the kid’s eyes.
“I see.” Mozzie heaves an exasperated sigh. “You were too occupied with your Nintendo to watch the most awesome action motion picture ever made. Kids these days!”
He studies the kid standing in his living room, unsteadily balanced on his uninjured leg, the ball of the left foot barely touching the floor. Even in the glaring light of the ceiling fixture the kid’s age is hard to pinpoint. He is tall, 5’10’’ maybe 5’11”, if he stood up straight. He is slender. No, skinny, Mozzie corrects himself. Lanky arms are dangling from the angular, narrow shoulders exposed by the sleeveless undershirt. His collarbones stick out too prominently under the shirt’s straps. The wet white cotton clings to his body, the arc of his ribcage clearly visible above his concave midriff. His slim frame is lined by lean, sinewy muscle.
The hard lines of his body under his clingy thin clothing seem nearly incompatible with the soft, delicate teenage face visible under the untamed shock of chin-length brown wavy hair clinging to his face. The skin on his chin and jaw is pink and smooth. Mozzie would bet a large sum of money that the kid shaves for sport but couldn’t grow a bona fide beard if his life depended on it. He looks tired, the signs of exhaustion evident in his hollow cheeks and slightly parted lips, but his bright blue eyes are wide open and display a degree of childlike curiosity that-Mozzie presumes-will stick with the kid if he lives to be a hundred.
Mozzie is an expert on putting an age on pretty things, and he cannot deny that the overall package is pretty. The kid will be breaking hearts left and right, if he hasn’t already left a throng of devastated teenage girls in his wake. Mozzie takes another sweeping look at his late night guest and decides that the kid is neither old enough to drink nor old enough to vote in the state of Illinois. He is most definitely too young to be hanging upside down from museum walls in the middle of the night. The boy isn’t older than sixteen, seventeen if Mozzie wants to be generous. No carbon dating needed. Mozzie also knows that he can safely wager his car that the kid will vehemently deny the fact that he is underage.
“Anyway,” Mozzie says, slightly unnerved by the kid’s expectant stare. “Why don’t you go thaw out and get cleaned up with a hot shower. I’ll order some Chinese.”
The kid’s eyes narrow and he appears hesitant about his choice of words.
“I don’t know where you think this is going, Mister,” he starts and straightens his back, gaining the extra inch.
“Mozzie,” the shorter man interjects.
“Mozz,” the kid parrots incorrectly.
“Mozzie,” the other man insists.
“I don’t know where you think this is going, Mozz,” the kid starts over with a sigh, “but I’m not doing that.”
“What?” Mozzie’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.
“That.” The kid points both index fingers directly at the shorter man. “If you catch my drift.”
Mozzie only chuckles, a mildly amused smile on his lips.
“I’m not passing judgment,” the kid rambles on, blushing noticeably. “It’s just not for me. And I don’t need the money. Okay? I can leave right now if I gave you the wrong impression.”
The shorter man raises his hands in reconciliatory gesture.
“Calm down, kid. Don’t let the fashion-forward exterior fool you. I prefer my dates a little more Rubenesque,” he explains, his hands tracing a curvy female silhouette in the air, “and a little less Andy Warhol.”
The kid stares back at him with a puzzled expression, a deep furrow appearing between the curly strands of hair drooping over his brow.
“Rubens was a 17th century painter who-“ Mozzie begins to clarify.
“I know who Peter Paul Rubens was,” the kid cuts him off sharply, the volume of his voice taking the other man aback. “He was a Flemish Baroque painter. I also know who Andy Warhol was.”
He pauses, his eyes defiantly bearing down on the shorter man.
“I’m not stupid.” The words are spat out rather than spoken. Mozzie can detect the slightest twitch in the kid’s leg and he is sure he would have stomped his foot to illustrate his point if it wasn’t for the pain in his ankle. The kid has a temper and no appreciable talent to keep it in check. Mozzie would be more than happy to read this boy like a book in a game of poker if there was actually anything other than lint to be shaken out of the kid’s pockets. If the kid actually had pockets, Mozzie muses with another quick glance at the spandex pants.
