A Friend in the Dark

by C. S. Poe

  The basement was dark and smelled like cold cement; only as Sam’s eyes adjusted could he make out the papered-over windows. He took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and swept the light in an arc.

  The basement was ‘finished’ in that half-hearted way of so many older homes: exposed support beams spray painted black, a few metal columns, the cement floor painted and sealed, and from what Sam could see, the sealant yellowed with age. No effort had been made to divide up the space into rooms. He spotted a washer-and-dryer combo straight out of the ’70s, one of the big plastic water barrels people used to collect rain, and a behemoth of an oil furnace. The weak glow from the flashlight didn’t reach all the way across the basement, so Sam’s first move was to walk the perimeter again, playing the light in wide arcs, making sure he got an initial look at every inch of the room.

  By the time he got back to the stairs, Rufus had his head in the washing machine, his bony butt in the air. Sam sighed and moved to check the furnace. It wasn’t like a wood-burning stove, though, so he didn’t find any doors that opened where someone might have burned incriminating evidence. Unfortunately. He moved back over to join Rufus and saw that the redhead was picking through the plastic barrel.

  “Shit,” Sam said, “what reeks? That smells like gasoline.”

  Pinching cloth between two fingers, Rufus held something up from the barrel.

  “A blanket?” Sam said.

  Rufus nodded and dropped it back in before warily plucking at the rest of the contents. “Bedding. Old sheets, nasty blankets.” He wiped his hand on his jeans. “Guess they planned on burning it all.”

  “In a plastic barrel?”

  Rufus shrugged and rubbed his jaw. “Human traffickers are monsters—no one said anything about being evil geniuses.”

  “Jesus Christ. We’re dealing with morons. All we have to do is keep following them, and the dumbfucks will back themselves into a corner. They’re probably too stupid to have any sort of exit strategy.”

  The sound of the front door opening ran through the house, and steps moved above them. At the same time, Sam and Rufus both looked at the stairs, which were the only way out of the basement, and then at each other.

  “You were saying?” Rufus said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rufus crept toward the rickety staircase and looked up at the partially open door. He listened to the sounds overhead—steps, weight, and tread distinctly two individuals—cautiously moving from the home’s entrance to the empty room on the left. Rufus pictured the strangers making a circuit like he and Sam had done, poking their heads into what might have been a sitting room and eventually ending their search in the maybe-dining room with the… French doors.

  Rufus climbed the rickety steps without a word, quieter than Sam had managed on the descent. In the threshold he poked his head into the kitchen, confirmed it was still empty, and turned to Sam, who was starting to come up behind him. Rufus held his hand out, motioned for Sam to stop, then vanished into the kitchen and around the corner. Hugging the wall, Rufus drew closer to the doors he’d previously smacked into after flailing around with the spider. He grabbed the handle to one of the doors and not-so-gently slammed it shut, the glass rattling in the frame and bouncing off the empty walls and wood floor.

  Rufus fled to the kitchen as the intruders returned to the home’s foyer and continued onward to inspect the commotion in the dining room. Sam stepped out of the basement, and Rufus grabbed the sleeve of his T-shirt while running by. He led the way into the empty sitting room in order to dart out the front door while the strangers had their backs turned.

  During the whole search of the house, Sam had kept the gun at his side, barrel pointed down. Now it came up, and although Rufus could still see the tremors in Sam’s hand, he could also see something drop over Sam’s face like an iron curtain. The guy who liked to tease, who liked to say, it’s cute, who had folded a foil gum wrapper into an origami rose—that guy was gone, buried under the iron. As they moved into the next room, Rufus spotted the newcomers, and Sam was already shouting, “Put your hands up, motherfuckers.”

  Two men turned in unison, only one raising his gun in time to be pointing the weapon at Sam. He had cropped blond hair and those nerdy glasses that reminded Rufus of NASA engineers à la Apollo moon landings. The second man was a few steps deeper in the room, gun at an awkward midpoint that did nothing for him. Both wore dark clothes and had gloves on, which in July heat made it painfully clear they had no intention of leaving fingerprints in their wake.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the blond asked. He had the slightest hint of an accent, but it was bastardized from living in New York for so long that Rufus couldn’t place it.

