The House on Riverside Drive
Title: The House on Riverside Drive
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: June, Neal, Mozzie
Summary: A trio of First Meetings from The Pilot, S1, E1
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Word Count: 2105
Notes: For Elrhiarhodan's Promptfest IX for the prompts:
June - Arrangement and
Neal - Sunshine.
The third part here is a new addition and could be thought of as Mozzie - Games
June & Neal
He flips the hat up his arm. Just the way Byron had done. Fifty years of loving a conman had made her adept at hiding emotions but her heart aches when he grins, his joy so like Byron when they'd first met.
Her eyes drift to his hands and she sees the color beneath his nails. "Oil pastel?" Cindy had started using them a year ago, and June has learned to tell the difference from paint.
Surprise lights his eyes, "You're an artist?"
"No, but you are. What's your specialty?"
"Well, there are all kinds of art-"
She holds up a hand to stop him. "Do not con me, young man."
He stops, his smile turning soft.
"You want the suits?"
"I'd be honored."
She scribbles her address on a dry cleaning receipt. "Come to this address in one half hour. We can talk about what kind of artist you are then."
* * * * *
"So in all those years?"
"Only once. Byron was careful." She watches his reaction, " And he didn't associate with anyone else who'd been caught after that, either."
His eyes drop a moment and if she hadn't known by the plastic around his ankle, she'd know now that he'd just gotten out. He reaches down to run his free hand across Bugsy's fur again.
He looks back up at his work, continues while she speaks, "But, he retired once we had kids. Just the occasional card game or pool."
"He must have been amazing." Neal sets his brush down and turns around. Finished in three hours, the fisherman alert on the canvas, watching for movement from their poles. It would never pass as an original with generic college supplies, but it's stunning.
"This is splendid, Neal. Just beautiful."
His grin widens, the tilt of his head endearing. "We aim to please."
"But I wanted an original. I don't think you're even a descendant of Seurat."
He looks around her parlor, eyes darting to different frames, a brow raised in challenge.
"Not all of these are forgeries."
"Fair enough. But I don't do much original work."
"Why?"
He shrugs.
Celeste brings in fresh coffee and cake before starting on the dusting in the foyer. Neal puts away Cindy's supplies and they get down to business.
"Give me the highlights."
"I was convicted of bond forgery. The FBI made me a deal; work for them for the rest of my sentence in exchange for a two mile radius."
"They're securing this deal with that piece of plastic on your leg?"
He pulls up his pant leg and nods.
"How long are you planning to stick around?"
"The deal's for four years."
"That's not what I asked."
He looks up sharply, eyes studying her. After a second he drops his head, lets out a soft laugh. "I don't know." She can see his mind wandering, a hopeful openness to his face. " I'm looking for someone."
"Is this someone dangerous?"
His answer is immediate and with conviction. "No. She's not."
"I have chores to be done around the house that are not so easy for Celeste. I'd prefer not to board my dog when I can't take him with me. And this old house is lonely."
"Well, I'm not a handyman but I'm a quick learner. I always wanted a dog," his pearly whites make an enormous presence, "and excellent company is something I don't take for granted."
"Then it's settled. The loft is yours."
"June, thank you so-"
"Not so fast."
His smile falters and she leans forward, into his space. "I won't be your mark."
His nod is accepting. He blinks a few times and takes a deep breath. "I don't think I could con you if I wanted, but It'll be nice not to have to."
"I'd like some warning before the FBI come knocking at my door."
"Done."
"And... I want a couple of original Caffreys for my wall."
His laugh is like music, missing from these halls for so long. She's not sure if Byron would have approved of this arrangement, but it's just what she needs.
Neal & his loft
When Neal was little, when Mom was having an off day, before he realized those were most days, and Ellen would sweep in with an easy smile as though she'd meant to spend the day with him all along, she used to drag him to one of the greenhouses surrounding the city. She'd push her cart up and down the rows, pulling out a flat here and there, making sure the leaves were healthy and the price was worth it. They usually didn't go to the same greenhouse twice in a row, but they all seemed the same to Neal.