“I wasn’t implying that you’re stupid,” Mozzie states calmly. The picture of the kid is something to behold. With his blue eyes full of fury, his smooth jaw set rigidly and his lips tightened into a thin, pale line, he stands with his chest rising and falling rapidly. Under different circumstances the lanky figure with his balled fists would be at least marginally intimidating. Given the ridiculous outfit the kid is wearing and given the fact that he is caked in talcum powder and mud and shivering in his wet clothes, Mozzie has to use all of his self-control to stifle the belittling smirk that threatens to creep onto his lips.
“Listen, kid.” He pauses to give the teen a chance to throw his name into the mix. His unspoken request remains unanswered.
“Listen, kid, I apologize if I insulted you or made you feel uneasy in any way,” Mozzie states with sincerity. “Now, if you feel like it-and please don’t feel obligated-you’re welcome to use my bathroom to shower or take a bath or do whatever you need to do to get warmed up. There’s a robe hanging behind the door. Towels are in the closet off of the bathroom. There are also clothes. Borrow whatever you want.”
“I for myself will sit down on my couch and order some food. I’m famished,” he continues. “I’d be happy to take a look at that leg of yours, now or after you’ve changed. Unless you would like me to drive you home right away?”
The kid looks from Mozzie to the apartment door, weighing his options. Mozzie doesn’t know what is waiting for the kid at home, but whatever it is, the kid obviously thinks that spending a few more hours in a stranger’s house is the lesser of two evils.
“I’d like some Lo Mein, please. And Mongolian Beef. And some potstickers,” the kid requests brashly and hobbles off in the direction of the bathroom.
***
The kid takes his time in the bathroom. Mozzie sits on his couch, thumbs distractedly through the latest issue of Newsweek and listens to the sounds coming from behind the bathroom door. The shower runs for a good fifteen minutes, Mozzie checks his watch twice. When the water is finally turned off, the kid has obviously no intention to hide the fact that he is rummaging through a stranger’s bathroom cabinets. Mozzie hears the drawers and doors open and shut repeatedly. Plastic bottles are tipping over and something crashes from the counter to the floor, accompanied by a muted string of expletives. The racket is followed by several minutes of silence, then Mozzie hears the creaky closet door open. Clothes are being pushed around on their hangers, the wire hooks scraping noisily over the hanger bar.
It has been thirty minutes since the kid has disappeared in the bathroom when the doorbell rings, drawing Mozzie’s attention away from the noises behind the wall. The short man hoists himself up from the sofa, and saunters to the door to receive his delivery of Chinese food. He quickly checks the contents of the takeout boxes, before tipping the deliveryman generously.
Mozzie sets the food on the small dining table and briefly considers transferring the contents of the boxes to proper serving ware. Given the late hour he decides to forgo the extra effort. Instead, he simply lays out plates, tea mugs, silverware and cloth napkins, along with the single-use chopsticks included in the delivery. Reasonably happy with the table setting, Mozzie wanders over to the stove and sets a pot of water to boil for green tea.
When he hears the bathroom door open and close behind him, he turns around to find the kid standing in the living room, holding his bunched up wet clothes. He is wearing one of Mozzie’s dark long-sleeve denim button-down shirts and a pair of drawstring gym pants that Mozzie doesn’t remember owning. For a moment the short man is stumped by how the clothes can simultaneously look too large and too small on the lanky kid. The youngster’s bare feet are sticking out under the too short pant legs, his left ankle expertly wrapped in a crisp white stretch bandage.
“You okay with me borrowing these?” The kid asks, smoothing his hand over the shirtfront, his eyes searching for a sign of approval in the other man’s scrutiny. “I pulled them from the back of the closet. Didn’t look like you were going to wear them anytime soon.”
