by C. S. Poe
“Lampo.”
“Dickhead, it’s me. You alone?” Rufus said.
“Jesus Christ. What, Red?”
“Is Mommy dipping into confiscated coke or something?”
Lampo groaned. “This is why my sciatica acts up. This. You. I’m hobbling around like Gandalf the Elf over here because Red fucking Skelton won’t leave me the fuck alone. What are you talking about?”
Rufus was glaring at a spot on the wall over Sam’s shoulder. “Heckler.”
“What about her?”
“She’s elbow-deep in some serious shit,” Rufus answered. “Come on, man, are you kidding? You have no idea what I’m talking about? She tried to shoot me this morning.”
A long, groaning “Oh, Christ” followed, accompanied by the squeak of a chair. Lampo huffed into the phone, and then something sounded like a door closing. “Now, Red, that’s a very serious thing to say. Just what the fuck are you talking about, what the fuck are you getting me into, and how the fuck am I supposed to walk when you’re giving me the fucking sciatica this bad?”
Rufus’s grip on his phone tightened to the point that Sam could see his knuckles whitening. “Do I need to spell it out for you with alphabet blocks, Dickhead? Last night, I saw your sergeant cap a dude—the same guy who killed Jake, and the same guy you thought I imagined because there was no evidence. So again I ask, what the fuck is going on with the boys in blue?”
Lampo’s labored breathing rasped across the call. Then he said, “You got any proof?”
“P-proof?” Rufus stuttered. “Are you literally shitting me right now?”
“Yeah, proof. It’s this crazy new thing. The courts go nutso for it.”
“My own two eyes, Lampo,” Rufus retorted. “That’s my proof. Since when have I ever lied to you or Jake?”
“I’m not saying you’re lying, Red. But you’re talking about a decorated sergeant. My sergeant.” Lampo’s breath hitched, the sound of someone who’d moved funny, and he said, “Listen, I’ll look into it. You say this other guy, the one you said you saw before, he’s dead?”
“As a doornail.”
“You got a name?”
Rufus made eye contact with Sam, who’d taken the wallet the night before, and repeated his whispered answer at regular volume: “Marcus Borroff.”
“All right,” Lampo said. “Next time, we’re doing this face-to-face so I’m not sitting on a stack of toilet paper, bent over halfway to giving myself a zinger. I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
“You fucking better.” Rufus hit End.
“I still think you should lie low for a few days. How much do you need to get out of the city? A hundred? Two hundred?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rufus snapped at Sam before that now-familiar blush colored his neck and face. “I’m not running away from this,” he answered, a bit calmer. “So shut up about that.”
The next part was hard to say. “I know what I want to try next, but I need some help.”
Rufus arched a brow and cracked a smile. “Rub one off on your own.”
“Not to be crass, and not to brag, but so you know: it never comes to that. I’m talking about something else. In a few of his e-mails, Jake mentioned someone named Juliana. She’s a sex worker; she’s in the Ramble a lot. I told you part of one e-mail, where he mentioned her saying something about coming from the north. He refers to her in several others, but obliquely, always part of a story he knew he wasn’t supposed to tell me but kept leaking out. I want to talk to her. I want to know what she told Jake.” Sam fought to keep a grimace off his face. “I don’t know if she’ll talk to me.”
Rufus took a few steps across the room before seating himself beside Sam on the bed. He spread his legs a bit, leaned forward, and settled his elbows on his knees. “You afraid the Incredible Hulk thing you got going on will intimidate her?”
“Sure.”
“And you think I’m more, what, approachable?”
It was too much. The heat of Rufus against him, the friction of his thigh against Sam’s, the way their elbows nearly bumped. Sam lurched off the bed and moved to the window unit, face turned down into the hiss of cold air.
“Yeah. Yes. I don’t know. I thought—” Sam wasn’t sure what he thought; the walls were closing in. “I don’t know,” he said again in a tight voice, eyes shut, and then he started counting down from twenty-nine in his head.
“I know I ran, but I don’t stink that bad.”
