by C. S. Poe
Audience applause echoed through the floorboards.
Sunlight found its way through the one broken blind and stabbed Rufus directly in the left eye. He winced and grabbed his head as a headache akin to a pickax driving into his brain greeted him good morning. Rufus rolled onto his side and slowly sat up. The empty gin bottle lay on the floor.
So he’d gotten smashed last night. That explained why he felt like death warmed over.
What had happened that warranted the impromptu sobfest into a bottle—?
Rufus’s head shot up and his stomach lurched at the sudden motion. Yankee. Heckler. Sam. His stomach kept protesting as the seconds passed while he recalled the shitshow that was yesterday, and Rufus realized the queasiness was now going to be a full-on puke. He stumbled out of bed, the sheets tangled around his feet. He half ran, half fell into the bathroom and had just enough time to lift the toilet lid before he was sick. Nachos and hard liquor. Rufus ralphed again and didn’t move from the floor until his stomach spasms were nothing more than dry heaves.
Rufus flushed, brushed his teeth, and managed a quick shower that helped a bit but left his head spinning. He massaged his left eye while walking naked through the studio. He crouched beside the pile of clean clothes, pawed through the threadbare options, then settled on a pair of skinny jeans tattered at the knees and a black T-shirt with a severely faded skull and crossbones on the chest. It took another minute of rummaging to find socks and underwear, but by the time Rufus had dressed himself, he vaguely resembled a living, breathing human being.
He decided to take a walk. A long walk. All the way to Hell’s Kitchen, where maybe Maddie would feel bad enough for him that she could score Rufus a fried egg under the table. That seemed like a sensible decision. He’d walk off the last of the gin, and get some food and plenty of fresh air in the process. At least, as fresh as air could be on trash-collection day in the middle of July in an urban jungle. And Rufus could decide what the hell he was going to do about… everything. Because despite the hangover, he hadn’t forgotten what Sam said, about needing to disappear for a few days—a week, tops.
Yeah, right. With what money?
Rufus drunk-stumbled as he yanked his Chucks on. Did he still have a job as a confidential informant? Jake was his connection, after all. He’d always made sure Rufus got paid for putting his ass on the line. Who would do that now—Lampo? Fuck’s sake, Rufus might as well draft himself a résumé and start applying for nine-to-five jobs.
Hand on the security chain, ready to unlock the door and step out, Rufus paused as he listened to unfamiliar footsteps coming up the stairs and down the short hallway. He knew the steps of all his neighbors, their habits around the building, and the frequent guests who dropped by. Not because Rufus was intentionally a nosy shit, but because it was his one useful skill and he honest to God couldn’t help himself most of the time.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Rufus held his breath and looked through the peephole. On the other side was a distorted, fishbowl image of Bridget Heckler. Still petite, but now wearing a different, shapeless suit in charcoal gray. She stopped directly outside of 4D and glanced over one shoulder at 4B, who at this hour was still asleep, then at Pauly’s door, who could have been sleeping, stoned, or dead. Rufus took several steps backward when she knocked on his door.
He needed a weapon.
Rufus didn’t have one, though. He was better at blending in, disappearing, running away, or shoving himself into some nook or cranny until the danger passed versus trying to fight it head-on. And if he was in a real pickle, where he had no choice but to defend himself, Rufus never fought fair. He wasn’t above clawing at the face or kicking a guy in the nuts if it meant escaping with his life.
“Rufus,” Heckler called, her voice calm, professional, so wicked that it was like ice water in his veins. “Rufus, it’s Sergeant Heckler. I worked with Detective Brower. It’s important I speak with you.”
“What about?” he called, already halfway across the studio.
“What you saw last night.”
“Oh yeah? What’d I see?”
“I’m not going to shout through the door. Open up and let’s talk about this like adults. This is a very sensitive situation—you have no idea the shit you’ve stepped in.”
