Chapter Three.

"Peter! Hey!" Sam Weiss emerged from beneath the hood of a Ford, his oil-spotted boots scuffing the thin layer of dust that constantly coated the cement slab of the garage, "How's things? I haven't seen you in ages, buddy…" he cleaned his hands on a spare rag in the back pocket of his messy cover-all, then shook Peter's hand.

"Hey, Sam," Peter smiled, "How's the shop?"

"Good, good. Better since you left," Sam joked, looking over his shoulder at the open-faced auto shop, "got a Ford with the hiccups, here, I'm choosing to operate. What about you? Still pushing blue plate specials at the diner?"

"Yep."

Sam gave him a genuine smile, "Good."

"That's kind of why I'm here, Sam," Peter said, raising his hand to scratch the back of his neck with an uneasy smile, "I… I kind of need the car."

Sam's smile faltered slightly.

"Listen- I'm not going far-"

Sam held up a hand to silence him, "Hold up, zipper. Just where are you thinking of going?"

Peter fidgeted slightly, "Atlantic City," he winced, and Sam's eyes widened.

"That's pretty far, Peter. What is it that you need, in A City? You're not thinking of gambling, are you?"

"No, no. I don't need anything, I just- I have to go," Peter explained.

Sam eyed him suspiciously.

"Alright! I met a girl at the diner the other day, and she was headed to Atlantic city," Peter grumped, "It was just some girl, I'm guessing she was from New York, she looked like it, and she stopped in for directions at the diner, and we got to talking, and-"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Sam said, "You want to take the car and split to Atlantic City because of some girl you met? Do you even know her name?"

"Olivia. But that's not the point! I'm not going for her, okay?" Peter felt a blush creeping up his neck at Sam frowned at him flatly, "She left this," he snapped, stuffing the newspaper article into Sam's hand.

Sam read over it with a raised brow, "Your father?"

"I guess you could call him that. I don't know what's going on, Sam, but I'm going to have to get to Atlantic City to find out," Peter said, taking the article back from him and folding it to slide it into the back pocket of his slacks, "So I really, really need the car, okay?"

Sam considered, "What did Mill say?"

"He says business is slow. The diner can live without me, until I get back. It shouldn't take long.

"Do you feel you need the car?" Sam questioned.

"Well, the Greyhound only comes once a week, and that was yesterday, so yeah."

"Okay," Sam smiled, "I've got the keys in the office, follow me."

Sam and Peter tramped their way past the stacked carcasses of spent vehicles, at last reaching the tin enclosure at the back of the shop and pulling the wooden door open to the office. It was a small place, cluttered with a wide desk with a fan, a swivel chair, and shelves filled with dusty old auto manuals, "Heya, Rufus," Peter murmured, stooping to scratch behind the ratted ears of an old mutt dog snoozing on the floor.

Sam shuffled around in a cabinet of drawers for a bit, at last emerging with a ring of old keys, rusted only slightly on one side. He shook them by their ratted leather keychain, and they gave a jingle, "It's out back, under the tarp, haven't touched the piece of junk since you parked it," Sam said, turning to toss the keys to Peter, "It's all yours."

Peter smiled, "Thanks, Sam."

Sam waved off his gratitude, flouncing into the swivel chair, "As long as you feel like you're ready, Peter. I only took the damn car because you didn't think you could have it, anymore. The only reason I do anything is because you ask me to. You may not know that you're asking, but you do."

Peter looked down at the keys, feeling them each in turn, briefly remembering what each of them meant- his old apartment, his old car, his old life. He returned his attention to Sam, "And I mean it. Thanks, man."

"Don't make me regret it, Peter," Sam sighed, "and she'd better be a knockout."

xXx

Astrid watched as Walter wolfed down the last of his bologna and cheese sandwich, and grabbed for his glass of milk, "What starves you so?" she questioned with an affectionate smirk, propping her chin on the heel of her hand.

"I won, toady," Walter mumbled through mouthfuls.

Astrid looked surprised, "Really? So raising Cain has proven fruitful?"

Walter frowned with a milk mustache, "There's no harm in spending the morning at the track," he muttered, wiping his lips on a napkin as he pushed his empty plate and glass away.

"Sure. Especially when you're busted. What's not to lose?"

"As I said, I won today. For the most part, excluding minor details. So-"

"Walter, I'm not loaning you any more money," Astrid said, gathering up his dishes and clearing them away, "I'm letting you stay here, and that's it."

"You're not turning on me, too?!" Walter demanded, tugging his suspenders strait as he rose from his chair, following her into the kitchen, "You don't understand! This could be the beginning of a streak, a winning to end my consecutive losses-"

"It's always a streak, Walter. Last time it was blackjack. Before that, roulette. I'm not buying it, this time," Astrid settled the dishes into the sink, twisting on the tap to rinse them.

"Bad luck can't last forever!" Walter insisted.

Astrid smiled at him wryly, drying her hands on a cleaning cloth, "Maybe you should stop to think of just how lucky you are, Walter," she murmured. She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, then pat his shoulder, "Now go and get cleaned up. Amos wants us down at the club early tonight."

Walter gave a huff, jamming his hands into his pockets and sweeping out of the kitchen. Astrid chuckled as she listened to him stomp up the stairs and slam the door.

A few minutes passed as Astrid listened to a new record over grainy radio speakers, musing the newspaper on the kitchen counter. Her thoughts suddenly stumbled across September, and their bizarre meeting the night before. September had never lied to her, but if Walter did have a son, he would have said something.

...Right?

She ascended the steps after Walter, quietly crossing the hall to the door of the bedroom. She raised her knuckles, and paused, suddenly uncertain. She listened to him softly half-humming the lyrics of a song they would perform tonight, before she struck the door, "It's open," Walter answered, and Astrid pushed herself inside.

"I forgot to tell you," Astrid said, as Walter was musing his chin over with a strait razor in the bathroom, leaning over the sink, "I saw September, the other day."

"Oh?" Walter grimaced as he suddenly nicked his chin, a spot of blood showing through the suds and severed whiskers, "and how was he?"

"Busy, I guess. He didn't stay around long."

"He never does."

"He said he couldn't stay. But he said someone named Peter would," Astrid watched as Walter suddenly paused, in rinsing his face in the basin, "do you know what he's talking about?" she questioned.

Walter was silent for a few moments, slapping on some aftershave, "I met Joe Lewis once, did I ever tell you?"

"You didn't," So it was true. Astrid was almost sad she had even brought it up. "I get the feeling you don't tell me a lot of things, Walter." Astrid crossed the room, leaning against the bathroom door sill, crossing her arms across her chest, "When did you meet him?"

"In the service. I was just stupid enough to get into a fight with him, too, outside a little place in Hong Kong. Cleaned my clock, and I deserved it." Walter dried his face, and pulled the plug on the sink, "The most ignorant part was that, somehow, admittedly in a drunken stupor, I felt that I could win."

Astrid said nothing, waiting for his point.

Walter moved past her, into the bedroom, to gather up a clean shirt, "I may be a fool, but I like to think that at least, with time, I have learned to choose my fights wisely. I only hope that September has come to the same conclusion."

"Maybe he thinks that you can win this one," Astrid said.

Walter stuffed his shirt tails into his trousers, "Perhaps he's meddling where he doesn't belong."

xXx