A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

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.” He raised an unopened Coke can in one hand. “Any fucking idea what this is? It’s a homemade 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 fucking Chad of 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 though checking the blood around his mouth, and he winced when his fingers brushed his nose.

“Shit,” he said.

Rufus crouched before Sam to get a better look at his face. He frowned at the sight of red puffy skin and dripping blood, then gave the wallet a little wave. “Pay day.”