“That’s fine.” Mozzie nods towards the bandaged foot. “How’s the leg?”
“I helped myself to some stuff from your med kit.” The kid’s reply is delivered without a trace of an apology for his unsanctioned search of a stranger’s bathroom cabinets. Mozzie doesn’t fail to notice that his question remains unanswered. The short man shrugs. Maybe this kid wouldn’t be a complete donkey at the poker table after all.
“You can hang your clothes over the radiator to dry. Dinner is on the table. You may take a seat. I’ll be over with the tea in a minute.” Mozzie decides to do the kid a favor by not watching his awkward limp to the heater and on to the dining table. He pours the hot water over the tealeaves.
Turning back to the table with the pot of tea in his hand, Mozzie catches the kid with his hand fishing for a dumpling in one of the takeout containers. His mouth is already stuffed as he hurriedly chews on one of the pan-fried potstickers.
“Whoa-oh-oh.” Mozzie rushes to the tableside. “A man's manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait,” he quotes in the most scolding tone he manages to produce. “And right now your portrait says Conan the Barbarian.”
The kid shoots him an apologetic look, retracts his greasy fingers from the dumpling container and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Mozzie sighs with exasperation at the complete lack of etiquette and slides into the seat across from the kid. He pours two cups of green tea. There is a shadow on the kid’s brow as he ponders something.
“Manners are the hypocrisy of a nation. Balzac.” The youngster finally quotes with a hint of triumph in his lopsided smile.
“My house, my rules. Haversham!” Mozzie replies and cringes with the realization that he is sounding like an adult. The kid looks to be wracking his brain yet again.
“Never heard of him,” he finally admits with a slight shake of the head.
“You’ve just subscribed to his newsletter,” Mozzie retorts. “Now sit up straight, get those elbows off the table, put the napkin in your lap and eat like you have opposing thumbs. Please.”
Attentively the kid watches as Mozzie settles in and serves himself from the takeout containers. When he picks up his chopsticks and begins to eat at a leisurely pace, the youngster perfectly mirrors his posture and mannerisms. Mozzie isn’t sure whether he is being flattered or mocked.
By the time Mozzie has finished his plate, the kid has piled seconds onto his and is hungrily digging in. Mozzie leans back in his chair and watches for a moment. It doesn’t look like the kid is planning on finishing his meal anytime soon.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Mozzie says. “I’m going to pour me a glass of Zin.” He walks over to the kitchen counter and pulls the cork from the open bottle of red wine. He fills a Bordeaux glass a little over halfway and then adds another half inch with a shrug.
“Not quite so much for me, thank you,” the kid says without looking up from his plate of food.
“Hah!” Mozzie bursts out. He grabs a second glass from the cabinet and carries it over to the table, along with the bottle of wine and his full glass. The self-satisfied grin that spreads over the kid’s face when he places the wine glass in front of him amuses Mozzie greatly. He tips the bottle and pours a small sip of Zinfandel into the empty glass before pulling the bottle away. The kid’s grin morphs into a disappointed frown as he picks up the glass and swirls the tiny amount of liquid around the bottom of the bowl.
“You’re kidding me, right?” The youngster looks up at Mozzie from under the long strands of hair that fall into his face.
“You may not be old enough to drink.” Mozzie smiles. “But you’re old enough to have a palate. Tell me what you think.” The short man takes a sip of his wine and gestures the kid to do the same. The youngster assertively picks up the piece of stemware and empties its content into his mouth. Mozzie suppresses a smirk when he watches him swirl the liquid around his mouth before swallowing.
“You first,” the kid says.
“Hmm.” Mozzie’s face turns overly serious. “Brooding and complex. With hints of blackberry and clove.” He announces.
“Yes.” The kid nods eagerly. “But you’re wrong. It’s raspberry, not blackberry and I’m getting a little pepper in addition to the clove.”