  “Drop those fucking guns,” Sam shouted. “Drop them!”

  “However you got in here,” the blond continued, his aim rock-steady, “just go right back out the same way. We’re not looking to have to dump a couple of bodies.”

  Rufus’s brain fired on all cylinders. He memorized the strangers’ faces, clothes, noted the illegal suppressors on their pistols, repeated NASA guy’s words over and over, perfecting that slight lilt in his voice in case it was all he had by way of identification for the police. Then a single thought wormed its way through the haze of adrenaline, fear, and details being catalogued, and that was: two to one.

  Sam had to defend them both because Rufus was skittish of guns and never wanted to touch one, let alone own one. And now, barrels raised and fingers on triggers, he stood there like a complete fucking useless lump with nothing to fight with except his bare fists. But Sam was ex-Army. He could handle this, right? If he hadn’t been trained for this sort of situation, then what the fuck were Rufus’s nonexistent taxes even paying for?

  Two to one.

  Rufus was pretty sure he heard the unaccounted footfall first. Maybe because he wasn’t laser-focused on a target. His eyes flicked toward the front door left open several inches. He thought at first a breeze and rusting door hinges must have been the source of the noise. But no. There was no breeze. It was hotter than the subway platform of West Fourth Street. Then the door opened wider—enough for a woman to poke her head in, startle, swear, and grab for the holstered gun on her belt.

  “Put your weapons down,” she ordered, still struggling to free her own.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Sam muttered, but he didn’t shift, the gun still pointed at the Bobbsey twins. “A little help?” he said to Rufus.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Rufus hissed through clenched teeth, watching the front door.

  The woman had a black shingle bob like Louise Brooks. Ophelia Hayes, Rufus belatedly recognized. A beat cop nowhere near her regular stomping grounds. Hell, she wasn’t even in the right borough.

  “Just about anything would be fucking fantastic,” Sam growled. “For fuck’s sake, I’ll take the fucking cha-cha at this point.”

  NASA swore—Russian, Rufus acknowledged, and he could have smacked himself—and turned toward the door. He shot and missed, splintering wood.

  Ophelia fell out of sight. She called from outside, “NYPD!”

  At the same time that NASA’s gun swung toward Ophelia, Sam shouldered into Rufus, forcing him away from the firefight and bringing up his own gun. He squeezed off two shots, and NASA’s buddy dropped. Blood misted the wall behind him.

  Ophelia’s arm came into view through the doorway, now holding a service weapon, probably her off-duty one, considering she wore street clothes. She squeezed the trigger, caught NASA in the throat, and he dropped like a boat anchor. Blood pumped from the wound, pooled around him on the floor, and he made a few sick gurgles before his body and breathing stilled.

  Ophelia slowly eased into view, the gun shaking in her hold. She glanced to her left and then pointed the weapon at Sam. “Drop it!”

  Sam had his gun trained on her. “Point that thing somewhere else,” he said. “Right fucking now.”

  Ophelia looked from Sam to Rufus, who winced and awkwardly held his
hands up in submission. “Unless you’ve got a badge too, put the weapon down.”

  “Badge,” Sam said; the tremors in his hands worse now. “Slowly.”

  Ophelia reached into the back pocket of her jeans, yanked a black wallet free, and with one hand, she raised the badge high enough for Sam to see.

  “Well?” Sam said, shooting the question toward Rufus.

  “Hi, Ophelia,” Rufus said in response to Sam, but he kept his eyes trained on Ophelia.

  From outside came shrieks of laughter, kids running past the front of the house, and then the grumble of a diesel engine.

  Sam lowered the gun.

  Ophelia was tall. Not Rufus or Sam tall, but still taller than most women, with a light complexion, sharp nose, and thin eyebrows that complemented the bob hairstyle. She stepped into the study, keeping her weapon at low-ready. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “What does it look like?” Sam said. “These assholes tried to kill us.”

  Rufus lowered his hands and moved around Sam. “We were considering buying the place,” he explained, pointing at the floor, “but I’ve never been a fan of blond wood flooring.”

