Page 40 of A Friend in the Glass

The clouds had thinned. Sunlight made him squint. The smell of exhaust rose to meet him, circulating on a draft of cold air.

At the curb, two men had their hands on Del Jolly’s arms. As Sam watched, they shoved him into the back seat. One dove in after him, while the other hurried around to the driver’s seat.

“Hey!” Sam shouted. He sprinted toward the car. “Stop!”

They peeled away from the curb, and at the next intersection, they turned and were gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rufus thought he’d been right behind Sam—it’d only taken seconds to relieve Anson of his phone and send it flying—but Sam had picked up speed between the bathrooms and the front lobby, and if it wasn’t for his height and that stride Rufus had come to know so well, Rufus would have lost him in the ebb and flow of the Javits crowd.

Racing out the front doors, Rufus found Sam standing at the edge of the salt-crusted sidewalk, staring at the road ahead. “Hey!” Rufus skidded to a stop at his side, a cloud of white air puffing out on his exhale. “Where’d he go?”

Sam gestured toward the street. “Someone grabbed him.” And then he shouted, “Fuck!”

“Someone grabbed—what, like something out of an old gangster flick? What’d they look like?”

People were starting to stare. Sam turned away from the street and lowered his voice. “I don’t know. Two guys. White. It wasn’t Chad and his friend. By the time I was out here, they had Del and were putting him in the car—a dark sedan.”

Rufus made atsksound. He echoed Sam’s “fuck” under his breath before sliding his plastic-frame sunglasses on. “Seems like someone wants to talk to Del as badly as we do.”

“Or wants himnotto talk. Let’s get out of here.”

Rufus was digging out the driver’s license from his pocket as he followed Sam. “What about Chad? He’s got an address on West 122nd Street. That’s up in Harlem. We can knock and see if he’s home.”

Sam plucked at his shirt—even in the cold, he looked flushed from running. “I guess we’re going to Harlem.”

The Thirty-Fourth Street station was always a bit of a shitshow. The disorganized chaos from Penn Station had a tendency to bleed onto the subway platforms, leaving it the ideal hunting ground for pickpockets, rapists, and murderers alike—all depending on the time of day. This generally caused an uptick in police presence, which meant that Rufus couldn’t easily jump the turnstiles unless there was a train already closing its doors and he was certain he could slide in just in the nick of time. But he was unwilling to take that chance when Sam was with him nowadays, not because Sam was incapable of a little fare evasion, but it was easier to do the petty theft stuff on his own, when Rufus wasn’t responsible for someone else.

They’d swiped Metro cards under the watchful eye of a few beat cops wearing heavy jackets and NYPD winter beanies, caught the uptown A—one of the old R46 cars resembling a tin can—and rode it to 125th Street.

The neighborhood that had grown around 125th Street, known as the Main Street of Harlem, was rich in history, having once been a beacon for migrating Black families looking for higher wages and more equality than what was availableto them in the deep south. This community had birthed the Harlem Renaissance—an explosive movement that explored Black music, art, literature, and politics after the first World War, forever changing the cultural landscape of America. But by the Great Depression, Harlem suffered from debilitating unemployment, housing discrimination, poor public services, and lack of educational opportunities more than any other neighborhood in New York City. The streets today were lined with historic landmarks, walkup tenements, and hundred-year-old brownstones, all reminders of the lives once lived here.

Chad Deangelis lived at 326 West 122nd Street, off the corner of Frederick Douglass Boulevard, in a five-story walkup of red brick and painted green trim. The front steps were salted, trash bins were all lined up against the building’s façade, and the vestibule that was visible through the glass front door was clean.

Rufus checked the driver’s license again. “2D. He’s probably in the back. Want me to buzz him?”

“Let’s see if he’s home.”

Rufus put his thumb on the button for 2D and leaned into it, letting it ring long enough to be so obnoxious that anyone at home would be hard-pressed to not respond. He let up, counted to five, then tried again. But when the second ring went unanswered, Rufus asked, “May I impress you with my breaking and entering skills?”

“Always.”

Rufus pressed a few of the other buttons, and said, when 3A answered, “Amazon.”

The front door buzzed open.

Rufus stepped inside. Held the door for Sam with one hand while giving 2D’s wall mailbox a quick tap—a reminder that this was all real. He pushed through the inner vestibule doorand onto a hallway. Chad’s apartment was the first door on the second floor, and the doorknob looked old—like the landlord hadn’t had a reason to replace it in a long time. Chad had probably lived there for a while, Rufus decided, otherwise a new tenant would ask for an up-to-date one. Motioning Sam to stand behind him and block his body from view, Rufus retrieved a pick from his jacket and went to work on the lock.

It only took a few seconds.

Rufus loved lazy security.

The door popped open and Rufus stepped aside while saying, “Age before beauty.”

“Jesus, Rufus,” Sam said as he stepped inside. But it sounded like he was smiling.

Rufus closed the door behind them and took a look around. The apartment was a spacious one-bedroom, ideal for someone living alone, which was the vibe for sure. Wasn’t there a stereotype about straight men’s bachelor pads? Something like mismatching bedsheets, no art or photos on the walls, and lots of sports memorabilia. Minus the sports, because it’d never been a big thing for Rufus—beyond booing the Red Sox because it was a matter of pride—he was uncomfortably aware of how similar his own apartment was to Chad’s.

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