The wind
howled as it whipped around Rufus’ olive trenchcoat. The tail of his coat
slapped his calves as he waited in the rain, beads of water stopping inches shy
of hitting his bare head before rolling off to the side of him. Half a
joint-dangled out the right side of his lips. Usually there would be an
advertiser of private goods or underground activity accompanying him on the
corner, but the storm scared them away. Most people didn’t share his love for
shitty weather, but most didn’t have his knack for editing destiny.
Hand in his left pocket, he fingered a deck of 54 cards, each time shocking himself a little. Whatever was calling him in the middle of the night wasn’t ready yet. His gray eyes darted around the raindrops trying to spot any odd movement in an alley or oncoming traffic. Nothing. Noteven a sad looking dog or drowned cat around to beg for his protection.
With a moment to himself, the son of Robert Caldwell looked at his reflection in the puddle before him but did not see his own dark skin. Rather, the green-eyed tempter of his youth gazed back, begging him to join on the other side. Reluctant to waste a perfectly fine jazz cigarette, Rufus kicked at the puddle and turned away. He pinched the joint until it went out and shook his fingers off in the rain, pocketing it for later.
A pain struck his temple. He looked back to the puddle, but nothing was there. Someone else lingered; Rufus kept his guard up but closed his eyes. He quieted his thoughts and focused outward. “I need that jacket!” rang in his mind. It echoed around until he felt a warm sensation between his left eye and ear. 10 o’clock. Rufus pivoted to the right and threw a figure onto its back. He opened his eyes. A pocket knife clanked over a drain and a teenager with torn clothes and no shoes laid trapped under Rufus’ left wingtip shoe.
“You look wet,” he said to the kid. “Follow me.” He released them and walked down the block until he reached an alley. The teen watched as Rufus stopped before disappearing. They rolled themselves over, grabbed their knife, and followed. Once they were close enough, Rufus introduced them to his office: a small gaming station made of scrap wood with a chair that didn’t match the other on opposing sides. “Sit. Relax. I’m gonna figure out how to help you.” Rufus claimed his seat, back to the brick wall behind him. “I said, sit, damn. I ain’t gonna tell you but twice now.”
The teen sat, unaware of how dry their chair was because they were soaking and shivering. They barely noticed Rufus slip out a deck of cards from his left pocket; it wasn’t until they heard the sound of shuffling that they looked up. “The fuck,” they wondered.
“Watch your profanity,” Rufus said aloud. “What if your mother suddenly appeared?” He laid down his first card: the Queen of Hearts. A zap of light blinded the teenager, accompanied by a loud crack that deafened them. “Or at least someone to keep you warm at night?”
The teen shook off the crippling effects and looked to their left. A contained trash fire danced next to him. They stuck out their arms and dried their hands, bringing them back in to feel the warmth against their face.
“I’m sure that’s a more useful spot than wherever it originally was going to hit. Best I can do with short notice; I ain’t no conjurer.” Rufus smiled as the kid was too occupied to pay attention to him. He shuffled the queen back into his deck and started to shuffle again when another pain struck. Slipping the deck into its rightful place, he tried to scout the alley, but the smoke obstructed his view. Suddenly he felt a burning toward the back of his head. 6 o’cl-- but something blunt beat the back of his head from the outside. Woozy, he felt a force grab under his armpits and drag him into the brick wall. “Fuck,” he whimpered.
“You watch your profanity,” the kid tried to retort, but their kind stranger was gone. And once again, they were alone.
Word
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