Mozzie’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. He studies the kid whose unwavering gaze meets him in an open challenge. Mozzie doesn’t do eye contact. He has never opted for contacts over his heavy-rimmed glasses because he wears them like a shield. A shield that is currently being hacked to pieces by a pair of insolent blue eyes that refuse to give away the bluff that may be hidden behind them. Unexpectedly, and mercifully, a slow blink of fatigue robs the blue eyes of their focus.
“I’m twenty-two,” the kid states blankly, sounding a little weary.
“Uh-huh.” Mozzie nods and takes a swig of his wine. The youngster turns his attention back to the remaining food on his plate, eating with less haste than before. Mozzie sinks onto his chair and leisurely finishes his glass of wine and a second while looking on as the kid wordlessly polishes off every bit of remaining food from the takeout containers. So much for having leftovers for lunch tomorrow, Mozzie thinks with a sigh. Across the table the kid washes the last bite down with a swig of lukewarm tea and then bends down to recover the napkin that has slipped from his lap to the floor. He wipes his mouth before slumping back against the chair.
“Stick a fork in me,” he groans, rubbing his belly. “That was great. Thank you. What do I owe you?” Mozzie chuckles.
“What do you have?” The kid only shrugs.
“That’s what I thought,” Mozzie says and gets to his feet to clear the table.
“I could help with the dishes?” The kid offers. Mozzie carries the plates over to the sink. He pulls a dishtowel from a hook and tosses it at the kid who catches it with one hand and a grin.
“Clear the rest of the table, please, and then you can dry.” Watching the kid get to his feet, Mozzie instantly regrets assigning him the task of shuttling garbage and dishes from the table to the kitchen area. The youngster doesn’t seem deterred by his injured foot and hobbles across the room in good spirits, taking several trips to and from the table before finally appearing by Mozzie’s side to dry off the plates and cups stacked on the wooden drying rack.
“So Mozz-“ he starts after working in silence for a moment.
“It’s Mozzie,” the other man replies.
“Fine. Mozzie. How come you’re not asking me for my name?”
“Does it matter?” Mozzie replies with a shrug.
“No. I guess not.” The kid sounds a little disappointed.
“What’s in a name?” Mozzie ponders.
“Shakespeare? Really?” The kid smirks at him from the side. “Dude, it’s 2:30 in the morning.” Mozzie tries hard to suppress the smile that threatens to take over his put on pensive look. He realizes he likes the kid, and that thought worries him. He yanks the dishtowel from the youngster’s grip and tips his head in the direction of the living room.
“Well, the poetry reading is over. Now go and crash. The couch is all yours. I’ll bring you a blanket and a pillow as soon as I’m done here.” Mozzie finishes the dishes, allowing the remaining few pieces to air-dry. He turns off the overhead lights leaving the table lamp by the couch the only source of light. He briefly disappears into the bedroom and pulls the knit blanket from his bed. Stuffing one of his two pillows under his arm, he makes his way back to the couch. The kid is lying flat on his back, his bandaged foot resting elevated on the armrest. His eyes are closed and Mozzie can tell from the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest that he has already drifted off into exhausted sleep. The short man drapes the blanket over the sleeping form and places the pillow on his chest. The kid’s arms wrap around the soft cushion immediately. He rolls onto his side with a contented moan and burrows the side of his face in the pillow.
***
The kid is dead to the world until ten the next morning. Mozzie quietly moseys around the apartment, following his usual routine of stealing the daily newspaper from his neighbor’s doormat and reading it over a cup of coffee. He finishes the funnies by 9:30, folds the paper and tosses it into the recycling bin. Indecisively Mozzie watches the sleeping kid who hasn’t moved an inch since his host got out of bed three hours ago.
The short man strolls over to the fridge and takes out a carton of eggs and a wilting bunch of green onions that has been living out its final days on earth in the obscurity of the vegetable drawer. Mozzie predicts that the smell of his legendary omelets will rouse even the soundest sleeper from his dreams. By the time the butter is melting in the pan, his theory proves to be correct when the kid’s head pops up over the back of the couch.