Rufus swallowed a panicked flutter in his throat and flexed his tingling fingers a few times. “I’m not opening the door,” he replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. He needed to call for help—and it wouldn’t be to the police. Rufus tapped the passcode, opened his scant number of text messages, and realized he’d never gotten Sam’s number. Never mind that even if he had, what the fuck could Sam do from the West Side? He pocketed the phone again.
Heckler hammered on the door. “Rufus, open the door.”
“Get bent,” Rufus called back. He hurled himself across the bed, opened one of the windows, and scrambled onto the fire escape. He heard Heckler pound on the door, but he didn’t stop moving. Rufus climbed down the ladder, ran across the rickety metal grating, and moved down the next set of stairs until he had to drop the last several feet onto the sidewalk below, startling the hell out of a dog-walker.
“Sorry,” Rufus said breathlessly, holding his hands up when the poor girl visibly jumped and nearly lost control of the excited pack in her care.
“Rufus!”
His head snapped toward the door of the tenement. Heckler stood in the open threshold, hand hesitating at her coat. Her service weapon. Would she go for it in broad daylight? Shoot him in the forehead like she’d done with Marcus?
Rufus bolted. He ran like New York was the Labyrinth, Heckler the Minotaur, and his only chance at escaping with his life was a single thread—one tendril of hope—and it led to Sam.
Heckler was shouting for him to stop, identifying herself as police, but Rufus didn’t slow. He dodged one burly civilian who thought to help the nice lady cop, and kept running west. If Sam had even gone to the Y like Rufus suggested—no, he didn’t even let himself consider the alternative. Sam had. Rufus trusted his gut and could swear he felt the tug between them pull him along.
He slid down the handrail of the Broadway-Lafayette subway station, shoved through the morning crowds, and jumped the turnstile as an Uptown B was pulling in. He walked the platform to the far end in order to board the last car, but before he made it, even over the rumble of 85,000 pounds of train and screeching brakes, Rufus heard Heckler’s voice telling him to stop at once.
The train doors opened and the mass exodus began. Rufus pushed through the passengers getting off and started running through the crowded, cramped car. He passed the middle door and caught sight of Heckler bullying her way inside. Unable to get off at the last door, Rufus opened the door between cars and moved ahead to the next one. All the seats and most of the standing room was taken. Passengers swore at Rufus as he slammed into them, tripped over bags, and knocked coffees out of hands.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” said the automated voice, and then the B was rolling out of the station.
Rufus heard the emergency exit open behind him, the sound of wind and steel briefly filling the car as Heckler determinedly followed. Rufus didn’t stop moving. He reached the third car, then the fourth by the time the B came to a stop at West Fourth.
He looked over his shoulder and watched Heckler. She shouted NYPD again, and the sardines in the can managed to make room for her to come at Rufus. He waited one second, another, made like he was going to jump between cars again, but as soon as the safety recording told passengers to mind the doors, Rufus lunged out them and fell onto the platform. He rolled over, looked up, and watched Heckler bang on the closed door with her fist before pointing at him—finger aimed like a gun. Then the train vanished into the tunnel, stirring up hot air and loose newspaper pages in its wake.
“You ok?” a businessman asked from where he sat on one of the few available seats against the wall.
Rufus got to his feet and brushed himself off.
“Morning commutes are a killer.”
By the time Rufus caught the next Uptown B, disembarked at Columbus Circle, walked to West Sixty-Third Street, and saw the overhead flag of the YMCA flapping in the morning breeze, he’d already run through the full gamut of human reactions to danger.
Anger.
Fear.
Exhaustion.
And now, finally, relief.
Rufus pulled open the door and walked through the lobby of the Y. There was some kind of shop behind him and to the left, judging by the ping of a register, two elevators along the far wall, and the cool air had the faint tang of chlorine, likely wafting through the AC system from the pool on the premises.
He went to the front desk, and while yanking his jean jacket off, asked, “Do you have a Sam Auden staying as a guest?” Rufus knew he probably looked half-insane to the nice-looking blonde woman on the other side of this conversation. His face was flushed from all the running, adrenaline, and unrelenting heat, and Rufus was sweating everywhere. He’d just showered too, dammit.
