Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  “He doesn’t talk much either. He’s not wearing a ring, and as far as I know, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. You want me to hook you up?”

  “You and my mother,” Ashley said, “always trying to fix me up with anyone with a penis.”

  “Would you prefer someone with a vagina?”

  “I guess it would depend on how much I had to drink.”

  They smiled at each other, their voices low, the last thing Melissa needing right now some overeager busybody eavesdropping and running to the press. Not that the press would care much about some harmless joking, but it was the principle of the matter. Melissa Baxter, Assistant District Attorney, always had to watch what she said and did in public. It was just part of the job description.

  Their waitress came to the table, introducing herself and listing off specials. They sent her away with their drink order—diet ginger ale for Melissa, gin and tonic for Ashley—and then Ashley leaned in and said, “Seriously, though, what’s going on?”

  “Death threat,” Melissa said, waving it away as dismissively as if she were telling the waitress she didn’t want croutons on her salad.

  Ashley decided to state the obvious. “You don’t seem too concerned.”

  “It’s not my first death threat, and it certainly won’t be my last.”

  “But I’m guessing this one struck a chord.”

  “You could say that.”

  A brief moment of silence passed, Ashley glancing toward the bar where the cop sat in the corner, busy scanning the room.

  “Are you going to make me guess?”

  Melissa laughed. “You are such a gossip.”

  “That is what I do, you know. But you don’t have to tell me. I think I already know.”

  “Do you?”

  “The biggest case of your career, a New York mob boss, the trial starts this week—yeah, I can connect the dots. How serious is it?”

  “Not serious at all. Carrozza would be out of his mind to try to have something happen to me during trial. But Jeffery”—that was the District Attorney, Melissa’s boss—“doesn’t want to take any chances. I told him I wasn’t afraid, that putting protection on me would come across as weak, but he doesn’t care. So he has a cop following me all day, has a cop waiting outside our place all night, even has a cop keeping an eye on the kids at school.”

  “I bet the taxpayers would love to hear that.”

  The waitress came back with their drinks, and they ordered their usual salads—Melissa the Insalata Caprese, Ashley the Arugula and Roasted Pear—and then the girl was gone just as quickly as she had appeared.

  Melissa took a sip of her drink, stirred the straw around. “The bright side, at least, is we managed to get away for the weekend without them. Thank God, too, because the last thing I would have wanted was for a few cops to tag along.”

  Ashley took a sip of her own drink. “Did you go anywhere nice?”

  “Connecticut,” Melissa said absently. “For my father’s funeral.”

  The news gave Ashley pause. This wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. As long as she had known Melissa, she very rarely heard her friend talk about her parents. Of course Ashley knew they existed, had even met Melissa’s mother at their college graduation, but that was it. As far as Ashley knew, Melissa wasn’t very close to her parents. And now, apparently, her father had died.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Melissa waved another dismissive hand. “It’s not like we were exactly close. I can’t even remember the last time I talked to him. But when I heard the news last week about what happened, I knew our mom needed us, so I contacted everyone and told them we needed to go.” She shook her head. “I’ll tell you, it wasn’t easy. Our father wasn’t exactly what you would call loving. We barely even knew him. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I thought of him as Dad. To me he was just Frank. We were all just kids when he and my mom divorced. But still, I knew we had to be there, you know?”

  Ashley nodded.

  “But it was nice,” Melissa said, still stirring her straw, “being there with our mom and everyone else. Like a last-minute family reunion. We hadn’t gotten everyone together like that since ... God, I can’t remember when. Even my stupid little brother showed up, if only for a minute.”

  “Which one is this?” Ashley asked, remembering that Melissa had a lot of brothers and sisters.

  “John,” Melissa said, her tone hinting disdain. “He’s really not worth even talking about. He’s just ... he’s the baby of the family and he’s always acted like it. Did you know when we all turned eighteen, our parents left us a trust? We were to use it for college. It wasn’t a lot—well, okay, it was forty thousand dollars each, which is a lot, but not when you consider how much four years of college costs—but it was meant to help us make something of ourselves after boarding school. We all did it, my sister and two brothers. David’s a surgeon up near Boston and Paul’s a doctor at the Mayo Clinic and, God, Valerie works for NASA. But John? He took that money and went to Europe and wasted it all there on alcohol and drugs and who knows what else. When he came back, he had no money, and even went so far as to ask our dad for more. I don’t exactly know what my dad told him, but there was a big blow out, and since then, John ... well, I don’t really know what happened to him. I know he’s living in the city somewhere. Last I heard, he was a bike courier. I have no idea how he manages to pay rent, but either way, I contacted him about our dad passing and told him about the viewing. I even offered to let him ride with Max and me and the kids. But he never got back to me. Then, right after the funeral, he shows up in a taxi. Keeps the taxi waiting for him. He talks briefly with David, and then when my mom and I approach him, he turns and leaves. To be honest, I didn’t care much to see him, but I figured our mother would. And he ... he didn’t even have the decency to say hello, or that he was sorry, or anything.”