“Morning,” Mozzie announces cheerfully. The youngster sinks back into the couch cushions with the trademark groan of a groggy teenager. Mozzie turns back to the stovetop. Shortly after, the shuffling noises behind him announce the kid’s return to the world of the living. Rubbing his eyes and raking his fingers through his mussed hair the youngster materializes by Mozzie’s side and heads for the refrigerator. He rummages through its contents but comes up empty.
“You got any chocolate milk?” He asks, peeking over the open fridge door.
“Lactose intolerant,” Mozzie replies. “There’s OJ on the bottom shelf.”
The kid pulls out the orange juice and shakes the carton to estimate the remaining volume. He unscrews the plastic cup and greedily pours the juice directly into his mouth.
“Savage.” Mozzie stares at him in sheer disbelief.
“C’mon. It was almost empty anyway. One less glass to wash.” The kid puts the empty carton back on the shelf, closes the fridge and gently shoulders the other man aside to inspect the omelet sizzling in the frying pan. “That smells divine.”
“Go sit down.” Mozzie’s order sounds vexed enough to prompt immediate compliance by the youngster.
“Thank you,” the kid utters meekly when a plate of food and a steaming mug of coffee is shoved in front of him. “I guess cream is out of the question?” Instead of an answer a bowl of sugar cubes is placed on the table with a heaving sigh. He waits politely for the other man to cook his own omelet, the enticing smell of the food in front of him testing his patience. He places a sugar cube on a teaspoon and partially submerges it in the coffee. When the sugar is thoroughly soaked he spoons the cube into his mouth savoring the sweetness as it dissolves on his tongue. He repeats the process with four more lumps of sugar until he feels the short man tower over his chair.
“You know, somebody really needs to teach you a lesson about table manners.” There is a brief hesitation in the kid’s movement and Mozzie suddenly cringes at his own choice of words. He has spend enough time in the foster system and at the margins of society to know that kids like the one at his table have had more than their fair share of life lessons inflicted on them, and rarely in an academic fashion.
“You know what they say about drinking coffee?” He quickly redirects the conversation as he lowers himself onto his chair. “You should drink it either bitter as life or sweet as love. I can tell which option you prefer.” Just for show the kid drops three sugar cubes into his mug and stirs the syrupy concoction.
“Go ahead. Eat. Your food is getting cold. You shouldn’t have waited for me,” Mozzie urges.
“I was just minding my manners,” the kid states sulkily and sticks his fork into the fluffy egg. “You know, mirror of my portrait or soul or something.”
“Smartass,” Mozzie replies, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He takes a bite of his breakfast and watches the expression of culinary bliss appear on the kid’s face as he shovels the omelet into his mouth. He knows he has been forgiven for telling him off earlier.
“Good, huh?” Mozzie is shamelessly fishing for praise. The kid swallows hastily to clear his full mouth.
“Yeah, it’s great. You need to show me how to do that.” For some reason the prospect of a cooking lesson sounds appealing to Mozzie. He pushes his half-eaten omelet across the table for the kid to finish.
“What time is it?” The kid asks between bites.
“A little after ten.” Mozzie checks his watch.
“I need to be at work by noon,” the youngster says, taking another sip of coffee.
“So, attempted theft is more of a hobby of yours then?” The kid shrugs and doesn’t look up from his plate.
“Take my advice and don’t quit your day job, Spiderman. Leave the art heists to the professionals.” The blue eyes that glance up at the short man are filled with wounded pride.
“It wasn’t my idea,” the kid mumbles.
“If you are the brawns then I don’t think I want to meet the brains behind the operation,” Mozzie mocks. A fork is slammed loudly onto the table as the kid’s temper gets the better of him.