  Ophelia raised an eyebrow. “You fucking joking?”

  “A little.”

  “Great. Glad two guys blown to fucking chunks are such a laugh. Get down on the ground. You too, big boy. Slide the gun over here.”

  Sam just looked at Rufus.

  “Whoa, Ophelia, come on,” Rufus protested. “It’s me. Look the other way and I’ll scram out the back door, ok?”

  “Down. Right now. And I wasn’t joking about that gun.”

  “The fuck,” Rufus said, a bit more astonished. “You’d be dead if we didn’t intervene.”

  “So would you. Listen, I saw what I saw. Those guys shot first. But I watched your buddy put a bullet in that guy. Old times are old times, Rufus, but you’re in some deep shit right now. This is the last time I’m going to say it: down. Right fucking now.”

  “Rufus?” Sam asked.

  “Hang on,” Rufus countered. “Make a call first to Detective Anthony Lampo. Tell him I’m here and he’ll know what to do. I’ll even give you his card if your happy little trigger finger will let me get my wallet.”

  Ophelia’s mouth thinned, and her eyes moved to the dead men. Then she said, “Sure, you get your wallet, and let’s see what the fuck I walked into. And your big-ass action figure can put his gun right back in that fucking holster and keep his hands where I can see them.”

  “Better put your G.I. Joe gun away,” Rufus whispered in Sam’s direction while he took the wallet from his back pocket. He kept the money flap closed and carefully thumbed through where a regular person would have stored credit cards. Rufus instead kept a library card, an ID with his photograph but not his name, a card for a free pizza slice he’d won last month and hadn’t yet claimed, and both Jake and Lampo’s business cards. Rufus tugged the last one free and offered it.

  Ophelia took the card and fixed Sam with a gaze. Only after Sam had holstered his piece did Ophelia place the call, holding the phone to her ear as she watched them.

  “Officer Ophelia Hayes,” she said before rattling off a badge number. She listened. “Yes. Yes. I understand, sir, but I’ve got an unusual situation here.” She frowned. “Yes, that’s right, he goes by Rufus. How did you—”

  “Of course he knew it was you,” Sam muttered.

  “I understand,” Ophelia said, “but I’ve got two dead men, and this is an officer-involved shooting. I can’t just—” This time when she cut off, she glared at Rufus like he was responsible for the whole thing. “Yes. Yes, I understand. Just a minute. You two. Bozos. Up against the wall. Spread ’em.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Rufus grumbled as he turned and put his hands on the nearest wall. “If Lampo’s so curious, tell him I dress to the left.”

  Once Sam was in position, Ophelia moved behind them. She patted Rufus down in quick, efficient movements, turning up his wallet, his phone, and the pack of gum. When she repeated the process with Sam, she produced his phone, folded cash, an ID, and the gun. She held on to the gun when she backed away.

  “That’s mine,” Sam growled.

  “No, sir,” Ophelia said into the phone. “Nothing but the weapon.”

  Rufus turned around. “The weapon that saved you,” he added, loud enough that Lampo might have heard his voice in the background.

  Ophelia ignored him. She was still talking into the phone—well, doing more listening than talking. “If you say so, sir. Yes, sir.” Then, once more, biting the words off savagely, “Yes, sir.” She disconnected and shoved the phone in a pocket. “You two dumb fucks have the first get-out-of-jail-free card I’ve ever seen actually work.”

  Grinning triumphantly, Rufus raised his hands and clapped them together. “Lampo smacked your butt, didn’t he?”

  With a grimace, Ophelia passed the pistol back to Sam. “Both of you are supposed to clear out. Right now.” She hesitated, and then she said, “Are you here about the kids too? Lampo said you were doing something for him and that I shouldn’t jam you up.”

  Rufus’s smile waned, and he glanced at Sam before asking, “How do you know about that?”

  “CI,” Ophelia said. “I think you might know her. She seemed to have some second thoughts about sending ‘such a sweet little boy’ into the jaws of hell.”

  Sam snorted.

  “Juliana’s a CI?” Rufus asked, surprised. “Fuck. All right…. Lampo’s coming, then? We’ll bail.” He turned to Sam and pointed toward the carport.