He'd sit in the cart as she pushed, his head tilted back, and watch the sunlight through the rooftop windows, keeping watch for those moments when the rays shone through or a glimpse of spectrum splintered into little pieces in the air as they passed. Whenever they rolled through a patch of warm yellow light that reached far enough down to their cart, he'd close his eyes and watch the inside of his eyelids glow.
Those are the thoughts that come to him tonight. The apartment is perfect - tasteful but not trendy. He could not have asked for better light for painting. A kitchenette, table, sofa, antique bed. June had regaled him with stories downstairs for half an hour before bringing him up here. He's so relieved that he doesn't have to con her, playing Peter is exhausting enough.
After she leaves, fresh linen stacked on the bed, promises of the kitchen and bathroom being stocked tomorrow, he sits at the table and leans his head back, looking through the skylights, searching for rays, catching snatches of color as the day winds down. By the time he sinks into the bed his eyes are strained and he's as exhausted as his first days in prison when he was too terrified to sleep. But June's skylight stares down at him and he can't relax without the colors glowing through his lids. He'd never been in the greenhouses at dark and glass everywhere he looks is a far cry from the cocoon of three stone walls and some bars. He'd hated those walls for four years, but now he hates himself more for actually missing them.
Mozzie & June
"We are not receiving visitors today."
With anyone else, Moz would think he got the address wrong but of course Neal would swing a mansion in the most exclusive part of the best city in the world. He can see the deluge of spectacular carved marble in the foyer from out here on the steps. He's almost sorry he's not here to scope the place.
The maid is a problem. She's not budging an inch - he can't even get in the doorway - so he'll just have to wear her down long enough for-
"Who is it, Celeste?"
Ah, this must be the lady of the house. Gorgeous caramel skin and honey-colored waves. Classic skirt, cashmere sweater. She greets him with one of those little yippy dog in her arms, sans the yip.
"May I help you?"
"It's what I can do to help you, Madam. Your generosity in helping those less fortunate has rebounded to an auspicious windfall. You're the lucky recipient of this high definition 23inch plasma screen."
She's like a golden age hollywood star. Even her frown is high-class. "A television? Who sent this?"
"You won it, Milady. A contest of the highest order." A bow, hands together, is not excessive for this setting.
"You're sure you have the correct address?"
"87 Riverside Drive. I just need to set it up, along with your surround sound. Works best on the upper floors."
"How did I become entered in this contest, Mr. ?... "
"Haversham."
"Haversham."
He pulls out a price list from the office supply store down the street, holds it at an angle just out of her view. "I have listed here your donations to a number of worthy charities. The contest is... a group effort, if you will, of said organizations. The latest craze in creating buzz for charity fund-raising, you know."
"I see. And to what will you need access while you're installing?"
"Just the top floor. Should only take a couple of hours."
She takes his measure; he's usually fine with this sort of scrutiny, but she seems more discerning than most.
"May I offer you some tea and scones?" Ah, a pushover. He's almost disappointed.
"Plum or green?"
"Either."
"Non-dairy scones?"
"If you prefer."
Moz smiles.
The tea and scones are sublime. So is Mrs. Ellington's vintage cribbage set. Three matches in and he's behind but it's the most fun he's had in a while.
"Ah a Jack."
"Two points!" He picks up the pile of pegs, making equal their competition. "A tie-breaker?"
"Mr. Haversham, I find we've come to an impasse."
"How so?"
"You know that I'm not going to allow you to install that television in my home. And I know that's not why you're really here."
"I can neither confirm nor deny."
"I thought not."
"How do you propose we solve this issue?"
She resets the game, actions slow and sure. "We'll play one more match. You win, you may leave my home without me calling the police. I win, and you tell me what you really want and what it has to do with my recent houseguest."
"Houseguest?"
"Who, as you appear to know, judging by your brilliant faux contest, resides on the top floor."
Rather astute of her. She's a delight and not at all mainstream. There's brandy in the tea (he has to get that recipe), she has Gillespie playing on a genuine phonograph and the Cassat on the dining room wall is a forgery. Nowhere near Neal's skills but, pretty impressive.
"Mrs. Ellington, may I say what a pleasure it is to have found such a crafty conspirator."