“I’m sorry, we can’t give out information on our guests,” the clerk replied.
“It’s important.”
“I understand—”
“No, you don’t,” Rufus interrupted. “You don’t need to tell me his room number, just call it yourself and say there’s a redhead here to see him. He’ll know what that means.”
Her eyebrows, by this point, had reached her hairline. “Sir, I can’t do that.”
“I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”
“Please don’t be difficult.” She picked up the receiver but said, “I’ll have to call my manager.”
“Lady, you don’t want to see me at ‘difficult.’”
“Rufus?”
Rufus spun, nearly overextending himself. There was Sam, standing in the open doorway of the shop.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Are you ok?”
Rufus pushed off the counter and moved like he was ready to fling himself into Sam’s arms. Because he’d had—pressure and heat on bare skin—the shit scared out of him—tracing freckles across his stomach—and Sam would know what to do about Heckler. Rufus stopped short of touching Sam, yanked his beanie off, and wiped his forehead. “I’ve had better mornings.”
As though Sam didn’t realize what he was doing, his hand came up. To straighten Rufus’s hair? Rufus had no idea, but he watched as Sam realized what was happening and pulled his hand back. Sam said, “I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were going to take a few days and get out of the city.”
Rufus smoothed down his hair himself. “How exactly would I pay for that impromptu vacation? I mean, what should I do? Raise a pant leg, show some skin, and hope someone picks me up on the parkway? I about got killed getting here—I could do with a bit of sympathy.”
Sam frowned, holding out a protein bar to Rufus, and said, “Heckler?”
Rufus snatched the bar. He tore the package open and crammed the entire thing in his mouth. “Fuggin’ ’itch,” he grumbled around peanut butter and nuts and oats.
For maybe fifteen seconds, Sam seemed to be somewhere else, thinking. Then he looked at Rufus dead-on. “You’re hungover.”
Rufus swallowed and stuck a finger in his mouth to pick at a bit of protein bar stuck in a molar. “Aren’t you so sweet in the mornings.”
One dark eyebrow went up, and in that irritatingly mild Sam voice, he said, “I just meant, I’m going to pick up a bottle of water and some ibuprofen from the store. Then we’re going to sit down, and you’re going to tell me what happened.” He turned to go and added, over his shoulder, “For the record, I’m very sweet in the morning. And I don’t even need a guy to pull up his pant leg for me. Even if I do think twinkie twig legs are cute.”
Rufus frowned and rubbed hard at his left eye until he was seeing spots. It felt good in the way that dull pain could. He blinked away the stars and watched as Sam grabbed a bottle from a cooler before approaching the register. Rufus noticed two younger guys seated nearby. They were watching him watching Sam. Then one smirked, looked pointedly at Sam, and swallowed down the length of his peeled banana.
Sam came back with a small foil-wrapped packet of ibuprofen, which he held out, and a bottle of water. “Drink all of it.”
Rufus snatched both without saying anything in the way of thanks. He tore open the foil, swallowed the pills dry, then cracked the seal on the water. After downing half the bottle, he motioned it at the two men with their sex fruit while staring at Sam. “Thank God you found someone to give you a hand last night. Or two. Or ass. Whatever it was they offered.”
After a quiet moment, Sam nodded. “Ok. Get it all out of your system?”
“I’ve got piss and vinegar for days.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
Rufus screwed the cap back on. “Do you still have a room?”
One of Sam’s hands wrapped around Rufus’s, clutching the bottle. His other hand removed the cap. “I said drink all of it.”
Rufus narrowed his eyes. “I can’t if you don’t let go of me.”
Sam released him, but then he stood there, a big dumb fuck of a tank, waiting.
Rufus briefly considered how satisfying it’d be to pour the water on the floor. He was trying so hard to rile Sam up because—fuck, he didn’t even really know why. He just was. And Rufus wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted. But he ultimately opted to finish the water, not because Sam told him to, but because Rufus had done a lot of running in July heat and was thirsty.