When the countdown ran out, Sam forced himself to stand up straight and look back at Rufus. “It’s not that. It’s—look, will you help me? Please? I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry I—I offended you or upset you or hurt you. Whatever I did. I’m sorry. I get it; you’re not interested. I won’t make that mistake again, I promise.”
Rufus rubbed the very light bristle on his chin. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s just a fuck,” Rufus said, parroting Sam’s words. “But I don’t want to be just a fuck. I trust you. I’ve told you things no one but Jake knew. And—” Rufus cast his gaze down at his high-tops. “—it mattered to me that you said I was cute.”
A hundred things tried to escape from Sam’s mouth, a hundred different stories and explanations: his first time, with Chad Obralt, just hand stuff in the backseat of his dad’s Oldsmobile, and then Chad laughing it off when Sam came around again and again, finally cornering him behind the Save-A-Lot to tell him it was just a one-off, to quit making such a big fucking deal about it; Ovejuna, in the barrack showers, biting his arm as Sam plowed into him and then, in the mess hall, picking up his chow and moving tables when Sam sat down next to him; Jake, twining his fingers through Sam’s that weekend they’d floated the Chattahoochee, the sand in Jake’s hair like ribbons of gold, and then the e-mails after his move to New York, the new girlfriend, it was fun, let’s not pretend it was anything else. All the nights of his life a series of one-offs, no big fucking deal.
But it all got jammed, and Sam didn’t even know where to start, how to tell it so it made sense. So he shrugged and said, “Ok. I’m sorry.”
Rufus looked up again, and after a long silent moment, he nodded. “All right. And I know we aren’t married or anything, but keep the boy toys to a minimum and I’ll help you with Juliana.” He grabbed his beanie and got to his feet.
The suggestions enclosed in Rufus’s words, that he was interested, and interested in more than just casual sex, came too close to a line Sam had drawn for himself in the sand. Here, and no further. He needed them both to back down while he tried not to freak the fuck out; hell, he needed—for himself, anyway—a cold shower.
But instead, even though touch was so difficult for him to handle, even though it threatened to overwhelm him, Sam didn’t back down. In a few steps, he crossed the distance between them. He plucked the beanie out of Rufus’s hand, and then he slowly worked it over the silky red tangles. He used his thumbs to tuck the last of the hair out of sight.
“We need somewhere we can stay,” he said, taking the sunglasses and settling them on Rufus’s face. “Somewhere we can hide until tonight.”
Rufus hadn’t moved an inch. Hell, he might not have even breathed until Sam spoke. “Jake’s apartment,” he said in a sudden rush. “Don’t give me that look. I mean his other place.”
“Right,” Sam said after a moment, “the secret apartment. The one only you know about.”
“Am I the only one?” Rufus asked, tone teasing as he thoughtfully tapped his chin with one long finger.
“Have I ever mentioned you are one sneaky fuck?”
Rufus smiled widely. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jake had never told Rufus about the second studio he rented on the Upper West Side, but snooping was the name of the game and Rufus was the reigning champ. He was a sponge for information, regardless of the consequences. Curiosity killed the cat and all that—except his cat always seemed to land on its feet
and came running back for more. The teeny-tiny studio was far enough away from Jake’s precinct and girlfriend that it had struck Rufus as odd at the time of learning about it, but after meeting Sam—well, it made sense. Jake had a thing for guys and he hadn’t wanted anyone to know.
With Sam’s buff body shielding his actions from any curious passersby on the street, Rufus used the lock tools he carried in his jacket to unlock the building’s front door. He stepped into the vestibule, rapped his knuckles against the mailbox marked J. Brower 9F, bypassed the elevator that he knew had a security camera inside, and led the way up the winding stairs. After picking the lock on 9F, he opened the door enough for them both to slip inside, then shut it. There was a loft directly above their heads with a ladder near the couch at the opposite wall. The ceiling wasn’t terribly tall, which could make for an uncomfortable situation for anyone flirting with six feet—which both of them were. The studio was impersonal and sparsely furnished. A small desk and chair, a micro kitchen, and bathroom, all in a 20x20 box.
