Chapter 5

Everyone wore a St. Louis Rams shirt in this place. They stopped you right inside the door and made you change into one of their shirts if you weren't wearing one with a Rams logo. Peter wasn't a particularly religious man, but he was ready to thank God he hadn't been wearing a wire. His white dress shirt hung on a peg behind the bar, and he wouldn't get it back until he paid his tab. Which would include a thirty-dollar charge for his new sweatshirt, a shirt he would never wear in New York. He just hoped Hughes would approve the charge on his expense report.

When the hostess took his shirt, she also asked him to name his favorite football team. He'd said the Giants, because that's what Villiers had told Townsend to say. After some good-natured boos from the other patrons in the bar, the hostess directed Peter to the peanut gallery – a group of tables along a back wall with, yes, buckets of peanuts. Non-Rams fans had to stay there unless invited onto the playing field – the rest of the bar – by a fan of the home team.

Peter ordered a beer. A few minutes later a "local" approached his table. "I hate to see a man drink alone," said the woman. She was in her late forties, with hair in a shade of scarlet that couldn't possibly be natural. "I'm Wanda. Come over and join my husband Rollie and me. We moved here from Chicago a few years back, so you won't feel like the only outsider."

That was the invitation Villiers had told Townsend to expect. "Thanks. I'm here on business, and a colleague told me about this place." That was the agreed upon response. But Peter had to add, "He skipped a few details."

Wanda laughed as she led the way to a table on the other side of the room. "I'm sure he did." She fit the description of one of Villiers' known accomplices, commonly known as Red. The agents in Chicago thought it was a good bet she'd be part of the crew. She had expertise in security systems. She wasn't actually married to Villiers, but they frequently posed as a couple.

Two people sat at the table. A thirty-something blond man with burn marks on his hands had to be the glass artist. He introduced himself as Miles. Not a talkative guy, but brawny. The gray-haired, bearded man had to be in his sixties based on his file but looked to be in his fifties. The man kept in shape. "You must be Wanda's husband," Peter said.

Roland Villiers smiled. "Everyone calls me RV. I used to sell them. Now we travel in one. There's no better way to see the country." That was in Villiers' file, too. He avoided the paper trail and government scrutiny involved in most methods of travel. No TSA checks at the airport, no rental car agreements, no hotel registrations. As long as he had time to plan a job in advance, he could drive where he needed to go and park the recreational vehicle. He pulled a motorcycle behind it, perfect for getting in and out of places quickly.

"I've never tried it," Peter said in his Townsend persona. "But then I never truly feel at home unless I'm surrounded by works of art, and they don't tend to travel well. My goal is to find a way to retire at the Guggenheim."

"You'd be surprised how much art can fit in a suitable RV," Villiers countered.

"I'd love to hear more about it." The recording device in the watch the Chicago office loaned Peter was activated. It could store an hour's worth of conversation. The FBI didn't have much of a presence in St. Louis, but local police had been notified that an operation was underway, and they could be there in minutes if Peter contacted them to say he had enough evidence for an arrest. "Actually, I'd love to see it, but I didn't notice an RV in the parking lot."

"It's not far," Villiers promised. "But there's still one more person I'm waiting for. He's also from New York. I promised an old friend I'd look out for him while he's in town."

"Maybe I know him," Peter said, fervently hoping it wouldn't be anyone who'd recognize him as an agent. "What's his name?"

                                                                     ###

Neal Caffrey pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes late. How was he going to explain this to Roland? He couldn't tell the truth: that he grew up in St. Louis and didn't think he needed directions to the infamous Shirts and Skins bar. He hadn't enabled the car's GPS until he realized the main road to the bar was under construction and he'd have to find an alternate route. Anyone new to town would have asked directions or used the GPS from the beginning and made it on time. And Roland was expecting a New Yorker, not a former local. Mozz said he didn't like surprises. Therefore starting out with, "Surprise, I'm a native, totally an unplanned coincidence," wasn't his best bet.