“No, I didn’t plan the operation,” The kid states, anger flaring in his eyes. “And no, I didn’t want to be hungry for six weeks so that I could lose the ten pounds that kept me from fitting through that damn window. And no, I didn’t enjoy almost breaking my neck on that wall when the rain set in and made the rope slippery. And no, I didn’t ask to be left hanging out to dry by the people who send me there.”
Mozzie swallows hard.
“I’m sorry, man,” he says quietly. He chews on his lip as the fight is slowly leaving the kid’s eyes and the youngster turns to finish his breakfast. “Out of pure curiosity, which painting were you going to steal?”
“The Degas in Hall C,” the kid replies.
“Good choice.”
“I know. I picked it.” The youngster scrapes up the last bits of food and empties his coffee. “If it was up to me, I still would have taken it. I just would have done it a different way.”
“How?” Mozzie asks, an eyebrow raised in intrigue. The kid’s eyes sparkle with cryptic exhilaration as if he is about to divulge a secret he had been holding back for a long time.
“I’ll show you.”
***
Mozzie’s car pulls into the lane behind the row of three-story terraced houses.
“Stop there.” The kid in the passenger seat points to a parking space by a group of trash bins. Mozzie complies and kills the engine. The youngster is already out of the car and bending a piece of chain-linked fence aside. He gestures for the short man to step through the opening. After fixing the hole in the fence the kid leads him through several backyards, following a complicated path through well-concealed gaps in wooden and wire fences. They finally come to a stop at the bottom of a fire escape that leads up the back of one of the houses. The kid walks over to a crate left by the corner of the building for no apparent reason. He drags the wooden box under the fire escape and climbs on top. When the kid reaches for the bottom rung of the sliding ladder, Mozzie covers his ears against the grating noise that is about to make the hair on the back of his neck bristle. The ladder slides down smoothly and noiselessly.
“I keep her well greased,” the kid says with a grin. “Sorry, but this will require conquering more vertical distance. Third floor, please,” he adds as he invites the short man to take the lead up the ladder.
“Credit my keen observational skills, but something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve slunk up there?” Mozzie hesitantly starts climbing up, his limbs shaky with the prospect of falling to an untimely death.
“Let’s just say I’ve brought the occasional date in via the scenic route. The sunset is quite breathtaking from up here,” the kid replies with phony prep school enunciation. He follows Mozzie closely up the ladder. “Just keep your eyes up, Moz. I’m right behind you. Next stop: penthouse.”
Mozzie doesn’t breathe until he has reached the top floor landing. He steps onto the grate and wills his eyes to keep staring at the brick wall instead of the void below. The kid appears by his side with an elegant dismount from the ladder. His eyes briefly sweep over the shorter man to verify that he has survived the climb without psychological fallout. Facing the double-hung window he pulls a small pin from the bottom right corner of the sash and then slides the window up slowly. He pokes his head inside and pauses to listen. When the kid’s face reappears, his index finger is pressed against his lips, asking for silence. He waves Mozzie to follow him as he steps through the window.
Climbing inside, Mozzie finds himself in a small bedroom.
“The penthouse, huh?” Mozzie asks taking in his surroundings. The room is in a state of carefully controlled chaos. Stacks of books are piled high against the walls, a narrow bookshelf overflowing with them. There is no closet or space for a dresser, but a few clothes lie neatly folded in a laundry basked by the twin size mattress on the floor.
Leaving the other man standing by the window, the kid weaves his way around the boxes of art supplies that litter the limited floor space. He walks over to the only door in the room and slowly and soundlessly turns the key to a locked position. Crossing to the far side of the room he stops in front of an easel that has been rigged from scrap wood.
“Check this out,” the kid whispers, his face lit up by a proud grin. He turns the piece of canvas sitting on the wooden frame, blinking at Mozzie expectantly.
“Ta-dah!”
