'I'll tell you a little secret.' Is he finally going to broach the diary? 'Concerns you, David. Want to hear?'
'Sure.'
'But you won't ask me straight out?'
'I won't grovel for it if that's what you mean.'
He smiles. 'That's another thing I like about you. You don't kiss ass. Anyhow, here's the secret. I don't think you'll like it much. But you earned the right to hear it the day you fought Mark at Hayes. Remember that mean cartoon you drew of him?'
'Sure.'
'It not only infuriated him, which is the side you saw, but when he brought it home and showed it to Mom, he wept.'
Even back then my pencil hit the mark!
'He sobbed over it, couldn't take your mockery. Mom tried to comfort him, told him he didn't have to take it. ‘why don't you march into school tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘and poke that little Jewboy in the nose!’'
'She called me that?' I'm outraged.
'Yeah.' Robin grins. 'See, it was Mom who put Mark up to provoking you. It was like she wanted him to fight you, bloody you up. That Friday night when we came home and told her how the fight had gone, there was this lewd gleam in her eye, especially when she heard Mark won. She followed him upstairs, hugged and kissed him. It was too much. I think even he was embarrassed.'
This is too much. I call for a break. When Robin goes into the kitchen to fetch beers, I sit there reeling with anger.
Barbara Fulraine wanted Mark to provoke me! Was thrilled to hear he'd bloodied me up, that her beautiful brave blond boy had beaten her Jew-shrink's son!
By the time Robin returns, I'm calm again, realizing I was but a sacrificial-pawn in the complicated game she was playing with Dad – a realization, however, that does not warm the cockles of my heart.
Robin, beer in hand, examines my drawing.
'You caught me all right.'
'Not much more to do.'
'Can I have it when you're finished?'
'Of course. I'm making it for you.'
'You're a nice guy, David. Hope what I said didn't upset you too much. It happened so long ago.'
'It's okay,' I tell him, as he resumes his position on the couch. I start shading his face and upper body, working to give the drawing a proper finish.
'I feel we share something,' he says, 'on account of how we both lost a parent at an early age. Not to mention that our parents were involved.'
'When I pointed that out to Mark, he didn't seem to like it much.'
Robin nods. 'Of course not.'
Drawing his torso, I note the scrawniness of his build, the thinness of his arms. No wonder his belly punch didn't hurt me. He's really in lousy shape.
'I think my father was dazzled by your mother,' I tell him. 'She came to him in pain. He tried to help her. I know Mark doesn't like hearing that because he thinks my dad failed her. But that isn't how those shrink things work.'
'Mark's an asshole,' he says.
He goes quiet then, meets my eyes. I take the opportunity to finish drawing his.
'The other day I told you I have Mom's diary.' He spoke shyly.
Finally! Maybe now we'll get somewhere.
I apply some accent strokes, then put my pencil down. The drawing's finished.
'Why'd you tell me that?' I ask.
'I don't know,' he says. 'Mark doesn't even know it exists.'
'Does it?'
Robin nods. 'Mom kept it hidden inside one of her equestrian trophies. After she died, all her stuff went into storage. About ten years ago, Mark and I went to the warehouse to look it over and divide it up. When we got to the trophies, we each took half. I found it in one of mine, a little notebook held closed by a rubber band.
'Of course I immediately started to read it. Then I found I couldn't. Who wants to read about his mother's intimate affairs? I sure as hell didn't, so I put it aside.' He shrugs. 'I guess I've brought it out a couple times over the years, tried reading it, never got very far. Just too painful. Not the kind of stuff I want to know. But still I could never bring myself to destroy it. That would be like… burying her again. Anyway, there's stuff about your dad in there, David, and a lot of other stuff besides. Surprisingly little about Mark and me. I guess in her busy life we didn't count for much.'
He shrugs again. 'I wish I could give it to you… but I can't. Like I said, it's too intimate. It's be like showing you pictures of my mom having sex.'
'I understand,' I tell him, 'but if you ever change your mind…'
I detach the drawing from my pad, present it to him, watch him as he studies it.
'This is better than just nice, David. It's excellent. I'm grateful. Thank you.'
As we get up I notice a piece of furniture in the corner, a beaten-up Windsor-style chair. It's missing half an arm, with several radiating spokes broken on the back. What catches my eye is a fading Latin slogan and crest on the rear support.
'Is that a Hayes chair?' I ask.
Robin smiles. 'Wondering when you'd notice. It's from the Trustees Room. When Dad died they offered it to Mark and me, a memento of the years he served on the board. I call it ‘the hot seat’ because it's where I usually sit when I shoot up.'
I glance at him, note the gloat in his eyes, the pleasure he takes in his desecration of the precious heirloom. Perhaps the chair reminds him too of happier days back at Hayes – days of bullying, making other boys cry, and all the wicked satisfaction derived from such as that, the schoolboy schadenfreude we all used to feel.
He walks me out to my car.
'Do you really like living like this?' I ask.
'It's not so bad. I'm comfortable. I wish I had a girlfriend sometimes.'
'Why don't you clean this place up, get rid of the dog crap, lay off the drugs, and get yourself in shape?'
'Think that would help?'
'I think you'd feel better.'
'I'd probably look a little better but I doubt I'd feel better.' He speaks sadly now. 'You see, David, the crappy way I live – it pretty much sums up the way I feel.'
I fret about that diary on my way back to the hotel, wondering if there's some way I can convince Robin to let me read it. Then, when I walk into my room, other thoughts intrude.
The moment I enter I sense something wrong, that someone's been inside and my things have been touched.
I make a quick inventory. My drawings posted on the walls are as I left them, but those piled on my desk are ordered differently. My drawing of Dad in his car surveilling the Flamingo, previously at the bottom of the pile, is now on top.
I check the closet to see if my briefcase, containing Dad's paper, is still in the bottom of my garment bag. It is, and thankfully, still locked.
I walk back to the center of the room, then turn slowly, looking carefully at everything. Beside the disorder of my drawings, what makes me think someone beside the room maid had been in here? It's the air, I decide. There's a scent. Trying to define it, I come up with the aroma of stale cigarette smoke permeating the fabric of a cheap suit.
I call down to the desk. Five minutes later, two guys from hotel security show up. Soon all three of us are sniffing around the room. To me the scent's obvious, but the security guys aren't sure. They agree there's a trace of