  Nodding, Ophelia said, “Rufus, this isn’t stealing Pop Rocks out of a bodega, ok? Juliana said—well, there’s bad people on the other end of this. Dangerous people. Whatever you think you’re helping with, you might want to lie low for a while.” She held out a business card. “If you think you’ve got something, get in touch. Otherwise, let us clean house.”

  Rufus hesitated a beat but then took Ophelia’s card. He gave Sam’s T-shirt sleeve another tug and led the way to the side door he’d previously broken in through. Rufus quietly shut it behind them and glanced at Sam. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before someone else pulls a gun.”

  Sam just nodded and let Rufus drag him to the sidewalk. When they were clear of the house, he asked, “What was that about?”

  Rufus put his sunglasses on and shot Sam a sideways glance. “What, Ophelia? She caught me stealing a package of pomegranate seeds from a bodega years ago. The owner didn’t catch me, but I guess she thought I was cute and was watching me.” He smirked and waggled his eyebrows above the rims of his sunglasses.

  “It’s the air,” Sam said.

  “I think I’m cute,” Rufus continued.

  “No, it’s the air in this fucking city. Car exhaust. Pollution. Too many rats and not enough trees. Nobody’s getting enough oxygen. That’s why you’re all fucking batshit.” Sam pointed a finger. “I’m talking about the pat down in there. What was that about?”

  Rufus shrugged and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well, Rambo… you were armed and she’s a cop.”

  “Yeah, but she did it because Lampo asked her something. That was part of her little report back before she let us go.”

  Rufus considered Sam’s comment as he jumped over a few cracks—not that his mother was in danger of breaking her back. “I don’t know why Lampo would ask her to pat me, and you by proxy, down.”

  “I don’t either,” Sam said. “But I don’t like it.”

  Stopping abruptly, Rufus cut Sam off and turned to face him. “You think Lampo wants the pickup Jake meant for me?”

  With a frown, Sam shrugged. “It makes sense, right? Jake contacts you for a pickup. Jake gets killed. You’re supposed to get killed, but you Rufus things up and get away. If I were Lampo and my partner had just gotten murdered, half the cops wanting to pretend it was a suicide, then yeah, I’d want to know what you were supposed to pick up.”

  Rufus thumbed his bottom lip thoughtfull
y. “Except I was given jack-all and it’s like he doesn’t believe me. I wasn’t in the room very long with… Jake… but I didn’t see anything. I mean, nothing that’d make me think it was a tangible object for me, at least.” He began ticking points off on his fingers. “Marcus stole Jake’s phone. It was clearly hot. Heckler took Marcus out. Heckler stole Jake’s phone.” Rufus looked at Sam again. “Maybe we should scope out Marcus a bit more. I mean, I know he’s dead, but he lived somewhere, yeah? Who knows what sort of shit he was involved with?”

  “That makes sense,” Sam said. “If Jake had the pickup with him, Marcus must have grabbed it. Maybe he stashed it as some kind of insurance, which did fuck-all for him because Heckler blew his brains out anyway.”

  Rufus was already nodding as he spun on one heel and continued walking.

  “Good thing you’ve got me with you,” Sam said, a tiny smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Maybe this time you’ll find something better than a bag of chips.”

  “Jake’s place was clean. The chips were about all there was to find.”

  “I watched that place for half an hour after you went in there. It took you half an hour to find a bag of chips?”

  Rufus turned to walk backward. “I had no reason to rush,” he said with a touch of defensiveness. “In fact, let’s bet again—who finds the pickup first.”

  “I’m going to feel bad taking your money.”

  “What? No. You can’t just—you’re not going to find it before me. Ten bucks.”

  “I barely got out of gum debt.” Sam hemmed. “Let’s go big: loser buys dinner.”

  “If you win, then your dinner is going to be coffee and sugar packets.” Rufus licked his finger and motioned dabbing with it. “Gotta use your finger too.”

  “Why do I get punished if you lose?”

  “Life sucks.”

  “Snake,” Sam said.

  “Don’t you dare. Come on. You still have Marcus’s ID, don’t you?”