Mattheus laughed.
Jason’s glare grew more annoyed.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Mattheus tried to control his amusement.
“Did Batman sideline you?”
Jason paused.
“How the hell did you know?”
“It was not difficult.” Mattheus gestured at him.
“Robin is sitting in a pub five minutes before midnight, eating a burger and sulking, while Batman is probably somewhere outside fighting whichever psychopath is threatening Gotham tonight.”
Jason said nothing.
“With the president in town and that Russian psycho still running around,” Mattheus continued, “I would guess Batman is hunting the Beast.”
Jason pushed a fry through a drop of sauce.
“Yeah.”
“And he told you to stay out of it.”
“He didn’t just tell me to stay out of it.
He benched me.”
There it was.
Mattheus rested his forearms against the counter.
“I fought the Beast before,” Jason said.
“I know what weapons he uses.
I’ve seen how he moves and how he reacts when someone gets close.
I know more about his fighting style than anyone except Batman, but B got pissed because I went after him without waiting for backup.”
“You did nearly get killed.”
Jason’s head snapped up.
“I didn’t.”
“You entered my pub covered in blood after barely getting away from him.”
Jason looked away.
“Those were just a few scratches.”
Mattheus raised an eyebrow, and Jason crossed his arms and muttered:
“I handled it.”
Mattheus thought back to that night, and well, handled was certainly one way to describe it.
Jason must have read something in his expression because he looked away.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“Batman decided I’m not ready, so he went after the Beast alone.”
Mattheus frowned.
In the comics, the KGBeast had nearly defeated Batman during their first confrontation.
Batman survived because the Beast overestimated him and assumed he still had some hidden ace.
Rather than risk continuing the fight, the assassin withdrew.
If the Beast had almost won against Batman, Jason had been badly outmatched.
And unlike many of Gotham’s criminals, the Beast did not hesitate, play games, or leave people alive so they could appreciate his brilliance later.
He was a professional assassin who had already murdered numerous innocent people simply because their deaths brought him closer to his targets.
Maybe Batman had handled the situation poorly—and judging by everything Mattheus knew about Bruce Wayne’s communication skills, that was extremely likely—but his decision made sense.
“Maybe he was worried about you,” Mattheus said.
Jason scoffed.
“I’m serious.”
“He doesn’t get to bench me every time he gets worried.”
“No, but he might not want his kid to be killed by a Russian assassin.”
“I’m not his kid.”
Mattheus said nothing and Jason’s expression became more irritated.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“That look.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
Mattheus had no idea what he was doing, but admitting that would ruin the effect.
Jason folded his arms.
“It’s bullshit.
I’ve fought the Joker, Killer Croc, Zsasz, Poison Ivy, Two-Face, and dozens of other psychos.
I’ve been shot at, stabbed, poisoned, thrown off buildings, and almost eaten at least twice.
But this Russian asshole is suddenly too dangerous?”
“The local villains are dangerous,” Mattheus agreed.
“Also completely insane.”
“No shit.”
“But Batman knows them.”
Jason’s frown deepened.
“He knows how they fight, how they think, what weapons they use, and what they’re likely to do when cornered.
He probably trained you with those things in mind, didn’t he?”
It was both a question and an affirmation.
Jason hesitated before nodding.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“The Beast is different.
He appeared from nowhere, murdered dozens of people to reach one man, and has no problem cutting through anyone standing between him and his target.
Batman might see him as a wildcard.”
“I fought him.
I know what he can do.”
“You fought him once.”
“And Batman fought him how many times?”
Mattheus tilted his head.
How was he, a perfectly ordinary bartender, supposed to know that?
Jason looked away again.
“Once,” he muttered.
“So you both know very little, except Batman has more experience and a pathological need to take every dangerous responsibility upon himself.”
Jason’s mouth twitched before he suppressed it.
Mattheus shrugged.
“Maybe Batman is worried.
Maybe he thinks bringing you would place you in unnecessary danger.
Or maybe I’m completely wrong and he’s just an asshole.”
“He is an asshole.”
“You would know better than me.
You know Batman.
I only know the stories people tell.”
Most of those stories involved comics, but Jason didn’t need that detail.
Mattheus picked up the empty Dr Pepper can.
“If you want to know what he was thinking, ask him.”
“Yeah, because Batman’s famous for talking about his feelings.”
“You lose nothing by trying.”
“I lose several hours of my life while he stares at me and gives one-word answers.”
“That sounds painful.”
“You have no idea.”
“Still, if you don’t clarify things, you’ll both make assumptions, become increasingly angry, and trust one another a little less every time it happens.” Mattheus tossed the can into the rubbish bin.
“That is not particularly healthy for partners whose lives depend upon each other.”
Jason stared at him, and Mattheus stared back.
“Are you a bartender or a shrink?”
“Bartender.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
“It comes with the job.