"Likewise." She places her hands in her lap delicately, fingers laced, like a queen or Barbara Walters.
"I see your proposal and raise you that we forgo the phone call and the television. I know you have secrets here you'd rather not disclose to the authorities."
"In exchange?"
"I reveal the motive of my visit."
"Not a bad recommendation. Tell me, how do you know my current tenant?"
"Oh, we go back a long way."
She leans forward in her chair, intent on making herself understood. "Mr. Haversham, if you continue to dance around the topic, we will never reach the conclusion, nor the solution."
"Touché. I'm his mentor."
"I see."
"No more dangerous than he is, I assure you."
"I'm not certain I believe that entirely. But you and I are old enough to know that the boyish charm he relies on only goes so far."
So, Neal is not her first encounter with a con. Moz would wager she's been in, at least, the passenger seat of a con or two herself, so she can smell a lie. "I want to make sure this place is safe."
"You don't trust his judgment?"
"Trust, but verify. He's been known to be overly faithful."
"You think his faith is misplaced here?"
"I see no obvious perils. Yet."
"You were concerned I would hurt him?"
"More like brainwash him into following the media-induced blindly patriotic domesticity of the American masses."
An insulted brow is her only answer. He scrambles to amend his mistake, "You could have been in alliance with The Man for all I knew. Apologies now that I see differently."
"I've given you my real name, but you have not returned that favor. How do I know I can trust you?"
"You obviously can't."
She gestures to the photo of a non-existent television. "What's really in that box?"
"Scanning - and blocking - equipment. Russian military surplus. I don't want the suits spying on him."
"I see."
She relaxes into her wingback, takes another sip of tea while she studies him again. The family photos on the console span a thirty year range. He can guarantee those kids pulled nothing over on this matriarch, and if she's looking for someone to mother, she might be a good influence on Neal . Better her than that Suit.
She puts the saucer on the table with a final chink, deliberation apparently complete.
"You outfit the whole house, top of the line, and you're in."
Mozzie stands, ready to get to work. "It'll be a pleasure getting to know you, Mrs. Ellington."
"June, and likewise... Mr. Haversham."
"You can call me Mozzie."
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: June, Neal, Mozzie
Summary: A trio of First Meetings from The Pilot, S1, E1
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Word Count: 2105
Notes: For Elrhiarhodan's Promptfest IX for the prompts:
June - Arrangement and
Neal - Sunshine.
The third part here is a new addition and could be thought of as Mozzie - Games
June & Neal
He flips the hat up his arm. Just the way Byron had done. Fifty years of loving a conman had made her adept at hiding emotions but her heart aches when he grins, his joy so like Byron when they'd first met.
Her eyes drift to his hands and she sees the color beneath his nails. "Oil pastel?" Cindy had started using them a year ago, and June has learned to tell the difference from paint.
Surprise lights his eyes, "You're an artist?"
"No, but you are. What's your specialty?"
"Well, there are all kinds of art-"
She holds up a hand to stop him. "Do not con me, young man."
He stops, his smile turning soft.
"You want the suits?"
"I'd be honored."
She scribbles her address on a dry cleaning receipt. "Come to this address in one half hour. We can talk about what kind of artist you are then."
* * * * *
"So in all those years?"
"Only once. Byron was careful." She watches his reaction, " And he didn't associate with anyone else who'd been caught after that, either."
His eyes drop a moment and if she hadn't known by the plastic around his ankle, she'd know now that he'd just gotten out. He reaches down to run his free hand across Bugsy's fur again.
He looks back up at his work, continues while she speaks, "But, he retired once we had kids. Just the occasional card game or pool."
"He must have been amazing." Neal sets his brush down and turns around. Finished in three hours, the fisherman alert on the canvas, watching for movement from their poles. It would never pass as an original with generic college supplies, but it's stunning.
"This is splendid, Neal. Just beautiful."
His grin widens, the tilt of his head endearing. "We aim to please."
"But I wanted an original. I don't think you're even a descendant of Seurat."
He looks around her parlor, eyes darting to different frames, a brow raised in challenge.
"Not all of these are forgeries."
"Fair enough. But I don't do much original work."
"Why?"
He shrugs.
