Robert Swartwood - Legion

“I should send them something. Like a fruitcake or fruit basket. I mean, they fucking saved my life.”

The cop sets the single sheet of paper back down on his desk. He glances at the paused screen. “How are you feeling now?”

I look down at my hands, which are slightly shaking. “Still a little on edge.”

“And before?”

“Before what?”

“This morning,” Daniels or Baniels or Maniels says. “How were you feeling then?”

“Okay, I guess.” A moment passes, and a light goes on inside my head. “Wait a minute. Do you-”

“Things are tough, no doubt, especially with the economy in the crapper like it is. How’s your job situation?”

“I have a job,” I say defensively, almost ready to ask him if he has a job. “Two jobs, actually.”

“That can be stressful, huh?”

I say nothing. I know where he’s trying to lead me and I don’t like it one bit, but I’m not sure what to say or how to say it without digging myself a deeper hole.

“You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Wife, life partner, something like that?”

“Officer-”

“Detective.”

“Detective,” I say, trying to remain calm, “I am not depressed. I am not stressed, or overworked, or whatever else you might think I am to make me do what I did. Because I didn’t do anything. Someone pushed me.”

“The video tells a different story. And, believe it or not, the video rarely lies.” He leans forward, raising a finger. “Now that’s not saying you didn’t fall accidentally. That can happen, and has happened in the past. But usually when it does, the person who fell admits it was an accident.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I’m not saying you are.” The detective shifts in his seat. “What I am saying-”

“Am I in trouble?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then can I go? I was supposed to be downtown a half hour ago.”

“What’s downtown?”

“A firm I’m supposed to deliver a package to.”

“Where’s the package?”

“In my bag,” I say, indicating the bag on the floor by the door. It was dropped there when I first came in the room by one of the metro cops. I hadn’t really given it much thought then, but now I notice that it’s partly unzipped.

I motion at the bag again. “You mind?”

The detective gives a flick of his wrist, as if to say, Go right ahead .

I cross the short space between me and the door-seriously, this “office” is the size of a closet-and I grab the bag and look inside and, all at once, my stomach drops.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s gone,” I say, and hold up the empty bag as if to prove this statement. “The package is gone. So’s my manifest.”

“Your what?”

“The thing that guarantees I get paid. Who’s the cop that carried this in?”

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing. Except someone fucking took the package and manifest out of my bag and that cop was the last one who had it.”

“None of my guys would have taken your stuff. Now please, why don’t you calm down and take a seat?”

“You don’t understand. My job is on the line here.”

His ears perk up at this. “Is that right? Tell me, what company did you say you work for again?”

I didn’t tell him-he hadn’t even asked-but I give him the company name anyway.

His eyebrows go up, impressed, and then his brow furrows. “So if you’re a bike courier, why were you taking the train?”

“My bike’s currently out of commission. Someone jacked my wheels.”

It hits me a second too late that this probably isn’t the best detail to add. Not when I keep insisting someone pushed me, and the video clearly shows no one did. Not when I’m claiming someone took the package and my manifest, and the detective here clearly doesn’t believe that’s the case.

He swivels in his seat, searches the clutter of papers again, and turns back around with a business card.

“I want you to take this. There’s a number on it to call if you ever feel overwhelmed or depressed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed or depressed.”

“Okay,” he says, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

I want to reiterate the fact that I’m not overwhelmed or depressed, but wonder whether I should also add I’m not crazy. Because I felt the hand on my back, if only for a moment. Didn’t I? The subway is not the best place for those with claustrophobia. We’re all like cattle being pushed through a chute. That’s why the place is a pickpocket’s wet dream. I’ve been bumped into countless times. I’ve even been pushed by one person or another. And while each push or bump was different, there was always an aimlessness to them, the offender generally holding no ill will toward me or anyone else who happened to be in their path at that moment in time. You always felt that. You always got used to that. So when you felt a hand on your back, a hand that is placed there intentionally, you know it when you feel it.

I don’t bother telling Detective Daniels or Baniels or Maniels this. I just take the card and stuff it in my pocket.

“Can I leave now?”

I envision him calling out, the door flying open, men rushing in with a straightjacket to take me to the loony bin. But he simply nods, tells me he has my information in case he needs to contact me further, and sends me on my way.

“Be careful. Some reporters are already outside. They’re like vultures, those people.”

I forget to ask him again for the names and addresses of the two men who saved me. Despite my fruitcake remark, I really would like to send them formal thanks. But now I just want to get the hell out of here, head back up to street level.

Just as the detective said, the reporters are waiting for me. I have to hurry past them while they shout their questions, take their pictures. I look like a complete jackass, but all my life I’ve managed to stay under the radar. There really is no reason for it, just that I don’t like dealing with bullshit. A part of me does want to stop, publicly thank the two men for saving me, but I know that will open the floodgates. So I hurry up the stairs, trying to ignore them following me, asking their questions.

Pulling out my phone, I check the time.

Christ, the package that’s now missing was due at Bachman Payne forty minutes ago.

Now that my phone has a signal, it vibrates with notifications of text messages and voicemails. Thirteen text messages, six voicemails. Before I can check any of them, my phone vibrates again, this time with an incoming call.

I answer it.

“Reggie, you are not going to believe what happened to me.”

But it’s not Reggie.

“John”-Hank’s voice is fury itself-“where the fuck have you been?”

Ashley had just sent off her piece for tomorrow-after sifting through all her emails, having even spoken to some contacts and reps on the phone, she ended up with the Paris Hilton sighting, blah-when Eric poked his head over the top of her cubicle and said, “Tom wants to see you.”

“About what?”

“In his office right now.”

Eric’s head disappeared and she sat there at her desk, wondering what this could be about. She was almost never called into Tom Fisher’s office. Usually whenever he needed to talk to Ashley-on those rare occasions-he came and found her.

She rose from her desk, feeling an uncertain dread bubbling in her stomach, the kind a student usually feels when she’s just been called to the principal’s office.

Eric was waiting for her. He was a small, balding man with a plump face. He had been working at the paper for over thirty years and rightfully should have had Tom’s job, but Eric wasn’t one for office politics, and his career would forever suffer for it.