Rufus threw the deadbolt. “We should be fine here. Only Jake had a key to this place.”
“The unit’s in his name; I saw the mailbox.”
“So?” Rufus asked, making for the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and rummaged through the contents.
“Heckler could find it.”
“Do you know how much paperwork she’d have to do before finding this place?” Rufus opened a box of crackers, removed a sleeve, and stuffed a few in his mouth. “Pretty sure this was Jake’s hookup pad, if you catch my drift.”
Maybe Sam did, because his eyebrows went up once, but all he said was “I’m going to rack out for a few hours. That’s the only bed?”
“Nah, there’s a foldout under the sink. I’ll take that one, Prince Charming.”
Sam honestly looked like he didn’t know what to say to that. Point, Rufus. After another of those annoyingly ambiguous shrugs, Sam lumbered into the living room, dropped onto the sofa, and was snoring lightly in thirty seconds.
Rufus finished the sleeve of crackers, returned the box to the cupboard, and spent a few minutes poking through the contents of the desk and bathroom cabinet. He didn’t find anything of interest, though, and after giving Sam a brief look, Rufus climbed the loft ladder and passed out on the bed.
There were a few different directions Rufus considered in order to reach the Ramble inside Central Park. Some easier, some more direct. But when evening came and Rufus hadn’t felt like a microwaved burrito upon stepping foot outside, he opted for the long way. The long route included passing through Cherry Hill and walking across Bow Bridge as the sun set over the horizon of The City That Never Sleeps.
It was, of course, absolutely not romantic. Not one bit.
Rufus hung his sunglasses from the collar of his T-shirt. “Once we reach the other side, it’s not very far,” he explained to Sam, motioning toward the opposite side of the bridge.
Looking back, Sam said, “Did we walk around the park to get here?”
“The scenic route,” Rufus corrected. He looked sideways at Sam. “Why?”
“Trying to get my bearings.”
“Oh. Over there is Strawberry Fields,” Rufus said, motioning with one hand. “And that way is the Alice statue. Ahead is the Ramble.” He made a quick step to the right, brushing against Sam, in order to avoid a couple who’d stopped short to take a selfie.
Sam seemed to move away automatically, his gaze sweeping across the bridge, then the water, away from Rufus. “Do you come here a lot? Good spot to hook up, I mean.”
Rufus sighed audibly. “No, I don’t.”
“Too bad.”
Which could have meant just about anything.
“If you say so.” Rufus quickened his pace, took the lead, and reached the other side of Bow Bridge first. He turned, his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting for Sam.
“This is the Ramble?” Sam asked, joining him.
“It gets more foresty a bit farther in,” Rufus explained. “And there are lots of different paths. It’s not as overwhelming in winter, of course, but the rest of the year? There’s a reason it’s been such a good working spot for so long.”
“Will it be hard to find Juliana?”
Rufus flashed Sam a cocky smirk. “Nah. My Juliana GPS pings whenever I’m within five hundred feet of her.”
“Sounds useful.”
“It’s no fun if you don’t play.”
“Dork,” Sam said as he passed Rufus and headed along the path.
“Weak comeback. We’ll work on it.” Rufus hurried past Sam and took the lead again. He spun and walked backward, saying, “I have a pretty good idea of where she’ll be. Don’t ask me why I know—I just do, ok? It’s not because I cruise.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m serious, you prick.”
“We’ll work on that,” Sam said. Then, before Rufus could respond: “Snake!”
Rufus’s response to the threat of a wild animal—though a snake wasn’t anything like a bear—involved yelping about three octaves higher than usual, while tripping forward as he’d been walking backward. His arms flailed for purchase as he simultaneously looked down for the snake. He mistook his shoelace for danger and fell into Sam’s arms while trying to escape.
“You sonofabitch!” Rufus shouted. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Sam was holding him, keeping him from falling, and the big man’s body was trembling; it took Rufus a moment to realize it was suppressed laughter. This time, Sam wasn’t quite as quick to separate, although he did disentangle himself faster than Rufus might have liked. When they were both standing again, Sam had a hand over his mouth, looking surprisingly boyish as he very carefully studied something off in the middle distance.
