Chapter VII
"Sir, we're closing in a few minutes, so I'm going to have to ask you go-"
Peter grabbed the music store manager by the collar, "Hey," he said quietly, slipping a hundred into the man's palm, "Close later."
"Yes, sir."
Silence found the sound-proofed room as the glass door shut with a sound resembling the flap of owl wings. Peter watched Walters' slouched form over the keyboard of the baby grand piano, "Walter," Peter said at last, "come on. You haven't played anything all day. Let's get out of here."
"I just need stimuli," Walter replied without moving.
Peter shook his head, "No. No more drugs. Absolutely not. I don't want you freaking out like the Sark job."
"I can't think fast enough," Walter protested softly.
"You can think just fine. Let's just go back to the hotel, and you can sleep on it." Peter plucked Walter's coat from the rack near the door, and moved to his father's motionless pose, holding it out to him.
"I can't, I can't."
"Come on. Get up." Peter brushed a key with his elbow, the hollow note ringing in the still air.
Walter seemed to pounce on the sound, beginning to bang on it relentlessly, "B…b…b…sharp…" he breathed.
Peter smirked gently, "Yeah. Check it," he took a seat beside his father, drumming out a small, jazzy tune, "I didn't forget everything."
"But I did. I'm forgetting something, Peter," he silently listened to his son's playing for a few moments, "Your favorite song to play was 'Alla Turca'. Mozart. Dreadful."
"'Alla Turca' was the only remotely exciting sheet music in the house," Peter murmured, and paused, beginning to play a familiar, soft melody, "Remember this one?"
"No."
"Come on, Walter. You have to remember. 'Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman'. You'd play it for mom and I all the time."
Walter looked up at him, a nostalgic smile crossing his features, "Oh…yes. Mozart as well, I suppose," he sighed, "I…I always wanted to teach it to you, when you got older."
"Well, I've gone and learned it, old man," Peter replied cheerfully, speeding up the melody and complicating it drastically, "Come on, Walter, let's get going. You're not going to find anything here."
"Let me play it," Walter asked.
Peter lifted his hands away from the keys, his final note ringing in the still air, "Have at it. But then we have to go." he lifted Walter's coat from the bench, returning it to the coat rack at the door.
Slowly, cautiously, Walter plinked out the simple melody without emphasis. He paused, and splayed his long, thin fingers over the keys, "These keys, I understand them, but the other ones…" the room was suddenly plunged into an abyss of sound, and Peter watched, impressed, as his father drummed on the keys in a flurry of movement that was nothing short of genius, the body of the melody seeming to escape the parameters of the song in complication. He stopped abruptly, slamming down the key guard, "I'VE GOT IT!"
xXx
"Datum storage? In the private sector?" Peter questioned in disbelief, gaping openly as his father wolfed down a third cheeseburger, "Are you serious?!"
Rattling the ice in his cup and frowning, Walter nodded, "Um-hum. Well, mostly record storage. They used to do it back in the day, I'm sure they do it now. Wealthy- or is it cautious?- companies would bank their financial records; they didn't want another Black Tuesday, you know? Are you going to eat your fries?"
"So, wait, you knew this all along? And you were just going to let this slip?! Jesus, Walter!" Peter ran his fingers through his hair, then leaned forward, halting Walter's apprehension of his fries, "You seem to be missing the point again. The rarer the information, the more we get paid. If Massive Dynamics can just run along and get their database back from some place like that-" Peter snapped his fingers, "You see where I'm going with this, right?"
Walter wiggled a fry free from under Peter's tyrannical fingers, "I wanted you to think you were doing well, in your schemes, so I was simply going to insert a virus into the datum storage and corrupt all the files. Provided I can find the place."
"What do you mean, find it?" Peter questioned, sliding his fries away as his father started for them again.
"Well, back in the way back machine- I made one of those, did I tell you?- anyways, much of the records and documents that were stored were often tampered with. So, these systems sort of disappeared. For the love, Peter, give me a damn fry."
"'Out of sight, out of mind'? That sort of thing?" Peter pressed, frowning with thought, "But what if the systems just dissolved? How can we know?"
"We can't, unless we find one," Walter answered, flicking Peter's cell phone onto the floor. Peter stooped for it, and Walter took the opportunity to stuff his mouth with the unprotected fries. Chewing, he continued, "These types of things will have little to no access, from any sort of outside tampering. That means I cannot hack in. If we want to get all of the information back, we're going to need to find a datum storage and physically intrude."
