Page 5 of A Friend in the Glass

He replayed his words. He heard his own rambling attempts to explain. Face hot, he stared through the washed-out reflection in the glass and at the street beyond.

Rufus shifted, met Sam’s gaze briefly in the window, then he seemed to focus on BlueMoon across the street. His free handfound Sam’s and gave it a squeeze. “How much was this Shareed lady asking for? A hundred thousand?”

A barking laugh escaped Sam. “She’s new to this. Or not good at it. Or both. She had no idea how much to ask for.” He hesitated and said, “She used Lew’s name. She knew I’d bite.”

Rufus’s eyes cut across the glass once more, this time lingering on Sam’s reflection. “If you left the Army years ago, what’s any of this matter? In October—that guy Jonny—he said Lew had been looking for you. But why? What’s itmatter?”

The question had a jack-in-the-box answer, and Sam wasn’t ready for that, so he settled for saying, “It matters to me.”

The conversation stalled there. On the other side of the glass, the city thrummed with an energy that Sam felt totally cut off from. Twice he spotted women he thought might be Shareed approaching the BlueMoon, but neither woman entered the diner. Ten thirty crept past. Then eleven.

The teen mom behind the counter said they needed to order something or get out.

“Where the fuck is she?” Sam muttered as he paid for sausage-egg-and-cheese croissants.

By twelve thirty, he gave up and jerked his head at the door, and Rufus followed him out into the cold.

Chapter Four

“Shareed’s on my shit list,” Rufus said, a plume of white settling in the air on an exhale. The door to Dunkin’ Donuts fell shut behind him with aclangof jingle bells that hadn’t been removed postholiday. “Give her a call. Better yet, let me. I’m going to tell her how much I appreciate losing out on a morning quickie.” Rufus held his hand out expectantly.

Sam pulled up the call log, hesitated, and then passed over the phone.

Rufus tapped the most recent number and put the phone to his ear.

“Cyber 44,” a woman said in an overanimated voice.

“Uh, is this Shareed?” Rufus asked.

“Shareed? No, this is Kim.”

“Is Shareed there?”

“I think you have the wrong number, buddy. Shareed doesn’t work here.”

Rufus glanced at Sam while asking, “Hang on, what am I calling? Is this a sex hotline?”

“We’re a fucking internet café, you asshole.” Kim hung up.

Rufus pulled the phone away. “Shareed called from an internet café.” He brought up the browser on Sam’s phone, typed in the business name, then said, “Just south of us on Forty-Fourth Street.”

Sam frowned. “She’d be stupid to still be there.”

Rufus was scrolling through Cyber 44’s website. “They have an actual café inside, with something called Buckaroo Coffee on the menu… four shots of espresso, six pumps of vanilla syrup—God. Maybe Shareed couldn’t make it because she had a heart attack from the coffee.” Rufus tucked the phone into Sam’s pocket. “We can go check,” he suggested. “See if she’s dead in a little computer booth.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam said as he nudged Rufus to start walking. “This fucking city.”

Rufus led the way downtown toward West Forty-Fourth. The cross streets were heavy with early afternoon foot traffic: tourists lost in the pursuit of Times Square, delivery employees pulling carts heavy with packages, and bike messengers swerving in and out of traffic, creating chaos for everyone in their wake. Things were a bit calmer between Ninth and Tenth Avenue at least. There was the drone of ever-constant construction, sure, but Rufus and Sam also passed by quiet apartment buildings—their fire escapes heavy with pristine snow—ground floor storefronts advertising morning yoga and evening dance lessons, a wine bar that didn’t open until five o’clock, as well as a bougie-looking secondhand furniture store selling fashionable accent pieces at price points that were most certainlynotwhat Rufus thought of when secondhand shopping.

On the corner of Forty-Fourth and Tenth, across from a UPS drop off and nearly engulfed by overhead scaffolding, was a dark window with a neon light advertising: Cyber 44. A Pride flag,almost entirely covered in a thick layer of dust, hung lopsided underneath it.

“I don’t trust this place’s health grade,” Rufus said. “Shareed definitely died here.”

“At least she died supporting the homos.” Sam yanked the door open. “After you.”

“Sucha gentleman,” Rufus said while walking in. He pulled his sunglasses off, the café so dim he would have likely collided with a table before seeing it.

A counter, barely big enough for the register and ancient laptop beside it, was shoved into the far left corner and currently unoccupied. Deeper inside was what looked like individual desks set up with towers, monitors, and gaming chairs that once upon a time had been nice but were now reaching the ends of their lifespan. Rufus didn’t see any coffee bar. Tiptoeing into the dark space, Rufus moved all the way to the end before turning and casually walking back toward the door so he was able to study the illuminated faces of café patrons.

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