Page 29 of A Friend in the Glass

“Two o’clock.”

“Let’s get going. I don’t want you to get bumped because we’re late.”

Rufus sighed loudly and got to his feet. He tossed their wrappers in the trash, bundled himself up against the cold, and pushed the door open. He said in a falsetto, while taking the stairs up to the sidewalk level, “And how does that make youfeel, Rufus?” He turned and waited for Sam to join him before adding, “It makes me feel anxious and depressed, Dr. Donna, thanks for asking. I really can missoneappointment.”

“Nice try.”

Dr. Donna’s office was on Thirty-Fifth Street—which was only a hop, skip, and jump away—except that she was on theeastside of Manhattan. And even though the avenue blocks were twice the length of the streets, and at one point Rufus had had to take Sam’s hand so he could speedwalk without losing his grumpier half, they’d managed to make it to his therapist’s office with a handful of minutes to spare. The lobby was like every other modern office building in the city—lots of glass and reflective surfaces and ugly contemporary artwork. Rufus signed Sam in with the security desk before they took the elevator. At the seventh floor it was quiet and carpeted, with subdued gold lighting that felt far more welcoming than the downstairs had.

Rufus turned left and led the way down a long hall of private offices, coming to a stop at the very end outside of a frosted glass door with DONNA FITZGERALD, LP stenciled across it. He pointed to a small, padded bench beside a stand that held a fake orchid while saying, “You can wait here. Or, I guess you can come inside.”

“I’ll wait here.” Sam cleared his throat. “Unless you want me to….”

“I don’t know if you want to hear the kind of stuff I sometimes cry about.” Rufus shrugged. He leaned close and kissed Sam. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Sam dropped onto the bench. “But I’m going to wait here.”

Rufus nodded. He tugged his beanie off and went inside without another word.

Chapter Fifteen

Sam waited on the bench. The door to Dr. Donna’s office was an effective sound barrier—or maybe the space on the other side was divided, and Rufus had passed into a second, inner room. Whatever the cause, he couldn’t hear anything. Which was a good thing. He didn’t even try to listen. He sat there, and the building generated its own low-grade percussion against the backdrop of the city’s white noise: a series of opening and closing doors, echoing footsteps, a shrill of laughter ringing down the stairwell. Outside, the city was a muted roar.

For a while, he played back Cubs games. He’d been at game four for the clinch, 2015, the first postseason series at home that the Cubs had won. It had been against the Cardinals, which made it extra sweet. Then he flipped albums. Blind Willie McTell. The Lady. Muddy Waters. Hear that phone ringing, ringing, ringing. Another long-distance call.

When the door opened, he sat up straight and blinked. Rufus came out slowly, glancing in both directions before pulling the door shut.

Rufus tugged the black beanie over his shock of red hair. He smiled, and Sam knew him well enough these days to recognizethe hurt hiding behind it, but also the authenticity in the way his mouth quirked to one side. “Ready?”

Sam nodded, and they headed out.

The walk back was worse. It was midafternoon, which in Manhattan, in winter, meant it was almost night. Clouds the color of raw linen tumbled overhead, and wind razored up the streets. The light was diffuse, yellow, tingeing everything with a sepia color. A cab almost clipped Sam at the second intersection. At the third, a woman was making her kids—a boy and a girl, neither of them old enough to be in school yet—dance while she rattled a cup full of change.

Inside the Javits was another world: sweat and wool, Italian suits, recirculated warmth, the buzz of fluorescents that Sam could feel in his teeth. They flashed their badges and headed down the escalator to the exhibition hall. Two men rode down behind them, both of them white guys, both of them in their thirties, both of them with the fleshy look of good drink and good food and not enough exercise.

“—seriously, her kids, man,” one of them was saying. They both laughed.

“Thank God we took an Uber,” the other one said.

Sam dug his thumb into a spot between his eyebrows. It was too bad, he thought, urban myths were just myths. The one about shoelaces on the escalator. The one about getting chewed up by the escalator’s teeth.

The exhibition hall thrummed with its familiar energy. Attendees wandered from booth to booth, picking up complimentary keychains and flash drives and portfolio cases. Men—especially older, white men—came together in clumps and knots, ignoring the booths and the exhibits as they shook hands and laughed. A loud crack echoed through the hall, and Samturned to see an older, balding man with a double chin laughing, while a girl who had to be a third his age tottered away on kitten heels. She was rubbing her backside and fighting to cover a look of outrage with a look of flirtatious amusement.

“Don’t any of them carry guns?” Sam murmured. “There’d be a lot less ass-slapping if they knew they could get their dicks shot off.”

Rufus pulled his lanyard over his head and passed it to Sam. “Hold this. I’ll go kick him in the nuts until he’s singing soprano.”

Grinning, Sam caught Rufus’s arm as they got off the escalator and tugged him away from the temptation.

A quick glance at the convention program gave them nothing; Evangeline Ridgeway wasn’t scheduled on any panels for the rest of the afternoon. Neither was Colonel Bridges or Delmer Jolly or anyone from Conasauga. Lew hadn’t appeared in any official presence in the convention schedule, and Sam figured whatever Lew’s role, it had less to do with PowerPoints and more to do with beating people with socks full of pennies. He was willing to admit that might have been his imagination talking.

“Evangeline held on to the press release for a reason,” Sam said when he and Rufus found a quiet spot against a wall. “And whatever the reason, she doesn’t want to share. When we tried to talk to her, she blew smoke up our asses. I’d like to see what she has to say when we show it to her and ask about Shareed.”

Rufus watched Sam carefully. “I agree. Del wasn’t taking the bait, but considering we found that inherroom?” He shrugged, watched a gaggle of older men acting like college kids walk by, then added, “But if we’re going to show our hand, we need to be careful. She’s got a femme fatale thing going on.”

Sam grunted. “Any ideas on where to find her?”

Pointing at a sign offering directions, Rufus said, “When she gave you the cold shoulder, she said that old geezer owed her a coffee. The center’s café or bar might be a good bet, since she’s not on any panels.”

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