"Providing it's even the right one," Peter sighed, "Who knows? Massive Dynamic may even have a private one of their own."
"So… did I do well?" Walter questioned hopefully.
Peter laughed, "Yeah, Walter. It's a long shot, but at least it's something. I'll talk to someone that might help us, tomorrow… good job," beaming, Peter offered his fries to his father.
Walter waved them off, fiddling with the straw in his drink. Concerned, Peter looked down to find the paper carton empty, "Walter get what Walter want," Walter murmured apologetically.
xXx
Peter left Walter to the solace of the closet when he left the room the next morning. He'd known the day they had arrived that he would have to install the lock again, but today, he simply draped an extra blanket over his father's curled form and left a box of Lucky Charms out on the counter.
He didn't want Walter with him, in a place like this.
'The Works' was one of the more risqué of clubs, deep in the darker side of the Bronx. Peter didn't know which mafia ran the place, at this point, but he knew he was walking into the lions' mouth, going there. He wistfully hoped he wouldn't get shot.
The glaring, hot-pink lighting of the club he remembered was off, when he entered, as many of the underground places only seemed alive at night. It was dim and smoky, in the lounge, workers casually scrubbing the wood floor and working the scuffs of high-heels off the tables, "Hey," Peter said, catching one of the workers by the cuff, "Is Borno in, today?"
He was gruffly shrugged off, "Green room."
Peter made his way across the floor and to a door marked staff only. He hesitated only a moment, before pushing it open and shuffling inside.
Peter ignored the posters depicting lithe, nude, female forms that spanned the walls, as he moved down the hall and around the corner. Was bumped backward as a distraught girl bustled past him, mascara running down her face as she screamed Haitian obscenities over her shoulder, only to be answered with deep, booming replies from the green room. Peter continued on, to the source of her distress, "Borno," he sighed, leaning back against the doorway, "Didn't your mother ever tell you to treat the girls nice?"
Borno was a tall, lanky man, with long, dark dreadlocks held in a single, low band, reaching nearly to his waist. A design of tiny dot tattoos swirled around the chiseled features of his face, making him appear as a spectral jungle animal. Peter always thought of a panther, when he saw him.
"She a bitch. I don' got time for trash-" Borno turned, and his eyes widened, "Bishop."
Peter swallowed back his unease with a grin, "Hiya, Borno."
"You bettah be a spirit, boy. You bettah be dead."
Peter sighed, "Listen, Borno-"
"Wit you tinking, commin' back to dis pleace?! You crazy, boy?!"
"And what the hell are you still doing here?!" Peter snapped, "Listen, Borno, I don't have time. I need a favor."
Borno swept across the room, grasping Peter's collar in his long fingers and lifting him from the floor and pinning him to the wall. His wide, white eyes continued to peer unblinkingly into Peter's face, "Ah favor?! Fo' jo?! You mus' be crazy, Boy! You dead, 'roun' here! If'n you's caught, You be six feet undah, boy!"
"I've had shit to do, alright?" Peter hissed, "I know I shouldn't have dropped you like that, Borno! But I'm not like you- I'm not a glorified pimp!"
Borno paused for a few moments, then let out a laugh, releasing him, "You's sharp, boy. Nah. You's an anahchist, thas wit you is."
"And a damn good one," Peter replied.
"Da bess. Wit you been doin' boy?"
"I can't stick around and chat, Borno. You said it yourself- the mafia catches me here, I'm a gonner. I need a favor, and I swear to god I'll repay it tenfold. You know I'm good for it."
"I don' know notin'. Wit yah be wantin', boy?" Borno crossed the room, and took a seat. Peter did not follow suit.
"I'm in for a job, right now. I need to use the old network, or Raze'll have my ass by next week." Peter tried not to touch anything. The smell of cheap, stale perfume was already making him sick.
Borno sucked air through his front teeth in a short laugh, "Raze. You be sellin' you soul to de devil 'imself, boy."
"I know I'm in over my head. That's why I need your help."
Borno considered, the designs on his brow shifting with his thoughts, "I should kill you now, boy, fer wit you done. Bit I tink I be lettin' Raze to do it. I clean mah 'ans ah you."
Peter sighed, "I guess I should thank you."
"Nah. You curse me, boy. You's a bettah man to do it. Wit you be needin'?"
xXx