“Come on,” Sam said. “I’ve got the room until eleven thirty.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sam led Rufus past the elevators and toward the service stairs. He needed the time to pull himself together, and the thought of being in a metal box, inches away from Rufus, threatened to push him over the edge. They climbed the cement steps in silence, the only noise the soft whick of their shoes.
Part of Sam tried to focus on Heckler. His guess had been right; Heckler not only had thought Rufus was dead, but now she needed him dead. She had taken another risk today—a major risk—by showing up at Rufus’s apartment and chasing him through the city. She had tipped her hand. And she had shown how far she was willing to go to bury anything that might reveal the truth about what had happened to Jake.
But another part of Sam kept going back to Rufus: the flush in his cheeks when Sam had seen him in the lobby; the way the thin T-shirt clung to him, damp with sweat; the firestorm of hair. The night before, in thrall to two separate rage fucks, Sam could pretend he had gotten Rufus out of his head. Seeing him again, though…. Well. Damn. So much for that.
And the way Rufus had said, Thank God you found someone to give you a hand last night. The note in his voice. The way he had pressed on it, not letting it go. He’d heard the same thing in his own voice, the time or two he’d tried to talk to Jake. The thing about relationships, Sam thought—shocked to hear the word in his head, shoving it away before he could acknowledge it—was that nobody ever had new lines. You just played the same parts with the same script a hundred different ways.
Oh Christ. He needed to get laid. Again. And get far away from redheaded trouble.
In the small room, though, there wasn’t anywhere to get away. There was Rufus, right there, filling up the space: the smell of clean sweat, Dial soap, his hair. Sam took a spot on the far wall, hands under his arms, putting as much distance as he could between them.
“So?” he said.
Rufus tossed his jacket and beanie on the bed, walked to the window AC unit, and cranked the knob to High. He hiked his shirt up and leaned over the vent. “Heckler came to my apartment,” Rufus began, staring at the city below. “All she said was it was important we talk.”
“But you ran.”
“I went out my window and down the fire escape. I ran to the subway and she followed, but I lost her at West Fourth.” Rufus cocked his head and stared at Sam. “Do you want a Rufus thing?”
; Sam did, but Rufus was too close. He moved to the other end of the room and dropped onto the foot of the bed. Then he nodded.
Still holding his shirt up, Rufus turned so he could cool the sweat on his back. “I’ve got a record. I was arrested for pickpocketing when I was a punk kid. Two years ago I ended up in some hot water—Jake was the detective involved. But when he learned who I’d stolen from and the information I had… he convinced me to testify in exchange for no jail time, and that criminal is serving a life sentence now. Jake made an arrangement with me afterward. In exchange for having my juvie record scrubbed, my details under lock and key, and the occasional paycheck, I inform.”
The window unit chugged; the hiss of cold air was like a stream of static through Sam’s head. This, Rufus telling him this, was more than just facts; it was a Rufus thing. A small one, yes. But a peace offering.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “For telling me.”
Rufus shrugged.
“So you know what she really wanted when she came to your place.”
Rufus put a finger to his head and imitated a gun. “She showed me what she wanted.”
“You worked as a police informant. Maybe the best thing for you to do now is go to a stationhouse, tell them everything. You know cops, right? Tell them what you saw, everything you’ve figured out about what happened to Jake. If you can’t leave town, maybe that’s the next best thing.”
Rufus yanked his T-shirt down. “I’m sorry, I’m still a little hungover. Did you say go to the police and snitch on a cop? A sergeant? She’s a decorated officer and I’m a petty thief. Who do you think they’re going to believe?”
“I meant one of the cops you know. One that you trust.”
“Without Jake here,” Rufus said, voice dropping like a sinking stone, “all my hopes and dreams rest on Lampo.” He tugged his phone out and stared at the screen like he needed a moment to swallow his pride. “Lucky me,” Rufus finally concluded. He tapped in his passcode, pecked in a number, then set the call to speakerphone as it rang.