Chapter Text
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
Tom eyed the infamous private eye across the bar, with lips twisted like he'd just eaten a particularly sour lemon. Said private eye, Frank Sinatra, was dressed in a suit, fedora, and overcoat typical of a man of his occupation. One of his hands was inside his pocket, while the other - only two fingers - jabbed the photograph between them accusingly. Sandwiched by those index and middle fingers was a cigarette.
"Come on," Sinatra pressed, his rough voice grating in Tom's head, "I don't have all day."
The arrogance of this man, Tom thought, teeth gnashed. He quickly smoothed it into a grin, though, and said in his most patient tone, "Yes, Detective, this is the place."
Sinatra crossed his free arm over his chest and rested the elbow of his cigarette-hand on his expensive wristwatch. Smoke wafted out of his cigarette and into the open air.
"I don't know, Mr. Jobim," Sinatra said, voice light and almost sing-song in its cadence, "My sources haven't seen a mouse with your description come out of here at 4 PM.”
Of course he relied on sources.
"Your ‘sources’, Detective, whoever they are," Tom snapped, leaning forward with a hand slamming onto the photograph to propel him, "Don't see what I see."
He knew full well who Frank Sinatra's sources were - gangsters of the physical underworld, murderers and corrupt officials... so oblivious to their effects on the astral plane. How could Sinatra turn a blind eye on what they did? "And they can never see what we see."
"If that’s really the case," The private investigator took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling an artful puff of white smoke. "Why did you hire me ?"
Tom wanted to answer - he knew Sinatra was difficult, but not like that! Why would anyone with his skills be so imperious? It wasn’t a toy to be lorded over people. But that piercing stare still froze him in place.
"I ain't a witch detective. I'm as mundane as any detective can get."
Tom leaned further into Sinatra's self-made curtain of smoke, so close that he almost touched the cigarette between the detective's lips.
"I know about your powers," Tom said sharply.
Sinatra scoffed. “You’re crazy. I don’t have any powers.”
He inhaled the tobacco. Then exhale… but not quite. He was toying with the pale mist in the air, sucking them in for a second, then blowing it again. The result was a pout that showed Tom the shape of his lips - thin upper one, but a fuller lower lip that complemented it… no. He wasn’t here for that.
In a flash, he pulled out the butterfly knife in his pocket, unfolding it with fluent hands and thrust-
Sinatra’s hand caught Tom’s wrist in his grip. Warm, calloused, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
His knife clattered onto the floor.
“I thought you were smarter than this.”
There was a glint in his blue eyes, framed by crow’s feet - but his smile wasn’t at all amused.
“I’m sure this is at least the tenth time,” Tom spat.
He roughly tossed Tom’s wrist off his curled fist. "Touche."
Tom crouched to get his knife and pocketed it once more. “Did I hit a nerve?”
“You almost hit an artery,” Sinatra replied with sarcasm. His foot stomped, hard, on his fallen cigarette butt. “You shouldn’t swing that thing around. You could've hurt some poor schmuck.”
Finally. An admission of his time-rewinding powers. Tom couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. “Well-”
“For the record, Mr. Jobim, it’s only the fifth time.” Sinatra cut in, jabbing a finger on Tom’s chest, “And you better not be a fink, pal. You don’t wanna spill your awe all over this joint.”
“Spill what to whom?” Tom inquired, “The ghosts haunting this bar?”
A raised eyebrow. “I meant the mob, Mr. Jobim. I don’t need them all over me.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” Tom continued, arms crossed over his chest. “If you want to advertise yourself as mundane, that’s your business.” And besides, the ghosts haunting this bar only come out when this “joint” is open.
“Marvelous,” Sinatra replied. Flat. His face was just in that neutral expression, eyebrows slightly furrowed and deepening the age-lines between them. “Now what sort of broad should I be looking for here? Invisible? Siren voice? Any special powers my sources can’t catch? ‘Tall, tan, young, and lovely’ is not a good description.”
“There’s no better phrase to describe her - you can catch her yourself,” Tom explained, “If you sit with me tomorrow at 3 PM. Be on watch, use your Sight.”
A smirk was Sinatra’s response. “It’s a date.”