Celeste brings in fresh coffee and cake before starting on the dusting in the foyer. Neal puts away Cindy's supplies and they get down to business.
"Give me the highlights."
"I was convicted of bond forgery. The FBI made me a deal; work for them for the rest of my sentence in exchange for a two mile radius."
"They're securing this deal with that piece of plastic on your leg?"
He pulls up his pant leg and nods.
"How long are you planning to stick around?"
"The deal's for four years."
"That's not what I asked."
He looks up sharply, eyes studying her. After a second he drops his head, lets out a soft laugh. "I don't know." She can see his mind wandering, a hopeful openness to his face. " I'm looking for someone."
"Is this someone dangerous?"
His answer is immediate and with conviction. "No. She's not."
"I have chores to be done around the house that are not so easy for Celeste. I'd prefer not to board my dog when I can't take him with me. And this old house is lonely."
"Well, I'm not a handyman but I'm a quick learner. I always wanted a dog," his pearly whites make an enormous presence, "and excellent company is something I don't take for granted."
"Then it's settled. The loft is yours."
"June, thank you so-"
"Not so fast."
His smile falters and she leans forward, into his space. "I won't be your mark."
His nod is accepting. He blinks a few times and takes a deep breath. "I don't think I could con you if I wanted, but It'll be nice not to have to."
"I'd like some warning before the FBI come knocking at my door."
"Done."
"And... I want a couple of original Caffreys for my wall."
His laugh is like music, missing from these halls for so long. She's not sure if Byron would have approved of this arrangement, but it's just what she needs.
Neal & his loft
When Neal was little, when Mom was having an off day, before he realized those were most days, and Ellen would sweep in with an easy smile as though she'd meant to spend the day with him all along, she used to drag him to one of the greenhouses surrounding the city. She'd push her cart up and down the rows, pulling out a flat here and there, making sure the leaves were healthy and the price was worth it. They usually didn't go to the same greenhouse twice in a row, but they all seemed the same to Neal.
He'd sit in the cart as she pushed, his head tilted back, and watch the sunlight through the rooftop windows, keeping watch for those moments when the rays shone through or a glimpse of spectrum splintered into little pieces in the air as they passed. Whenever they rolled through a patch of warm yellow light that reached far enough down to their cart, he'd close his eyes and watch the inside of his eyelids glow.
Those are the thoughts that come to him tonight. The apartment is perfect - tasteful but not trendy. He could not have asked for better light for painting. A kitchenette, table, sofa, antique bed. June had regaled him with stories downstairs for half an hour before bringing him up here. He's so relieved that he doesn't have to con her, playing Peter is exhausting enough.
After she leaves, fresh linen stacked on the bed, promises of the kitchen and bathroom being stocked tomorrow, he sits at the table and leans his head back, looking through the skylights, searching for rays, catching snatches of color as the day winds down. By the time he sinks into the bed his eyes are strained and he's as exhausted as his first days in prison when he was too terrified to sleep. But June's skylight stares down at him and he can't relax without the colors glowing through his lids. He'd never been in the greenhouses at dark and glass everywhere he looks is a far cry from the cocoon of three stone walls and some bars. He'd hated those walls for four years, but now he hates himself more for actually missing them.
Mozzie & June
"We are not receiving visitors today."
With anyone else, Moz would think he got the address wrong but of course Neal would swing a mansion in the most exclusive part of the best city in the world. He can see the deluge of spectacular carved marble in the foyer from out here on the steps. He's almost sorry he's not here to scope the place.
The maid is a problem. She's not budging an inch - he can't even get in the doorway - so he'll just have to wear her down long enough for-
"Who is it, Celeste?"
Ah, this must be the lady of the house. Gorgeous caramel skin and honey-colored waves. Classic skirt, cashmere sweater. She greets him with one of those little yippy dog in her arms, sans the yip.
"May I help you?"
"It's what I can do to help you, Madam. Your generosity in helping those less fortunate has rebounded to an auspicious windfall. You're the lucky recipient of this high definition 23inch plasma screen."
She's like a golden age hollywood star. Even her frown is high-class. "A television? Who sent this?"
