Caffrey Flashback

Chapter 5: Playing Along

"Didn't bring your beat-up guitar this time, Neal?" Randy asked as the meeting broke up. "Finally going to buy one from me?"

"Not this time, but I'll rent one for the evening, if you'll let me keep it till midnight." Neal knew Randy would let the performers borrow an instrument for a small fee, in return for his shop being acknowledged at the end of each song where the instrument was used.

Randy led the way to the guitar he hoped Neal would buy. "You're performing in the first ninety minutes. Why do you need it till midnight?"

"I'm going to East Meets West later," Neal said casually, and then grinned at Randy's look of dismay.

"That's barely a step up from karaoke!"

"Yeah, but I promised to meet someone. It's just one song. Then your guitar comes safely home again."

Randy looked down at the expensive guitar in his hands. "You come back here when you're done at the bar and swap this out for a different model. This baby isn't meant for karaoke."

Neal took the guitar with the reverence it deserved, and helped set up for the evening's performance in the bar. After everything Neal had been through today, there was something cathartic about throwing himself into dark and edgy music. As he sang and played his guitar, he disappeared into the songs. It was more than playing the right notes and singing the right words. This was performance, loud and aggressive, and an outlet for his inner turmoil. Channeling that into music made him feel better, and made the audience cheer.

###

Agent Clinton Jones had faith in his friend George Knightley. The man was a decorated naval officer, and had proved himself in combat. There was no reason to worry about him following Neal Caffrey through the streets of New York. And for the first couple of hours, Jones wasn't worried. After three hours, he was mildly concerned. After midnight, he felt like a parent whose teenager had broken curfew. Couldn't George have at least called or texted? Should Jones be out looking for him?

Jones was actually pacing when he finally heard a key turning in the lock. He hurried to an arm chair, where he endeavored to look calm. "Find him?" he asked as George stepped inside. At thirty years of age, George was a few years older than Jones. He had straight brown hair, brown eyes, a tan from spending the last year in the South Pacific, and facial structure that hinted at his native American heritage on his mother's side.

George hung up his coat. "I think the term scamp was invented for your friend Neal Caffrey." He took a seat on the sofa. "I certainly got a workout that the experts at the Donwell Institute will be proud of."

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?" Jones asked.

"Maybe some water," George said. While Jones grabbed a bottle of water, George started his story. "I got there in time to see your Neal Caffrey arrive in a taxi. It stopped in front of a bar, but he went into the neighboring music store instead."

"Did you go in?" Jones asked as he handed his friend the bottle and then sat down.

"Yeah, because I'm such a music expert. You ever heard me sing, Clinton?"

Jones thought a moment. "No."

"That's because whenever I start, people cover their ears and moan. I'm not someone who can hang out and make intelligent conversation in a music store. Fortunately there were a lot of people standing out front, and I joined the crowd. I saw signs advertising live music supplied by the store, with pop performances in the store starting at nine, and rock performances in the bar. People were waiting around to see which performers would be participating in each venue. Your friend Neal disappeared into a back room with several other people. When they emerged, someone who looked like a store manager handed him a guitar. Neal and several others walked over to the bar, and didn't have to pay the cover charge."