Fresh Internet Trash

“God’s sake what? I can hardly hear you! Speak up, old boy…”

“Thought the phone would never stop ringing,” Biddley muttered, looking around as Rashun scoffed in disbelief. It was dark as hell out, save for a street lamp. He swore he saw something moving around in the edge of the light, “It’s raining…any chance you got it in you to drive?”

“Where are you now?”

“Hmm, corner of Leeway and and Providence…”

He couldn’t see the street signs in this weather but knew roughly where he was. The phone booth provided momentary shelter, even if it was in the dark, away from the reach of the street lamp.

“Right...There’s a diner a block down. I’d hate to ask, but if you are calling me from some phone booth, you are likely going to leave to make the walk to wait for me, I assume? Unless you’re feeling bold enough to stay there…”

“I’ll make my way…how long will you be?”

“I can aim for twenty. Or- perhaps twenty-five. Low traction and low visibility.”

“Fine— I-“

Biddley cut himself off. The phone shifted, pressed tight against his cheek. He breathed once into the mouthpiece but stopped. A crackle. 

“…Biddley?”

“Shh!”

He caught a shadow from the corner of his eye: someone milling about near the street lamp. From his vantage point, there was a car in front, blocking out a majority of the light, but he saw a figure appear, wielding an umbrella and emerging from the darkness. They snuck into the backseat, illuminated by the street lamp. 

He heard Rashun on the other end. A faint buzz of electricity as his breathing crackled through the wire. 

“Spotted my man…”

“Where?”

“Right in front of me. I recognized his hat…He’s getting out.”

He did. In a change of clothes. Biddley could tell by the silhouette as they slipped out. Something was in his hand. A shovel of some kind? Or a wrench…?

He gently set down his arm, resting it against the booth’s small counter for stability. Last thing he wanted to do was make himself known and startle this guy. Discretion is key…

Water dropped from his hair and crested his cheek. Another slid down the side of his nose and pooled around the curve of his nostril. He was holding his breath to keep still and instinctively exhaled.

“Rashun…” 

“Yes?” Replied quietly, “I’m going to keep quiet so long as you whisper first.”

“He’s picking a lock to some building…snf! Uhh, I think red brick. Or dark, at least…”

“Noted…”

“Huhh…khrmm!”

He delicately pressed a knuckle to his nose. The man had taken out his tools and began to fiddle around with the front door of this supposed red-brick building. Biddley saw him lift his head as he cleared his throat and immediately swallowed to prevent a cough. 

“D-Damn-“

“Everything alright, s-“

“Hh—mMPF!’dSSCHhh!! Huh!rRRSChhh-!!”

Biddley opened his eyes in time to spot the man tense, look up, then pivot his head. In the booth, he remained perfectly still, the wet gabardine lapel of his coat smothered over his face, the phone earpiece still up. Rashun was silent on the other end. He heard a hesitant breath, which indicated a question, but he couldn’t risk an answer. The crook’s gaze passed right over him; he felt it, like a lighthouse beam catching a stationary vessel, unacknowledged. His nose was running from the sudden disturbance — curses, he’d broken it too many times for it to just stay idle! The muffled sneeze had done something to the healed-over fracture that grazed his nerves, and he found himself biting his lip in hopes of staying still. 

His head turned away. A sneeze was painfully stifled between his thumb and forefinger, numb from the cold rain. Pain shot between his eyes. He hated stifling. That’s what a broken nose gets you. It itched still, and he was forced to muffle another, head dipping in a violent but thankfully silent jostle. 

After the third, he gulped down some air and squinted to find that the man had stood. 

“Hhf—“

“Biddley-“

“Sh!”

His voice was sharp. Breath whistling over the old, rattly wires in a distorted crunch on the other end. 

“HhdH!hHNGkksshhh!! Hah…Jesus…”

His stomach rolled to his throat, seeing the man take a few steps back and eye the streetlamp.

A few steps closer.

Biddley reached into his coat and felt the warm grip of his revolver. A car rolled by on the main street, and the rushing sound of water and rain hitting its roof provided a decent enough cover for the noise. 

“Hh—!hrssSSCHHhff!!”

Fuck. He blinked back tears. He barely moved, staying positively still save for a deeply repressed jolt of his head. One could only hope the minimal light didn't give his position away. Smothering his nose hurt like the devil. The man had skittered back in fear of being spotted by the random driver and ducked into the open door. A light inside flickered on for a moment, then off. 

Hm. 

No nearby buildings. Seemed like a storefront. Maybe roof access…

Biddley shakily brought the mouthpiece back with a wet, sniffly exhale. 

“Rashud…”

“Thank goodness you’re alive.”

“I’ll meet you in half ad hour. Going to figure out what’s up with this guy…’n get the law on the line. A little breaking and entering, nothin’ big. On standby.”

“You’re going in after him?”

“I’ve got a hunch. Somethi’g tells me he’s here to tie up loose ends, if this is his place of business.”

“See in you a bit, then. Keep well. Don’t do anything foolish. And for the love of God, sir, don’t sh-“

He hung up with a scrub under his nose and another sniffle. 

Oh. Wait. Bother! He fished around his pockets, hoping to find another dime, but he only dug out a sopping wet cigarette and a set of house keys. He was going to ask Rashun to bring him a dry handkerchief. Oh well. Wouldn't be worth the time.

He exited the phone booth and breathed in the smell of rain on wet concrete before slipping in through the open door.

-------

The most the fuzz would find by the time they arrived was a man tied to the handrail of the stairs, a suitcase of stolen bills laid open at his feet, and a single photo neatly in front of it of an older, more horrific crime scene. On the back, a number to a private investigator's office, one that the men at the precinct would know well enough. 

A street over, in a diner, Biddley had wrung out his coat (to the owner’s distaste) and was drying his hair with the napkins at a booth seat. A plate of mostly eaten pie sat in front of him, sentineled by a few used tissues. He blew his nose only to sneeze again.

“Unsure that isn’t a broken nose at this point, going out in the rain all the time- Paying at his expense?” Rashun pointed as Biddley thumbed over the only dry thing he had on his person. Just a few bills from a recently collected folder of documents and photos, enough to cover a single order of dessert and two coffees.  

“Considering it as a bonus. I’ll invoice the boys if they call.” 

He watched as Rashun ran a few numbers through his head. 

“Hardly ethical.”

“And I’m no Saint Mary. You want a coffee before we head back?”