Chapter Seven.
Captain Lows?
Well, despite the sea-themed decorum, it had a certain charm. And 'Mark' was right- the beer was cold, and tasted far better than the dust.
"You look like you just got off the road," the bartender said, rubbing a smudge from the lip of a scotch glass with a towel, "Long trip? I guess you could use a little sleep, by the looks of you."
"Yeah, well," Peter muttered into his beer, "Try finding your way in this town in the middle of the night."
"No complaints, here," The bartender grinned, stowing the glass under the counter, "who needs a hotel?"
Peter spared her a small bark of a laugh, "I'd hate to get to know the kind of person that frequents, at this hour of night."
"Morning," the bartender corrected, and moved to refill a drink as she was summoned.
Peter listened to the grainy rasp of the jazz record playing faintly, and was reminded, with a slightly homesick twinge of pain, of the quiet peace of the diner, and the gentle chatter of patrons. What was he even doing here, anyways?
"Hey," he said, drawing the attention of the bartender, "'You know about a place called Domino?"
"Jazz club? Yeah. Cute little place, charming. A guy named Amos owns it, and he's been trying his best to keep it from going under. Their show isn't bad, either- they were in the paper, not too long ago-" Peter waved her silent, and she chuckled, returning to the taps, "jazz just isn't it, anymore. It's a shame."
Peter took another drink of his beer, "'Anybody know how to get there?" he questioned to the scattering of gents at the bar he knew had been listening.
"Who wants to know?"
Peter glanced over his shoulder, and his brows shot up in surprise, "Oh."
Olivia smiled at him as she slid onto a seat beside him, selecting a coaster before setting her glass of scotch before herself, "I had no idea you were a jazz enthusiast, Mr. Peter."
"I'm not," he said, "But apparently, you are." He drew out the article she had left behind from his back pocket, doffing it onto the counter.
She smiled slightly, touching the page with her fingertips. "Not particularly," she replied. She looked up at him, a certain cruelty he had not expected in her eyes, "And just what brings you out from behind the counter, then?"
"What are you after?" Peter questioned.
"Right now? A refill," Olivia said to the bartender, who obliged, "I've had a little bit of bad luck here recently, and I'm looking to change it. But maybe I have, running into you," Olivia glanced at Peter over the top of her glass as she took a drink, "maybe I can figure out why you look so damn familiar."
"What do you want with Walter Bishop?" Peter clarified.
Olivia laughed, and he did not like the sound of it, "Walter Bishop," she repeated, then added, "Doctor Walter Bishop. He's dead." she took another drink.
"Dead?" Peter questioned, stunned.
"Yep. Probably killed by one of the thugs he owed money to."
Peter could not help but let his beer fall the rest of the way to the counter with a thunk, "How do you know?" he asked.
Olivia raised a brow, "What's it to you?"
"Nothing," Peter replied, "it's only that he seemed important, if you came down from New York to find him."
"Who said I was from New York?"
Peter smirked, "Lucky guess."
Olivia smiled back, just as darkly, "I'm sure. Well, the truth is, our disappearing-reappearing doctor Bishop here had an old friend looking for him, and I was sent to find him."
"Which friend?"
"Just a friend. I don't think it matters much, now." Olivia set down her glass to watch him, her brows furrowing as if he were a difficult piece of art to distinguish and understand, "You're more and more of an enigma, Mr. Peter. You're here by sheer coincidence, is that what I'm supposed to believe?"
"Believe what you want. It doesn't change anything," Peter received an new long-neck, rubbing the mouth with his sleeve for a few moments before raising it to his lips for a drink.
Olivia considered for a few moments, "I guess you're right."
They were silent for a few moments, ""If you really want to know," Olivia said lowly, "I only know Walter Bishop is dead because I asked him."
"Then he's not dead?" Peter questioned. He did not know what he felt, about her answer.
"More or less. If you can call watching your back at every move living. But, I suppose that I'm not one to talk," Olivia got to her feet, smoothing down the flawless lines of her dress and tucking the newspaper article under her elbow, "It was nice running into you, Peter. I'll be passing back through Donniston, but I don't think you'll be around to serve me any tea."
"Stop by anyway?" Peter asked.
She smiled, "Of course. Good night."
