bottle lay on the floor.
So he’d gotten smashed last night. That explained why he felt like death warmed over.
What had happened that warranted the impromptu sobfest into a bottle—?
Rufus’s head shot up and his stomach lurched at the sudden motion. Yankee. Heckler. Sam. His stomach kept protesting as the seconds passed while he recalled the shitshow that was yesterday, and Rufus realized the queasiness was now going to be a full-on puke. He stumbled out of bed, the sheets tangled around his feet. He half ran, half fell into the bathroom and had just enough time to lift the toilet lid before he was sick. Nachos and hard liquor. Rufus ralphed again and didn’t move from the floor until his stomach spasms were nothing more than dry heaves.
Rufus flushed, brushed his teeth, and managed a quick shower that helped a bit but left his head spinning. He massaged his left eye while walking naked through the studio. He crouched beside the pile of clean clothes, pawed through the threadbare options, then settled on a pair of skinny jeans tattered at the knees and a black T-shirt with a severely faded skull and crossbones on the chest. It took another minute of rummaging to find socks and underwear, but by the time Rufus had dressed himself, he vaguely resembled a living, breathing human being.
He decided to take a walk. A long walk. All the way to Hell’s Kitchen, where maybe Maddie would feel bad enough for him that she could score Rufus a fried egg under the table. That seemed like a sensible decision. He’d walk off the last of the gin, and get some food and plenty of fresh air in the process. At least, as fresh as air could be on trash-collection day in the middle of July in an urban jungle. And Rufus could decide what the hell he was going to do about… everything. Because despite the hangover, he hadn’t forgotten what Sam said, about needing to disappear for a few days—a week, tops.
Yeah, right. With what money?
Rufus drunk-stumbled as he yanked his Chucks on. Did he still have a job as a confidential informant? Jake was his connection, after all. He’d always made sure Rufus got paid for putting his ass on the line. Who would do that now—Lampo? Fuck’s sake, Rufus might as well draft himself a résumé and start applying for nine-to-five jobs.
Hand on the security chain, ready to unlock the door and step out, Rufus paused as he listened to unfamiliar footsteps coming up the stairs and down the short hallway. He knew the steps of all his neighbors, their habits around the building, and the frequent guests who dropped by. Not because Rufus was intentionally a nosy shit, but because it was his one useful skill and he honest to God couldn’t help himself most of the time.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Rufus held his breath and looked through the peephole. On the other side was a distorted, fishbowl image of Bridget Heckler. Still petite, but now wearing a different, shapeless suit in charcoal gray. She stopped directly outside of 4D and glanced over one shoulder at 4B, who at this hour was still asleep, then at Pauly’s door, who could have been sleeping, stoned, or dead. Rufus took several steps backward when she knocked on his door.
He needed a weapon.
Rufus didn’t have one, though. He was better at blending in, disappearing, running away, or shoving himself into some nook or cranny until the danger passed versus trying to fight it head-on. And if he was in a real pickle, where he had no choice but to defend himself, Rufus never fought fair. He wasn’t above clawing at the face or kicking a guy in the nuts if it meant escaping with his life.
“Rufus,” Heckler called, her voice calm, professional, so wicked that it was like ice water in his veins. “Rufus, it’s Sergeant Heckler. I worked with Detective Brower. It’s important I speak with you.”
“What about?” he called, already halfway across the studio.
“What you saw last night.”
“Oh yeah? What’d I see?”
“I’m not going to shout through the door. Open up and let’s talk about this like adults. This is a very sensitive situation—you have no idea the shit you’ve stepped in.”
Rufus swallowed a panicked flutter in his throat and flexed his tingling fingers a few times. “I’m not opening the door,” he replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. He needed to call for help—and it wouldn’t