Rufus adjusted his jacket and T-shirt with what little dignity he could salvage before pointing a finger at Sam. “If you tell anyone I made that noise, I’m going to shove you off Bow Bridge.”
Hand over his mouth, Sam arched his eyebrows. After a moment when he seemed to be struggling to control another burst of laughter, he managed to ask in a relatively normal voice, “What noise?”
Rufus growled, spun on one heel, and took the first right they came upon, the woods of the Ramble swallowing them whole. He didn’t say anything for a while, just trekked deeper through the maze of walking, running, and biking trails that made the steel-and-concrete part of the city feel so very far away. At length, Rufus asked, “Do you know how you can gain your bearings if you’re lost in the park?”
“Walk in a straight line?”
“No.” Rufus slowed to fall in beside Sam. “The streetlamps are numbered. The first two numbers indicate the closest street, the others—even or odd—mean you’re on the east or west side.”
As they passed the next streetlamp, Sam glanced at it, then at Rufus. “Cool.” They made it another yard before Sam asked, “How’d you know that?”
“The streetlamp thing is practical, I guess. But I like to read. Passes the time.”
Another yard of the soft whick of their shoes on the pavement. “What’s a good book I should read?”
Rufus exhaled what might have been a very soft laugh. “What do you enjoy?”
“When we walked past that bookstore, the one with the books out on the sidewalk, you stopped to look. Were you looking for something in particular?”
Rufus jutted his thumb toward a left path as they came to a juncture. “Something I don’t know anything about.”
“Where’d you go to college? What’d you study? Something hard, I bet.”
Rufus looked at Sam that time. “I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen.” He shrugged, tried to roll the bitterness off. “What about you? Did you go to college?”
“Not right out of high school. I enlisted in the Army. Got one of those Bachelor’s of Whatever-the-Fuck you can get by taking enough gen ed classes at the local college. I couldn’t get into OCS until I had one, so I did it, although it took plenty of time. Christ, I
sound ungrateful, I guess. It wasn’t really my thing.” His hand came up; he scratched the stubble on his cheek. “So, you’re just really, really smart, huh?”
Rufus stopped walking. He asked, with an obvious note of wariness, “Why would you say that?”
“Those books in your apartment—” A ghost of a smile flitted across Sam’s face. “—I saw some of the titles. I don’t even know what half the words mean. And you knew about the streetlamps. And the way you talk. The way you look at things, people, problems. When we were trying to find Jake’s phone, for example. And I know you said you were just looking at those books, the ones we walked by, but I saw your face. You were… I don’t know, hungry. We had a guy in our platoon like that. Loved books. Disappeared into them. So damn smart, I never knew what he was talking about most of the time.”
Rufus stared at Sam. It wasn’t a mean stare—more like disbelief. His entire life, no one had called him smart. Sure as hell not his mother. His teachers had all but given up on the redheaded punk in grade school. And as an adult, the wrong sort of people thought Rufus was clever—cunning, even—with a smart-mouth attitude in spades. But they never equated him with anything more. And then he’d met Jake. Jake had teased him relentlessly about the trips to the library—Plutarch’s Essays? Do you even know who Plutarch is?—but always in the end he’d say to Rufus, “I know you’re smart.”
And now, to hear that from Sam?
Rufus started to speak, but the words were tangled around a lump, so he cleared his throat. “You’re still not bullshitting me, right?”
Sam shook his head slowly. “This is what me bullshitting you sounds like: ‘Gee, Rufus, you’re so big and muscley.’”
Rufus laughed and felt some of the tension ease. “Why, thank you.”
“Those shoulders. Those arms. Those gams.”
“Don’t get carried away.” Rufus started to speak again, swallowed down a few words that didn’t taste right, then said simply, “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “Now flex for me.”
Rufus rolled his eyes and began walking again. “Come on. We’re almost there—this has been a hotspot for business since the ’90s.”
