Chapter Four.

"I hate seeing you like this, Philip," Olivia said from the back seat.

"I've been in worse," Philip Broyles replied, "You've seen to that."

"Again, sorry. But it can't be all that bad- the uniform is…"

"…stupid?"

Olivia laughed uneasily, "Not the words I would have chosen. But you look good in anything, Philip, you know that." Olivia glanced out of the window to watch the street as they pulled away from the curb at the hotel, and she reached forward to pluck a bit of lint from the shoulder of his grey driver's uniform.

"Flattery will get you no where, Dunham," Philip frowned at her via the rearview mirror.

"So, what's the talk? You promised me source work, didn't you?" Olivia said, "Fill me in. What have you got on Bishop?"

"A bit. And none of it painting the portrait of a saint," Philip answered.

"What do you mean?"

"I met a few people who know him. Not many of them too terribly fond of him- he owed them all money. Apparently Bishop's got himself deep in the hole, and he's only digging himself deeper. They said he makes a decent amount, as the pianist at the Domino Club, but he's quick to lose it."

"Lose it how?"

"Apparently our man is one hell of a gambler. And not one known to win, either. The people I've spoken with have informed me that he's the most unlucky bastard they've ever known."

"Do you think he owes William Bell money?"

Philip shook his head, "I don't think so. Other than owing some serious cash, Bishop keeps a strangely low profile. And what's stranger is that no one seems to know just where he came from. Apparently, he just showed up, one day, and faded in with the rest of the washed-up cardsharps with nothing to lose."

"Then what would William Bell want with him?"

Philip said nothing.

Olivia sighed, "This is a weird one, Philip. I'm not used to the idea of working with such sketchy details."

"You can always ask Bishop," Philip replied frankly.

Olivia chuckled, "True. But what, then? If Bishop has prided himself in disappearing from the face of the earth by now, why in the hell would he agree to come back with me to New York? This whole thing, it's just…" Olivia sighed, propping her elbow on the doorsill and watching the scenery gloomily, "…Bizarre."

"You've never been one to leave the unknown that way for long, Olivia," Philip pointed out. He pulled the car to the curb, "We're here."

"Anything else I should know about?" Olivia asked, gathering up her things as the bright lights over the Domino club entrance flashed off the windshield. They made Philip's face strangely stoic as he turned to face her in the seat.

"He's staying with a girl. Astrid Farnsworth, the singer. She looks after him, for the most part."

"Are they…?"

"No word."

"What else?"

Philip smiled slightly, and kicked his door open, getting out to open her door for her.

The air in the establishment seemed blue, in the heavy haze of cigar smoke and the fume of martinis. Olivia was accepted at the door, and escorted to a secluded booth in full rage of the small bandstand. The musicians were chattering quietly amongst themselves as they were setting up, the clatter of chairs and music stands barely audible over the distant jukebox. Even the footfalls of the waitrons were softened by the plush, maroon carpet, as they avoided the vacant dance floor.

Olivia watched causally over her red wine, finding the piano bench vacant.

Her eyes slowly spanned the rest of the floor, unsurprised to find it occupied by only a few patrons and their nearly finished dinners. It was apparent that, even after a good review in the local newspaper, business was slow. She was briefly wondering what it was that could have caused such a deflation in activity, when the bright tingle of piano keys met her ears and she glanced up expectantly. The saxophone player was tuning to a B, and she returned to her drink.

"May I bring you a menu, ma'am?" and white-vested waiter questioned politely.

"Oh- no, thank you," Olivia answered, and asked before her headed away, "I'm sorry, but could you tell me when the show starts?"

The waiter glanced down at his wristwatch, "Any minute, ma'am," he answered pleasantly, though by his expression she could tell that it was supposed to have started already.

"Thank you," and he nodded with a smile, hurrying away.

xXx

Walter didn't let Astrid see the sick look of worry on his face as he fixed his tie, plucking up his starched collar around his throat. He knew that he should be on, already, that he was just stalling, and he couldn't hide behind the curtains forever…

"Walter?"

Walter turned, a smile hiding his doubt, "Are we ready?" he questioned as Astrid raised an inquiring brow.

"We've been ready for an hour, Walter," she replied flatly, "You just keep getting lost on the way to the bench. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dove, nothing at all," he replied cheerfully, tipping up his fedora to scratch his forehead.

Astrid set her hands on her sequined hips with a frown.

Walter ignored her and mounted the steps to stage left, peeking through a small tear in the curtain, "Do you think he's out there?" Walter questioned uneasily.

Astrid followed after him, " Walter, go!" and she shoved him out, onto the stage.

Walter had never once felt such a rush of stage fright. The lights flashed off the copper-colored silk of his vest front, and he felt panic sweat start at his hairline and the crease of his lower back. He was quick to regain a proper stride as he crossed the stage quickly, tucking himself away behind his piano.

"Where've you been?" Arty questioned.

"Mind your own business," Walter muttered.

Arty shrugged, and returned to a breathy trill, continuing with his lazy warm-up.

Walter rubbed his moist palms on the front of his slacks, and set his fingers to the keys, swallowing as he waited for the notes to come to him, trying to hear the sound of the high-hat brush over his own pulse in his ears.

Holding his breath, he glanced up, his eyes spanning the club.

The place was nearly empty, as usual, the regulars seated at the bar and a few couples scattered amongst the tables, their faces eerie glowing shapes in the dark from the flickering light of candles. Not one of them struck his attention.

Peter wasn't here.

Walter's thumb fell on a flat note, as he heaved a sigh of relief, delving into his pocket to draw out a handkerchief and dry his forehead. Walter stowed the cloth back in his pocket, atop a tattered baseball card he usually kept in his empty wallet, and he returned his hand to the ivories, running a perfect scale despite his missing digit.
Astrid emerged onto the stage, smiling at the tatters of applause that announced her arrival. Her dress shimmered as she took to the microphone, beginning her re-written rendition of the Jersey Bounce.

He'd done the show before- the song was new, but not much else was. The lighting, the atmosphere, the smell of dust on the curtains and wood polish on the piano. He could nearly see it all in his mind, when he shut his eyes, hearing Astrid's voice in his ear as if he were the only one listening. Even if Peter weren't here… this was his world.

Walter looked up from his keys as he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Someone was watching him. A blonde, in the corner booth. A blonde; very pretty, very suspicious. Her eyes did not move as they met his, and a smile touched her dark lips.

Walter stared in confusion for a few brief seconds before Arty's sax squeaked, and Walter winced. He looked over at him, and Arty winked as Astrid gave an effort to laugh it off. It was all part of the show.

xXx