And the irony of the meet happening in this bar wasn't lost on him. If Danny Brooks hadn't "died" on his birthday, his friends would have taken him to this bar the following weekend. You had to be at least eighteen to get in. Alcohol wasn't the draw, nor were sports. It was the shirt policy. You could watch women peel off their shirts and pose in their bras, and then watch again if they decided to change back into their original shirts when they left. That's why kids wanted to visit this bar as soon as they turned eighteen.

It hurt his head to think back to a time he'd been that innocent. Honestly, it was starting to hurt his head to think about anything. But at least the sniffling and coughing weren't an issue yet. No one would know he was sick.

He reached the door at the same time as three women, and he gestured for them to go first. He watched the show, of course, considering for the first time that probably it wasn't just guys who looked forward to being old enough to visit this place. And if he was just now figuring that out, maybe Mozz had a point with the "innocent, earnest farm boy" label. Or the meds weren't leaving him nearly as clear-headed as he thought.

There was a moment when he thought he must be hallucinating. Because in the bar, sitting with two people who must be Mozzie's pals Roland and Red, Neal saw Peter Burke. Impossible, right? A New York City FBI agent sitting in a St. Louis sports bar with two criminals – that just didn't happen.

But he looked again, and it was definitely Peter. Neal always thought of the agent as Peter. That was something Mozzie taught him: refer to your mark by their first name, because it makes everyone sound like friends, and we all trust our friends, right? So your mark will trust you faster if you're on a first-name basis.

It went both ways, though. When Neal learned that Agent Peter Burke was assigned to his case, he studied the man, and it started to feel like Peter was more than just a random agent. You knew what to expect from Peter. He was clever, thorough, and... good. That was the part that got to Neal. After learning hero-cop-dad was a bad guy, it seemed like every law enforcement officer Neal met had a dark side. They took bribes, or stole evidence, or cheated on their spouses, or did something else they shouldn't do. There was always some weakness to exploit. At least the criminals who mentored Neal didn't pretend to be heroes. They seemed more honest than the so-called good guys.

But after months of studying Peter, no dark side had emerged. Neal was starting to believe that the good guys finally had someone who would have been worthy of Danny's hero-worship.

To find this would-be-hero consorting with thieves on Danny's home turf was a shock. Neal stepped back into the parking lot to consider what he'd seen. Either Peter was supplementing his income by acting as an inside man for criminals, or he was still a good guy, undercover.

And that's what came of thinking of the enemy by his first name all of this time: now Neal's inclination was to give Peter the benefit of the doubt. He wanted Peter to be the good guy. And he wanted Peter to be very good at undercover work, or else Roland was going to get very mad. That could leave Peter very dead.

The adrenaline helped Neal think more clearly than he had all day. And he concluded that Peter was pursuing Roland or Mozzie. Neal had been a last-minute replacement, traveling under the Steve Tabernacle alias that had been set up for Mozz. Therefore, Peter would be surprised to see Neal.

Roland didn't like surprises. Seeing Peter's surprise would be the tip of the iceberg. Roland would be surprised to learn that Peter and Neal sort of knew each other. And they had no time to establish a coherent, consistent story that Roland would buy. Therefore, Roland would be angry, distrust the level of coincidence, and decide that either Neal or Peter (or both) was the enemy. Roland's enemies had a tendency to disappear.

As Neal saw it, he had three choices. One: He could leave now, making a clean getaway and leaving Peter to fend for himself when Roland realized he didn't have his full crew. Two: He could go into the bar, warn Roland that Peter was the enemy, let Roland and Peter sort that out, and possibly still hit the museum tonight if Roland wasn't arrested. Three: He could go into the bar, convince Roland that he was the enemy, and buy Peter his best chance of escaping Roland's wrath. Option three left Neal facing Roland's wrath, but at least he would know it was coming and could go into the situation with a plan.

A quick check of the parking lot revealed two rental cars, other than Neal's. One of those was a luxury SUV. The other screamed, "I'm on a government budget!" Sure enough, that car had a suitcase in the back with no name tag, containing Brooks Brothers suits. Definitely Peter's car. Neal grabbed the suitcase and put it in the trunk of his own rental.

Author Note: I don't know of any real bars with this dress code – it just sounded fun.