A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,25

loud music played on the speakers by That Band no one’s ever heard of. Rufus moved around packs of patrons who probably haunted the front doors of NYU, SVA, and FIT by day, and noted that he sort of looked a lot like them. To an extent, anyway. Lots of skinny kids in preripped jeans. Rufus’s wardrobe came about its torn aesthetic through authentic wear and tear.

He slid up to the bar—cleaner, much cleaner than Queenie’s—and waved a woman over. She was pretty. Brown curls to her shoulders, nose ring, some nice tattoos. Total lesbian, though.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and smooth. “Something to drink?”

Sweet talk. Christ. Rufus wouldn’t be able to sweet talk a paper bag if his life depended on it. He had two speeds—snark and asshole. It was that redheaded disposition, folks said.

But still, he smiled his best smile and said, “Um, no, not right now. Actually, I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help. Have you been working the last week? Friday or Saturday?”

Tiny lines at the corners of her mouth were the only hint of a frown. “Yeah. Both nights, actually.”

Rufus leaned both elbows on the counter while talking. “He’s a big guy. My height, but like three of me across, with blond hair.”

“Your boyfriend?” Then she nodded at Sam. “Or his?”

“Huh?” Rufus looked at Sam, then shook his head. “Not—no. He’s not my boyfriend, the guy I’m looking for. I mean, neither of them are. No one is anyone’s boyfriend. That guy’s just a friend,” Rufus concluded as he jabbed a thumb in Sam’s direction before staring at his feet.

One eyebrow went up. She didn’t mouth the word friend, but it was obvious that she layered plenty of subject onto it. “Nobody like that. You can see what our clientele is like; I’m pretty sure I would have remembered your big, butch friend.”

Ok, that time she put a little spin on the word.

“Thanks,” Rufus mumbled to the floor. “What about a lost iPhone? Black. Obnoxiously large.”

“Actually, yes. Holy shit. I’ve been holding on to it, hoping somebody would come by.” Then she smiled. “Kidding. But we can take a look in the lost and found.”

“That was mean,” Rufus said.

“Tell my girlfriend. She’s always looking for a reason to spank me.”

“All you bartenders on A are nuts.” Rufus pushed back from the bar.

“Hold on. I said we’d check lost and found, right? Meet me at the end of the bar.” She glanced at Sam. “What about big, dark, and brooding? He looks like he needs a drink.”

Rufus didn’t bother to look at Sam that time. He could place the other man’s expression just fine. “Yeah, probably. Something on tap. He’ll pay for it. I’m a cheap date.”

The girl’s nose ring caught the light as she grinned. “So this is a date?”

“No.”

She expertly filled a glass, leaving just the right amount of head, and slid it across the bar. “Hey,” she called to Sam. “Eight bucks. Freckles here says he’s a cheap date and you like draft.”

Sam turned a slow, murderous look on Rufus before pulling the wad of bills from his pocket. As Sam paid, Rufus hurried to the end of the bar to wait for the woman. Eight bucks had seemed like a lot, but Rufus hadn’t drank at a bar in years, so his sense of cost was a little dated. It was easier to get piss drunk in the comfort of his home on gin toxic enough to scrub a tub clean. And it cost nothing, especially when Rufus was able to lift a bottle from his permanently stoned neighbor.

“Thanks for checking,” Rufus said when the bartender joined him a minute later. “Sort of at wits’ end trying to find this phone.”

She shrugged. “Kind of hope it’s in here. But kind of not, you know? I don’t even know what to do if it is. Do I give it to you? I mean, I guess I’ll have to ask Geoffrey. He’s the manager.” She lifted a cardboard box onto the bar top, slid it halfway to Rufus, and waved for him to join her in rummaging through the contents.

Rufus poked at a few odds and ends. Someone had lost a shoe. Not a pair of shoes. Just the one. That’d probably been a rough night for Converse size 9. He found a fake ID at the bottom of the box, a pair of fashion glasses—the sort with no prescription—and one condom. Still in the foil, at least.

“I don’t see it,” he muttered.

“Did