People drink, complain about their lives, and expect me to say something helpful.”
“Do you?”
“Occasionally.
Most of the time, I nod and give them another beer.”
Jason glanced toward the taps.
“Then give me a beer.”
“No.”
“Worth a try.”
Jason ate his remaining fries.
Mattheus collected the empty plate when he finished and carried it into the kitchen.
He placed it in the dishwasher, watched the machine annihilate the remains of the meal in ten glorious seconds, and returned to find Jason standing near the counter.
The teenager looked toward the book, then at the shelves behind Mattheus.
“Can I borrow that manga you were reading last time?”
“Katekyo Hitman Reborn?”
“Yeah.”
Mattheus smiled.
“So you liked it.”
“Are you going to lend it to me or not?”
“Sure.
Give me a moment.”
Mattheus climbed the stairs to his suite and took the manga from one of the shelves in his small office area.
He had considered the possibility of someone examining it shortly after winning it from the gacha so Mattheus had removed the pages containing the publication date, publisher information, and anything else that might identify where and when it had been printed.
Jason hadn’t noticed anything strange when he briefly read it during his previous visit, and even a closer inspection wouldn’t reveal evidence that the manga came from another universe.
If he searched for Katekyo Hitman Reborn online and found nothing, Mattheus already had an excuse prepared: a friend of a friend was an aspiring mangaka who hadn’t managed to publish it officially.
Simple and believable (lots of artists have created comics and manga and never published them) and hopefully never necessary.
Mattheus took the first volume downstairs and handed it to Jason.
“Try not to get blood on it.”
Jason rolled his eyes and slid the manga into one of the larger pouches on his utility belt with surprising care.
Jason did like literature, didn’t he?
“How much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen bucks”
Jason placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
Mattheus picked it up and opened the register.
“Keep the change.”
“I see fighting crime pays well.”
Jason started toward the door.
“You wouldn’t believe how good the dental plan is.”
Mattheus laughed.
“Bring the manga back in one piece.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And talk to Batman.”
Mattheus expected a sarcastic remark, another dismissal, maybe even a glare but Jason just glanced over his shoulder.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good enough.”
Jason opened the door and disappeared into the night.
Mattheus locked the door and looked at the clock.
12:27 a.m.
He was closing late because Robin had arrived five minutes before midnight and ordered a burger—he doubted other bartenders had this problem.
“That’s my life.” He sighed and headed into the kitchen, his thoughts drifting to the cleaning robot he had seen in the Store the other day.
That thing would make his nights so much easier.
Mattheus cleaned the kitchen first.
He wiped down the grill, emptied the fryer basket, put away the remaining ingredients, and gave silent thanks to the futuristic dishwasher for sparing him from the worst of the work.
Afterward, he returned to the pub and tidied the tables, collected the glasses, swept the floor, and wiped down the counter.
When he reached the stool where Jason had sat, Mattheus paused.
The last time Jason had been here, Crossroads still wasn’t connected to this Earth.
Phones lost their signal, radios stopped working, and anything that needed an outside connection became useless.
Batman had private satellites—or access to them—and enough surveillance technology to make several intelligence agencies jealous.
A random pub completely blocking Robin’s equipment would not go unnoticed.
And the Bats would not be fooled by Mattheus’s “paranoid building owner” excuse.
That was the main reason why he had paid to connect Crossroads to this universe’s internet, cable, and mobile networks.
He crouched and looked beneath the counter.
Nothing.
He examined the underside of the stool.
Also nothing.
Mattheus stretched his back after getting up.
Those places would have been too obvious, so he looked around the pub and tried to think like Robin—well, he had absolutely no idea how Robin thought so he settled for thinking like every secret agent he had ever seen in a movie, show, or comic.
Jason had been alone at the counter for several minutes while Mattheus prepared his food.
He’d had another opportunity when Mattheus went upstairs for the manga.
Plenty of time to place something.
His gaze passed over the tables, the television, the shelves behind the bar, and the decorations covering the walls.
He walked toward the nearest wall—several framed photographs, vintage posters, and small paintings covered it.
Mattheus examined them one by one.
Behind a faded photograph of a city street, he found nothing.
The frame of an old Italian beer advertisement was clean.
Then he reached a small painting of several birds perched upon an electricity cable.
Mattheus leaned closer; behind the lower edge of the frame was a tiny black object no larger than a shirt button.
He nearly laughed: a listening device hidden behind a painting of birds.
Seriously, Robin?
Mattheus carefully returned the painting to its original position without touching the device.
He looked at the painting, shrugged, and headed upstairs.
Once there, he switched off the lights below and opened the door to his suite.
It wasn’t as though listening in on Crossroads would reveal anything important.
If Robin wanted to waste his time eavesdropping on customers ordering beer and complaining about Gotham, he was welcome to it.