The painting is a reproduction of the Degas at the gallery. Mozzie approaches the canvas, mindful not to trip over the numerous obstacles scattered on the worn hardwood floor. He leans in until his face is inches from the painted surface. He studies the painting in detail for the better part of two minutes, ignoring the kid, who twitches with impatience by his side.
“You did this?” Mozzie finally asks, looking up at the kid. The boy nods eagerly.
“Good technique. Your brushstroke is almost perfect.”
“It’s perfect,” the kid states matter-of-factly.
“You’re right,” Mozzie admits graciously. “Unfortunately, your choice of paint and canvas is atrocious.” The youngster looks genuinely hurt.
“Do you have any idea how expensive period oil paint and canvas are?” The kid glares at him with his mouth set in resentment.
“I do,” Mozzie replies calmly. “And I have a storage locker full of them. What I don’t have is a hand like yours.” He can’t help but smile as the kid’s jaw drops in amazement. There is an undisguised flare of desire in the youngster’s eyes as the wheels in his head process the implications. Wide-open blue eyes dart from the canvas to Mozzie and then, suddenly, to the bedroom door.
There are voices outside the door and Mozzie’s heart sinks when he sees the naked fear that instantly replaces the pride and ambition in the kid’s expression.
“Your dad?” Mozzie mouths voicelessly. The youngster only looks at him blankly. For a moment his gaze bounces to the top of the bookshelf before returning focus to the recessed door panel. With a curious frown Mozzie scans the topmost bookshelf and finally zones in on the unmistakable shape of a gun handle sticking out from under a stack of magazines.
The voices outside the door grow faint and Mozzie dares to move. He brushes by the kid and wordlessly pulls the handgun from its hiding place. The kid has the grace to look discomfited.
“It’s not loaded,” he says defensively.
“Do you think the guy holding the other gun knows that?” Mozzie asks. He turns the small caliber gun over and finds the clip missing. With quick, fluent handling he pulls back the slide. A single round jumps out of the chamber. Mozzie catches the bullet and holds it up between his thumb and index finger. The kid avoids his eyes. Mozzie tosses the bullet and then the unloaded handgun onto the mattress.
“I think you should go,” the kid mutters, still avoiding eye contact.
“I think so, too,” the short man replies, his disappointment unhidden. Mozzie glances at the painting. “How much for the Degas?”
The kid looks up, confusion evident in his face. He shrugs. Mozzie pulls out his wallet and takes out several bills. He holds them out and the kid closes his fist around the wad of cash without counting.
“That’s 300 Dollars,” Mozzie says. “Those hands of yours are the ticket to any life you want. Use them to create or destroy-the choice is yours.” He grabs the canvas and steps onto the fire escape through the open window.
“You know where to find me, kid.” With a sigh, Mozzie looks down the rusty ladder before lowering himself slowly down the rungs.
***
A half hour later, Mozzie maneuvers the shopping cart through the narrow aisles of the Italian deli. He crosschecks the contents of the cart against his mental shopping list. Fresh pasta, canned San Marzano tomatoes, imported tomato paste, garlic and onions, assorted fresh herbs, ground veal from a local farm, 10-year-aged Parmesano Reggiano-all the essential ingredients to Mozzie’s top-secret spaghetti and meatball recipe. He stops at the wine rack and scans the exclusive collection of Italian reds until his searching eye finds the bottle of Sangiovese he is looking for-the one with the subtle note of “something” he hasn’t been able to figure out, the one he has been aching to test against a more sensitive palate than his own. Mozzie steers the cart towards the registers, making a quick pit stop in the dairy section to replenish his diminished supply of orange juice and eggs. His gaze brushes over the lactose-laden part of the dairy shelf that he is largely unfamiliar with, his eyes skipping over the selection of yogurts and prepackaged cheeses until his focus locks in on his target.
“What the hell are you getting yourself into, Mozzie?” He murmurs to himself as he grabs the half-gallon of chocolate milk and adds it to his cart.
On to Part 2