“Thanks, Robbie.” I leaned forward and took the mug, before blowing the steam off it, still looking at the picture. “They always say that artists bring a bit of themselves to their work. Is there any of you in this hero?”
“I guess so,” he shrugged, but avoided eye contact. “I like defending those defeated by the system. I like sticking up for the little guy. Sometimes…” he shrugged. “Sometimes the system is designed to protect the rich and powerful, and the vulnerable need a defender.”
“I like that.” I sipped the coffee and agreed with him. “I think the same way. Sometimes, people can buy the results that they need. It shouldn’t be like that. People shouldn’t have the ability to buy their way out of punishment. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess so.”
“The last time I was at the Five-Five, I talked to the homeless guy on the street, the former veteran with a cardboard sign that likes to sit near the far corner of the building. He said that you looked after him.”
Robbie lifted his eyes to look at me. “Someone has to stop all those snobby people walking all over the vulnerable. They already have too much power, and they think they can step on others? No. I won’t stand for that. That was a lesson that I learned a long time ago.”
“From your father?”
“My father died when I was little.”
“Perhaps your stepfather then?”
“My stepfather is dead.”
“Really?” I said. “You said he was a lawyer?”
“He was. His name was Jeffery Stone.” Robbie stared at me, emotionless. “But I don’t like to talk about him.”
“I get it.” I nodded, trying to suppress my surprise. I turned back to the picture on the wall, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “I met Jeffery Stone once. I worked with him, many years ago. He employed me to look into one of his clients, not much work, just a little bit of background information.” I lied. “Didn’t he come out as gay? That must’ve been hard for you and your mother.”
“His sexuality is none of my business. His whole life was none of my business.” He gripped his mug tighter. “My mother divorced him many years ago, and I hadn’t kept in contact with him. He was a nasty, nasty human being. My mother only married him for the money, but it wasn’t worth it.”
“Killed himself as well, didn’t he?”
“Like I said, his life was none of my business.”
“But he was your stepfather. You must’ve at least heard about his death.”
“I heard about it.” His expression remained cold. “Why are you asking about my stepfather, Jack?”
“I like to know the people I work with.” I shrugged and sipped the coffee again. “You’ve got to know a person if you’re going to trust them. If you help me with this investigation into Jonathon DiMarco, I have to be able to trust you.” I moved away from the picture, moving back towards the sofa. “Can I trust you, Robbie?”
As Robbie went to respond, his eyes were drawn to the cabinet, where I was previously standing. I turned. The third drawer was left slightly ajar. Damn it.
I turned back to Robbie, but in one quick movement, he threw his large coffee mug at me. I ducked, turning my shoulder, but I didn’t move quickly enough.
The mug caught the side of my temple, and I dropped to one knee, holding my face.
Before I could straighten back up, with my hand reaching around to my holster, Robbie lunged at me.
And then I saw his large, closed fist swinging towards my head.
Chapter 32
I blinked once, twice, and I could smell sugar and coffee, wondering if I was at home on a relaxed Sunday afternoon. Then, the pain shot through my jaw, and I remembered the dark, dirty basement apartment. My eyes jolted open, and I sat up straight, feeling a brief dizzy sensation. I lifted a hand to my cheek, and felt the puffiness around my eye.
“Don’t move one single muscle, Jack.”
Robbie was sitting on the sofa, pointing a gun in my face, his face a mixture of panic and rage. I was on the ground, against the brick wall, near the small television. I moved my hip against the wall and realized my gun was missing from the holster at my hip.
“Good to see that you don’t die easily.” Robbie’s hand seemed unnervingly still and steady as he held the gun. “At least you’re not a soft one. I respect that.”
“I’m feeling good, Robbie.” I groaned as I moved to sit up. “Just a little scrape. Nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t sit up any further, Jack. Just stay right there.”
“Robbie,” I started, but was interrupted when he bared his teeth and growled at me. “Robbie,” I said again, slowing my speech pattern. “I’m not sure what you think I have against you. I’m not sure what this is about. All I wanted to know is whether you could help me with Jonathon DiMarco.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot and you’re some hotshot negotiator, Jack. I’ve seen the TV shows; I’ve read the comics; I’ve heard the stories. I know you’re trying to make a connection with me. I just want you to shut up. I’m not done.”
“Not done with what, Robbie?”
I considered charging at him, getting the gun out of his grip, but he was too far away, and without backup, things could go south quickly.
“That!” Robbie waved the gun, pointing to the drawing I had been admiring only five minutes earlier. Without warning, and without the direction of his gun wavering, he stood and took several quick strides across the room.
“‘Dead on Arrival’? C’mon, man. How stupid are you?”
