Page 37 of A Friend in the Glass

“Sure. But I don’t know if that would stop him.”

Rufus dumped the sugar into his mouth, wiped his hands on his jeans, then awkwardly shrugged out of his jacket. He yanked free the convention schedule that was beginning to look like it’d been run over by a truck or possibly chewed on by a dog. Thumbing through the pages, Rufus said, “Del’s supposed to be at the Javits today. He’s a guest speaker on an afternoon panel.”

“So, he might be there.”

“Even if he’s not, we should listen to what folks might be saying about him being MIA.”

“Or arrested,” Sam said. “But I doubt we’ll be that lucky.”

At that, Rufus picked up the saltshaker, poured some into his hand, then tossed it over his shoulder. “I read that’s supposed to be lucky. Or was it about warding off evil…? Something superstitious like that.”

Sam wasn’t sure how well it was working, considering Maddie made Rufus sweep it up about five seconds later.

Their food came, and they ate—not exactly in silence, but in the quiet of people with no particular need to say anything. What Sam didn’t finish (the pancakes), Rufus did. The day was growing steadily brighter, the street on the other side of the plate-glass windows taking on depth, but it wasn’t by any meansabrightday. The clouds were low and gray, and the light was the same color as if it were coming through a sheet of newspaper.

When they’d finished—meaning the plates had been scraped clean—Sam counted out cash for the check. “I want to get over there early and see if anyone’s talking about the colonel. That all right?”

“I have so many other pressing engagements on my social calendar,” Rufus was saying as he began bundling himself back into his winter gear. “But for you? I’m willing to clear my schedule.”

“That sounds like the pancakes talking.”

“I think I ate too many,” Rufus agreed as he followed Sam toward the door.

Sam was proud of himself for not even saying,Huh.

They made their way toward the Javits. The wind whistled in Sam’s ears, loud enough almost to drown out the incessant sounds of traffic, and granules of snow—closer to ice—spun around him, stinging his cheeks and ears. Sam tried to lose himself in his thoughts, but the noise and the nonstop movement around him made it impossible. A woman zipped past him. A man stopped unexpectedly to stare at his phone. Cars sped up, engines rumbling. At the next intersection, the light changed. Cars braked and queued. That was why, when the black town car slowed at the curb, it registered as only one more intrusion among many.

Then the rear window buzzed down, and a man said, “Mr. Auden?”

He was white, somewhere between thirty and forty, and from what Sam could see, built stockily. He wore his hair buzzed, and he leaned toward jug-eared, and it looked like he’d spent a lot of his life in the sun. Sam didn’t know him, but he knew the type.

“I’d like to talk to you,” the man continued. “And your friend. If you have a minute?”

“We have no minutes, actually,” Rufus answered while leaning around Sam. He gave Sam’s arm a tug and said, quieter, “Come on.”

The attack came from behind.

The first blow landed low on Sam’s back, almost at the base of the spine. It was more shock than pain, and the force of it sent him staggering forward a step. Then a hand caught him by the hair and smashed his face into the roof of the town car.

Chapter Twenty

Blood spurted from Sam’s nose, or maybe it was his mouth, and Rufus shouted, “Holy shit!” before instinctively dodging to the right—out of the line of fire. He overstepped, lost his balance, grabbed for the pole of a NO PARKING sign, slipped on a patch of ice, then crashed into a pile of black trash bags sitting curbside for pick-up. Pain shot from his tailbone and ricocheted up his spine. Rufus heard the flurry of creative cusses begin pouring from his mouth like he had switched onto automatic pilot, but when he looked up in time to see Sam go at his attacker, only to take a gut punch and double over, the words dried up in his throat like a desert oasis that turned out to be a mirage.

When the back door of the car opened, Rufus looked on either side of himself, grabbed the closest thing he could find among the trash, and scrambled to his feet. He flung himself onto the car door, slammed it shut before the stranger had a chance to climb out, and breathlessly, Rufus said, “Hey, you Dumbo-eared motherfucker, do you have any idea the kinda nutcases who live in this city? You can’t just stop to chat with any rando on the street. You might come across an antichrist with a hit list.” Heraised an unopened Coke can in one hand. “Any fucking idea what this is? It’s ahomemade bomb. You wanna try me?”

The man blinked once.

Rufus could see the mental gears turning.

Then the man gave the door a second shove open.

“Hey! No—you stupid—” Rufus pushed back on it, the soles of his Cons scraping the salty cement as he lost ground. He gave the Coke can a quick shake, put his hand through the open window, and pulled the tab. Soda sprayed out in a huge gush, coating the expensive interior and jarhead-looking stranger. The man fell back onto the leather seats, loudly protesting and wiping his face.

At that moment, Sam staggered back against the car. It rocked under his weight, and Sam dipped with it. He tucked his chin and caught the next punch on his shoulder. Blood coated his mouth, but he seemed to have recovered from the surprise—no sooner had the punch landed than Sam was already throwing a cross. A painful, fleshy cracking noise followed, and Rufus thought he’d just heard somebody’s nose break.

Rufus wheeled back several steps, avoiding a misplaced punch to the face. The second man, who’d been on Sam, was now actively scrambling away. Red hair, Dr. Robotnik mustache—it was fuckingChadof the bodega coke sales. Seeing an opportunity, Rufus mirrored Chad’s movements, got a hand into his pants pocket, and yanked free a wallet just as Jarhead was shouting and Chad cut his losses. He dodged around the front bumper of the car, dove into the passenger seat, and the driver peeled away from the side of the road.

Sam took a few unsteady steps after them. Then he stopped, hands on knees. He was shaking. One hand came up, as thoughchecking the blood around his mouth, and he winced when his fingers brushed his nose.

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