"Good night, Miss Olivia," he replied. It felt strange to say her name, now that he did. He tried not to stare too much as she left.
And what would he do, now? He'd come here, met up with Olivia, and what? He still didn't know the connection she had, with his father. If she had been looking for him, why was she leaving him? And who had sent her? The fact that she had called him and enigma had been simple irony.
Peter did not have much longer to ponder his queries when gunshots interrupted the monotonous tones of the bar, and he looked up sharply. Peter got to his feet and raced outside, toward the sounds.
He was the first to stumble onto the dim, nearly vacant parking lot, and the first to see a man sprawled out at Olivia's feet amongst the blood and shell casings. He looked to Olivia as she stared down at the fallen man in horror, "Philip…?"
xXx
She thought that she would have been too angry to sleep, but when Astrid awoke a few hours later to the brightness of the morning sunshine through her bedroom window, she found it hard to believe that it had only been earlier that she had met Olivia, and apparently Walter, for the first time…
She took a bath to work off the chills and the quiet. She dressed in silence, and was downstairs making breakfast when Walter seemed to appear behind her, wrapping her into a hug. "I thought you'd left-" Astrid started.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Astrid sighed, and was silent for a few moments, "It's alright, Walter," she said at last, "I mean, I don't really understand, but…"
"You mean a great deal, to me," he said, softer still, "I don't know where… what…" he sighed, and kissed her slightly damp hair. "You know that, don't you?"
Astrid chuckled softly, patting his arm, "Whatever that means, Walter, I guess I understand." He smiled, and released her, and she returned to her task at the stove, "How do you want your pancakes? I've got boysenberry syrup, I know it's your favorite."
"I'm afraid I don't have time, today," Walter said, grabbing up his coat off the back of a chair, "there are things I have to take care of. I should be back by lunch."
"Okay. Stay out of trouble."
"I'll try. Ciao, bluebird," Walter kissed her on the cheek, settling his fedora on his head and fleeing the house via the kitchen door.
"And don't gamble!" Astrid added, to which he did not reply. Astrid chuckled and shook her head, beginning to cut potatoes into the frying pan. For what Walter appeared to lack in common sense, he more than made up for in charm. Astrid wonder if, perhaps, his luck really had changed.
Not that she believed in luck, anyways.
Astrid was pushing a fluffy, golden pancake onto a plate when there was a rapping at the front door. "Coming!" she called, shutting off the stove and doffing her apron onto a peg in the pantry. She glanced at the shotgun, leaning against the cobwebs in a dark corner, and she shook her head, leaving it be as she made her way to the front door.
She retracted the bolt and removed the chain as she twisted the knob, pulling the door open, "Hello…?"
A man stood in her doorway, and he pulled his cap from his head, holding in his hands politely, "Good morning, ma'am. I'm looking for Dr. Walter Bishop."
Astrid hesitated for a moment, taken aback at the stranger's rugged good looks, his careless stubble reminding her of something she could not quite remember. But she had a strange suspicion that she had seen him somewhere else, "No, I'm sorry, you just missed him. He ran out for a few errands."
The man shifted uncomfortably, "Oh. Well, do you know when he might be back?"
Astrid laughed quietly, "With Walter, there's no telling. Would you like to leave him a message?"
He sighed, scratching the back of his neck, "No, thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry to have trouble you." he turned away, starting back toward his parked car.
"Wait," Astrid said, stilling him. She laughed uneasily as he looked back at her, "I'm sorry, but… have we ever met?"
"No, ma'am. I'd remember."
"You look very familiar."
"I've just got one of those faces-"
"No- I know I've seen you before. What's you're name?" Astrid questioned.
The stranger looked uncomfortable, "Look, it doesn't matter- in fact, please don't even mention that I stopped by-"
And all at once, his face fell into place- she had seen him before, "You're Peter," Astrid exclaimed, "Peter Bishop."
"Look, everyone says I look like someone-" he stammered.
"No- Walter keeps a picture of you, in his wallet. It's a baseball card…" Astrid chuckled in exasperation, "Jesus, he really does have a son…"
Peter's face suddenly soured, "No, he doesn't," he said stiffly, and turned away again, pulling his cap onto his head. Astrid raced down the steps to touch his shoulder, stopping him.
"Peter, please," she said quickly, "please, come inside."
xXx
