White Collar: An unofficial novel - part 10

Yankee baseballs

Neal stood inside the wan with Peter, Jones, and Ford. He watched the older con-man. Peter thought that all Ford wanted was that last big score. Neal was not as sure. One thing he was pretty certain of though was that he did not trust him.

He had only heard rumors about Rikers and they were all about violence and neglect. Ten thousand prisons in one place could never be a kindergarten. SingSing where Neal had spent four years of his life was much smaller, not even a fifth of that size, but that was a high-security prison with the 'perks' that followed: Neal had rarely felt afraid in prison.

"We took Ganz's forger out of play," Peter told Ford. "He had a nice little side hobby going. Forged autographed Yankee baseballs. Ready to introduce Neal as your pinch-hitter?"

"Nice," Neal smiled

"You like what I did there?"

"I did," Neal nodded. "That was good."

"I'm ready, fellas," Ford said, watching their verbal banter.

"This is a one-way radio," Jones said holding a watch, "with GPS."

Ford held out his arm and Jones put it on.

"You don't use wires anymore?"

"Not since 'Carlito's Way,'" Peter answered. Neal looked at him and guessed he meant the movie, not the book.

"FBI's gotten pretty slick," he said. "You sure you're up for this?"

"Son, I once walked out of the met holding a Renoir."

"That was you?" Neal asked.

"That was me," Ford answered, confident. "This ain't nothin'."

Neal glanced at Peter, but it was hard to tell if he caught the lie or not. Well, if Peter did not know that it was his pet convict who did that, Neal was not about to tell him. His handler did not trust Ford anyway, so he did not withhold something vital.

Ford left the van and Neal joined. They walked in silence to a storage building with the gate open. They passed between building materials and trucks to get to the center. And there was the gang.

One of the muscles frisked Ford.

"Is that the guy?" Ganz asked.

"Who else would it be?" Ford returned. Then the muscle frisked Neal too. He ignored the risk of him finding the anklet, and the man was focused on weapons. Why had Peter left it on? "This kid is the best print man around."

"Does this kid have a name?" Ganz had a tough attitude.

"No names," Neal said, glaring back at the man. "The less we know about each other, the better."

"How long have you guys known each other?"

"About five years?" Neal asked Ford. "Mutual friend of ours needed to get out of town, so he came to my shop."

"He hooked me up with some of the best work I've ever seen," Ford continued, completely natural.

"Photo I.D., passports..."

"So we stayed in touch. Used him four times since."

"Five," Neal corrected, confident that Ford could handle it. "Don't forget that other thing."

"Well, that was between us."

"All right," Ganz nodded. "Let's see what he knows. Give me the I.D.s." One of the muscles handed him a bunch of IDs which Ganz in turn gave to Neal. "Which one's the fake?"

Neal went through the pile of three IDs, noted that they must be made by different people. None of them were top-notch. One was even a sloppy job.

"They're all fake," he told Ganz. "The hologram on the Alabama license is cemented with the wrong base. And the UV ink should be mixed at a 5-to-1 ratio. This looks like 3-to-1. The laminate on the California is too thick, and last time I checked, 'Illinois' is spelled with two l's, not one." He handed them back to Ganz one by one as he spoke.