Robert Swartwood - Legion

I nod.

“So let me just get the main thing out of the way. Bachman Payne isn’t happy with us losing their package.”

“ Us ?” Hank’s voice rises like an angry geyser. “ We didn’t lose their package. He did.”

It takes everything I have not to give Hank the bird, especially as he’s now aiming an angry index finger in my direction.

“Now that’s enough,” Ed says, and I have to force myself not to smile or wink at Hank, something to set him off. I could do it, too, especially with how we’re positioned at the table-Ed to my left, Hank off to my right-but I remain quiet and still.

“Anyway,” Ed says, “Bachman Payne has decided to terminate their contract with us. At least for the time being. They won’t say what the package was, but apparently it was very important-as are all of our clients’ packages, of course-and the fact that now it has been lost … well, let’s just say they’re quite upset. Which is understandable. We’ve had a great working relationship with them for years, and we hope to one day work with them again.”

I had been expecting there to be some kind of consequence to losing the package, but losing the account was an extreme I had been hoping to avoid.

“Ed, I’m sorry-”

He holds up a hand. “No reason to apologize, John. Sometimes shit happens in our line of work. Sometimes it happens a lot. Say, how long have you been working here?”

I swallow, understanding that this meeting will be my last. “Four years.”

“Four years,” Ed says, not to me but to Reggie and Hank, impressed. “And in all those years, have you ever lost a package?”

“No.”

“Have you ever delivered a package late?”

“Unfortunately, it happened two times. But only by minutes.”

“Still, you have a pretty remarkable record. How many times would you say you’ve been doored?”

I smile, thinking about all the times I was riding along stopped traffic and suddenly a door opened right in front of me. In those situations there isn’t much you can do. Slam on your brakes, sure, but that doesn’t always mean you’ll be safe. Swerve and avoid is another option, but the same applies: doesn’t always mean you’ll be safe. So sometimes, you have no choice but to go right into the door.

“More times than I care to admit,” I say.

Ed smiles, nodding, then all at once he goes solemn. “It was pretty scary today, wasn’t it?”

I nod.

“I spoke personally to Detective Baniels.”

Huh, I think. The dude’s name really is Baniels.

“He explained what happened,” Ed says, “and he explained what you claim happened. That someone pushed you.”

I start to defend myself, thinking that if anyone in the world will believe me, it’s Ed, but he holds up a hand again.

“Right now, how you ended up falling off that platform isn’t what’s important. What’s important is why you were there in the first place.”

“Someone jacked my wheels.”

“Yes,” Ed says slowly, something changing in his eyes, “we’ll come back to that shortly. For now, from what I understand, you called Reggie about your problem.”

“That’s right.”

“And you asked Reggie to call Bachman Payne and explain you would be late.”

“Yes.”

“And then”-Ed shoots Hank a glare-“your supervisor told you to … ‘start running,’ as I understand it.”

I nod again, forcing myself to not even glance at Hank.

“So in theory, if someone had called Bachman Payne and explained you were running late, you would never have been in that subway station.”

“Sir”-Hank leans forward, his voice unsteady-“did I tell John to start running? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I told him to take the train. It’s purely coincidental that-”

“The point here,” Ed says, “is that Bachman Payne was not contacted about their package running late. The point, too, is the package is now gone. So is John’s manifest, which means we can’t account for any of his previous runs today, which means we don’t get paid. And all of that adds up to being one massive mess.”

Nobody says anything. In fact, I realize Reggie hasn’t spoken a word this entire time.

Ed says, “John, is there anything you want to tell us?”

“Like what?”

“Like why you were in that train station.”

“I told you. Someone jacked my wheels.”

“Yes, and now we’re back to that.” He pushes away from the table, stands, and walks to the door. “How did you get here?”

“Taxi. When Hank called me, he told me to get in the first taxi I saw and come straight here.”

“So you left your bike behind.”

I nod slowly, not sure where he’s taking this.

“Tito finished his runs early today,” Ed says, his hand on the doorknob. “He finished up right when you called. So while you were on your way back here, I had him go down to retrieve your bike. Figured after everything you had been through, we would save you the time and hassle. But then when he got there, he called and told me he found something quite … odd.”

Ed opens the door, snaps his fingers, and steps back. For a moment nothing happens, and then Tito appears, decked out in his usual shorts and shirt, rolling a bike into the room.

“How …” I start to say, but that’s it. I have no words. I rise, slowly, and approach the bike-my bike. It has the same wear and tear that it did when I saw it last. It has the same worn tires. Everything about it is the same, except it’s impossible that it’s here right now, like this, complete.

“So, John,” Ed says, his gaze steady with mine, “I’m going to ask you one more time. Why were you in the train station?”

Typically after work Ashley took the train downtown to her apartment in Greenwich Village, but tonight she took the F train up to Lexington Avenue, got onto the 5, and rode that up to 96th Street, walked two blocks, nodded to Brock, the doorman, who smiled and said he hadn’t seen her in a while and hoped she was doing well, and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor where her mother was already waiting for her.

“Ashley”-her mother opened her arms for an embrace-“what a pleasant surprise.”

Ashley hugged her mother and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t expect you to be the welcoming committee.”

“Brock called and said you were headed up. I was worried something might be wrong. Is something wrong?”

Ashley followed her mother into the apartment. “No, not at all. It’s just … well, it’s been a long day. I wanted to see you and Daddy.”

Her mother smiled. “That’s so sweet.”

The apartment was as immaculate as it always was. She met with her parents once every two weeks, if not more, usually for Sunday brunch. She hadn’t been to the apartment in a long time, and she missed the plush and ornate decorations, the expensive furniture, and, more than anything, the view. She walked up to a patio window, one that looked out over Central Park.

Her father’s reflection filled the glass. “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

She turned, smiling, and embraced him. “Hi, Daddy.”

Her mother was headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Just an ice water would be fine.”

Her father stood next to her, facing the park. “You always loved this view, didn’t you?”

“It’s one of my favorites in the city. Especially around this time of year, when the leaves start to change.”

“When you were a girl you’d go out on the patio with a book and read for hours.”

She smiled. “During the summer, it was a great place to tan.”

“Even better than the place on Martha’s Vineyard?”