"You won it, Milady. A contest of the highest order." A bow, hands together, is not excessive for this setting.
"You're sure you have the correct address?"
"87 Riverside Drive. I just need to set it up, along with your surround sound. Works best on the upper floors."
"How did I become entered in this contest, Mr. ?... "
"Haversham."
"Haversham."
He pulls out a price list from the office supply store down the street, holds it at an angle just out of her view. "I have listed here your donations to a number of worthy charities. The contest is... a group effort, if you will, of said organizations. The latest craze in creating buzz for charity fund-raising, you know."
"I see. And to what will you need access while you're installing?"
"Just the top floor. Should only take a couple of hours."
She takes his measure; he's usually fine with this sort of scrutiny, but she seems more discerning than most.
"May I offer you some tea and scones?" Ah, a pushover. He's almost disappointed.
"Plum or green?"
"Either."
"Non-dairy scones?"
"If you prefer."
Moz smiles.
The tea and scones are sublime. So is Mrs. Ellington's vintage cribbage set. Three matches in and he's behind but it's the most fun he's had in a while.
"Ah a Jack."
"Two points!" He picks up the pile of pegs, making equal their competition. "A tie-breaker?"
"Mr. Haversham, I find we've come to an impasse."
"How so?"
"You know that I'm not going to allow you to install that television in my home. And I know that's not why you're really here."
"I can neither confirm nor deny."
"I thought not."
"How do you propose we solve this issue?"
She resets the game, actions slow and sure. "We'll play one more match. You win, you may leave my home without me calling the police. I win, and you tell me what you really want and what it has to do with my recent houseguest."
"Houseguest?"
"Who, as you appear to know, judging by your brilliant faux contest, resides on the top floor."
Rather astute of her. She's a delight and not at all mainstream. There's brandy in the tea (he has to get that recipe), she has Gillespie playing on a genuine phonograph and the Cassat on the dining room wall is a forgery. Nowhere near Neal's skills but, pretty impressive.
"Mrs. Ellington, may I say what a pleasure it is to have found such a crafty conspirator."
"Likewise." She places her hands in her lap delicately, fingers laced, like a queen or Barbara Walters.
"I see your proposal and raise you that we forgo the phone call and the television. I know you have secrets here you'd rather not disclose to the authorities."
"In exchange?"
"I reveal the motive of my visit."
"Not a bad recommendation. Tell me, how do you know my current tenant?"
"Oh, we go back a long way."
She leans forward in her chair, intent on making herself understood. "Mr. Haversham, if you continue to dance around the topic, we will never reach the conclusion, nor the solution."
"Touché. I'm his mentor."
"I see."
"No more dangerous than he is, I assure you."
"I'm not certain I believe that entirely. But you and I are old enough to know that the boyish charm he relies on only goes so far."
So, Neal is not her first encounter with a con. Moz would wager she's been in, at least, the passenger seat of a con or two herself, so she can smell a lie. "I want to make sure this place is safe."
"You don't trust his judgment?"
"Trust, but verify. He's been known to be overly faithful."
"You think his faith is misplaced here?"
"I see no obvious perils. Yet."
"You were concerned I would hurt him?"
"More like brainwash him into following the media-induced blindly patriotic domesticity of the American masses."
An insulted brow is her only answer. He scrambles to amend his mistake, "You could have been in alliance with The Man for all I knew. Apologies now that I see differently."
"I've given you my real name, but you have not returned that favor. How do I know I can trust you?"
"You obviously can't."
She gestures to the photo of a non-existent television. "What's really in that box?"
"Scanning - and blocking - equipment. Russian military surplus. I don't want the suits spying on him."
"I see."
She relaxes into her wingback, takes another sip of tea while she studies him again. The family photos on the console span a thirty year range. He can guarantee those kids pulled nothing over on this matriarch, and if she's looking for someone to mother, she might be a good influence on Neal . Better her than that Suit.
She puts the saucer on the table with a final chink, deliberation apparently complete.
"You outfit the whole house, top of the line, and you're in."
Mozzie stands, ready to get to work. "It'll be a pleasure getting to know you, Mrs. Ellington."
"June, and likewise... Mr. Haversham."
"You can call me Mozzie."