Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,47
soft, and has no real power. But the pride and respect of a father, one who lives outside the law, who takes what he wants, this would be strength. It’s a power, and one that can be inherited. Especially to a coward who believes himself brave.”
Mira smiled, squeezed a hand on Dennis’s leg. “Yes. You blocked that power from him,” Mira told Roarke. “You still are.”
“The old man’s dead.”
“That makes him more powerful. Sorry, Charlie.”
“No, Dennis, you’re absolutely right. Dead—and dead by violence—he’s an icon, a goal unattained, a right stolen from him before he could earn that pride and respect. And you’re living proof of what he never had.”
Watching Roarke, Mira sipped her wine. “What sort of work did he do for your father?”
“Well, he never had a talent for straight thievery, and had he four hands couldn’t have picked a pocket. Enforcement’s what he did to earn his place.”
“Of what sort?”
Odd, so odd, Roarke realized, to sit in this pretty, welcoming room and think of those hard and miserable days.
“If someone balked at the protection fee, Cobbe might be sent along to persuade them. Or if someone didn’t pay the old man what he deemed as his fair share of a take on a job, he might send Cobbe to collect. One way or the other.”
“How old was he when he started?”
“Ah, about twelve or thirteen, I’d wager. It sounds young, but it was a different time and place.”
“Still young,” Mira said. “And his father figure selected him to cause physical harm to others. Did he kill, even then, at your father’s behest?”
“Possibly. Probably, yes,” Roarke corrected.
“Did he ever send you with Cobbe?”
“Christ no. I was too useful to end up gutted, and the old man had sense enough to know Cobbe would at least try to do me. My talents lay elsewhere. I was born a thief.” He shrugged again. “And the need to survive honed that natural talent. I worked the tourists and the shops, and then the homes and flats of the rich. I won’t insult two people I care for by denying I enjoyed it.”
“We tend to enjoy what we excel at,” Dennis commented, and earned a flashing grin.
“True enough.”
“And how did your father treat him when Cobbe worked for him?”
“Well enough, I suppose, if Cobbe did the job in what the old man considered good time and brought back the approved amount.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“The fist, the boot—but you’d get that as well if the old man had a mood for it, and he often did. It was rarely more than that, as Cobbe did his work—and enjoyed it. I got worse, as I squirreled some of my take away. It was worth a beating to know one day I’d have enough to get out and gone.”
Roarke paused as he lifted his beer.
“You remembered something else.”
“I did, yes. A time Cobbe got the worst of it. This would be a year or more after he first knocked on the door. In he came with his day’s take, and it must’ve been enough to please, as the old man had Meg pour Cobbe a half pint. Cobbe sat, as if at home, and told the old man some tale on me. I don’t recall what it was now, or if it was truth or lie. Hardly matters. He beat Cobbe bloody for it. He didn’t tolerate whiners or rats, you see. I got bashed as well, but Cobbe took the brunt that time.”
“That would be your fault, in his mind. And still, the beating was attention. Focused on him. A kind of proof he mattered. All of this helped foster what he became.”
“Did—I can’t call him Roarke’s father, Charlie. Biology doesn’t make a father.”
At that Roarke looked down at his beer, said nothing. Could say nothing through the sheer flood of simple gratitude.
“Did he ever show Cobbe any of the pride or respect?”
To give himself a moment, Roarke sipped his beer. “Some respect, I suppose, but pride, no. And more than once I heard him tell Cobbe he had no drop of Roarke in him, and he’d crack his skull if ever he used his name as his own. He called Cobbe’s mother a whore. And sure he’d had his share of whores, but he’d know if any of them grew a brat of his in their belly. And the like of that.”
“And Cobbe took it?”
“He did, yes.”
“What did he call him?” Dennis wondered. “The boy Cobbe was?”