“It’s occurred to me. We don’t know a thing about him except he has bad genetics on his paternal side.”

“He’s not violent,” Hannah said.

“You just said he beat the crap out of this guy.”

“He beat the mugger, he didn’t beat me. For goodness’ sakes, he might have saved my life. He’s not rash. As a matter of fact, he’s tightly wound. And anyone would be considering the circumstances he’s gone through. I can’t tell you what to do, but you know that he’s basically homeless.”

“He has relatives, Hannah, but that’s not the point,” Rina said. “Do you punish a kid for acting altruistically—”

“Stupidly,” Decker said.

“Maybe, but maybe not. We don’t know what happened. And maybe in his circle, you fight or you get your derriere kicked by your friends and by your father.”

“Not when there’s a weapon involved,” Decker said.

“You know…” Hannah stopped herself.

“What?” Decker said.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, Hannah. I need to know everything if I’m going to make a sensible decision.”

Hannah said, “We went looking for the gun afterward. Gabe didn’t want to leave it around in case the mugger returned.”

“Technically he was a robber.”

“Whatever, Abba. Gabe didn’t want to leave the gun around like in case a little kid was playing in the bushes and found it.”

“Well, that was smart,” Rina said.

“I’m not impressed,” Decker said.

“Anyway, we were looking on the ground for it and I found a pair of chopsticks. Then I jokingly said maybe he was held up with chopsticks. Then Gabe said that it wasn’t chopsticks, that it felt like a gun. Then I asked him if he knew what a gun felt like. And he said, ‘You’d better believe it.’”

No one talked for a moment.

“Like he’s had experience with weapons,” Hannah said. “So maybe that’s why he reacted. Maybe guns don’t scare him that much.”

“That’s the problem, Hannah. Guns should scare him.” Decker blew out air. “But knowing his father, there’s truth in what you said. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s the gun?” Decker asked.

“Gabe has it.”

“Well, first things first.” Decker stood up. “Let me get the weapon out of his hands.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IN THE EARLY evening, most restaurant bars tended to be quiet, but Garage’s happy hour was lively. Half-price drinks and free bar snacks must have brought in a white-collar trade because the place was brimming with suits of both sexes. If Marge had to guess, she’d peg most of the pack as lawyers because the downtown courthouses were just blocks away. The souls who weren’t involved with the legal system were probably bankers, stockbrokers, and accountants from old established L.A. firms. The majority were on the young side—late twenties through late thirties.