Save Me If You Can

Save Me If You Can Chapter 9

TWO MONTHS AGO

How had his big life come to this? To suggest that Neal Caffrey, renaissance man, confidence man, brilliant forger-turned FBI Consultant would ever be reduced to common street hustles and games of chance to survive would have been a grave insult. Such mocking would have deserved a sucker punch to the gut. Or lower.

Yet here he was.

"Find the Lady..."

He knew that the old Caffrey - the real Caffrey - needed to be submerged for a time, lest the world in which he travelled got wind of his grave misfortune. Only ruin would follow. Who would trust him, knowing his weakness, his addiction, his craving? Who would think him anything more than a pathetic substance abuser? The only way to protect and preserve his former reputation was to fall off the radar, to disappear. Completely. From Peter, the Feds, even Mozzie.

Even Sara.

Let the world speculate his whereabouts. Let them wonder what new score he was planning, question if he were even in New York or perhaps abroad living off the fat of some magnificent con, or deep undercover for the FBI. Let them picture him lying on a beach in the Mediterranean, or having suits fitted for him it Italy, or betting big amongst the highest of high rollers playing Baccarat in Monaco. He would resurface later once he was clean; the monster slain, the habit forced upon him well kicked and the sanity of a sober life restored. That was the plan.

Until such time, he knew he must settle to be the master of the street game – for now, it was Three Card Monte. Even with his hands shaking, or with the spiky tendrils of withdrawal encircling his spine, infiltrating his gut and gnawing at his brain, no one could beat him. No one could find the Lady, the illusive Queen of Hearts.

A good day could net him $300 in a few uninterrupted hours of gaming. He would make significantly less if the unexpected appearance of the cops sent him packing and running to seek different locations. Each day he would take his winnings immediately to whatever by-the-week rented room he was calling home to hide the bulk of the cash away inside a musty, hollowed-out copy of Kafka's "Metamorphosis" (which he had picked up in a flea market for a buck). He made sure to read it – for the third time – before taking a rusted, double-edged razor blade to the pages.

He allotted only a percentage to the monster – just enough to get him through the night - and off he would go with morbid urgency to make his connection. Blondie would usually be waiting for him personally, or perhaps some dodgy lieutenant Blondie could marginally trust. He hated, no matter who he transacted with, how they would always smirk and joke, wink and nudge, about the supposed joys or coolness of getting high. Neal wanted nothing to do with that. He abhorred it, found no joy, no cool or satisfaction in racing back to his apartment to slam a needle and get high. This was never his goal. For him, it had become about merely forestalling the dread physical agony. Sometimes he would wait, wait until his body cried out for it, as if he could wait. Eventually he would give in to the urgent cry of his flesh. Self-loathing would follow once the detestable, initial high subsided enough for Neal to realize yet again what he was doing. This was the never-ending cycle of the monster's nightmare routine. The rage within him was soul-damaging, the sorrow and disgust wounding to the very core of him.

Some nights he would actually cry until sleep overcame him. Some nights he paced the tiny rented room, slamming his fist into walls until his knuckles bled and bruised. Some nights he stared out of the window at the rain-slicked pavement below and wondered if he would die before he hit the ground. Most nights, however, he imagined finding Linus Hauser and his massive watchdog Aldo and exacting some form of revenge.

But the sun would rise the next day, and off to the park Neal would go with his flea market brief case filled with the tricks of his temporary trade to start the inevitable cycle once more.