  Melissa stopped stirring the straw, took another sip, set the glass down on the tabletop. She looked away, out across the dining room, over the tables and booths, at something on the far wall. Her eyes, Ashley saw, were glistening, as if her friend was on the verge of crying. That was the last thing Ashley wanted to happen, especially here in front of everyone, especially with her friend’s own cop keeping an eye out for trouble. If Melissa burst into tears, Ashley could just imagine the hyperactive cop rushing over, his weapon drawn, demanding to know what Ashley had done.

  “Okay,” Ashley said slowly, testing the thin ice of nervous silence one foot at a time, “so what you’re saying is it would be best I not end up dating your brother? Because, you know, my date this past weekend? He turned out to be a real loser.”

  Melissa didn’t laugh like Ashley had hoped she would, but she smiled, a full, sincere smile that warmed Ashley’s heart. Wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand—the move so surreptitious Ashley wasn’t sure she had even seen it—Melissa shook her head.

  “No, I definitely would not recommend you date my brother. In fact, I would recommend you not even share a taxi with him. He probably wouldn’t have enough to split the fare.”

  The waitress brought their food, and they each picked up a fork, ready to devour their salads like ravenous herbivores.

  “So anyway,” Melissa said, smiling again, her best friend back, “tell me about this loser. I could use a good laugh.”

  three

  Talk about bad luck.

  I’m in some office building on Fifth Avenue—after a while they all start looking the same—on the twenty-seventh floor, and I’ve just picked up a package that needs to make it downtown in forty-five minutes. It’s only eighteen blocks, so it’s really no sweat, and I’m in the hallway headed toward the elevator when the lights briefly flicker and an alarm starts going off. I look around, just like everyone else, wondering what the hell this is about, when a voice comes on over the intercom, one of those calm but scary voices, informing everyone in the building to please stop what they’re doing and go to the nearest stairwell and he
ad down to the street.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” says a guy in a suit in front of me, standing right in front of the opened elevator.

  My sentiments exactly.

  So then everyone’s up on their feet, headed down the hallway, past the elevators toward the stairwell. And, for the most part, everyone does so in a nice and orderly fashion. Except we’re twenty-seven stories up, and there’s another ten stories or so above us, and the stairs, they’re not very wide. Everyone could probably squeeze two at a time going down, but for some reason everyone goes single file, and the lights keep flashing and that alarm keeps blaring and that calm but scary-as-fuck voice keeps asking everyone to please stop what they’re doing and evacuate the building right this second.

  I’m conscious of the time as we descend, checking my watch every thirty seconds, as if that will move things along any quicker.

  Murmuring works its way up and down the line, people speculating what could be wrong—fire, terrorists, the usual bit of scariness—and to break the tension I contribute the possibility that we’re in the midst of a zombie attack.

  Nobody seems to think that’s very funny.

  The stairwell quickly fills with the overbearing stink of aftershave and perfume, the combined odors making it almost impossible to breathe. One of the suits in front of me, bored now with the speculation of what’s causing the evacuation, mentions Timothy Carrozza, and like that, it starts off a chain reaction of questions and comments, these jokers being lawyers, after all, even if they are corporate. One of them mentions ADA Baxter, and another says he saw her on the news and boy oh boy is she a fox, and something inside of me starts to stir, a big brother impulse to stand up for his little sister, which is strange because she’s three years older than me, and besides, I don’t even know her well enough anymore to feel as if I need to stand up for her in the first place. And besides, this guy isn’t badmouthing her; he’s just commenting on how good looking she is, and really, is that a crime?

  Still, the last thing I want to think about is my sister and her big career-making case, so I tune out the guys in front of me and listen in on what the women behind me are talking about, which happens to be a bachelorette party one of them attended over the weekend. Okay, now we’re talking. Only, it seems, this bachelorette party is the lamest bachelorette party of the year, the girls going shopping and having dinner at a fancy restaurant (the kind, one of the girls says, where they use a brush to wipe the breadcrumbs off your table), then going to the movies to see the new Matthew McConaughey flick, because, apparently, the bride-to-be is a recovering alcoholic (one year next month), and the girls wanted to make sure she had a good time.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mutter without realizing it.

  Behind me, the women stop talking as we continue our exodus (what floor are we passing now, the seventeenth?), and I glance back and see a few of them giving me the kind of glare that’s supposed to signify just how much of an asshole I am.

  I smile back and shrug. “Fucking zombie attack, huh?”

  Nothing. Not even an eye roll.

  I glance at my watch, just like I did thirty seconds ago.

  Like I said, talk about bad luck.

  • • •

  Except no, I’m wrong. Bad luck isn’t getting stuck on the twenty-seventh floor of an office building, moments before getting on the elevator, before an emergency alarm sounds out and then being forced to hoof it down those twenty-seven floors with a bunch of suits to the street. No, bad luck is going through all of that to come outside to find someone has stolen the wheels off your bike.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

  Nobody even notices my outburst. Why would they? They’ve all just escaped the terrifying clutches of their office building, and no, the reason is not a zombie attack but a fire. At least I have to assume it’s a fire based on the two fire trucks parked out front, their rooftop lights flashing, a couple firemen directing people out of the building while a few others head inside, decked out in all of their gear.

  Everyone crowds around on the sidewalk, while taxis and buses and cars go zooming past, while tourists and the usual Manhattan hustlers and bustlers walk on by like there’s nothing wrong.

  I hurry over to the bike, fall to my knees, grab hold of the titanium frame, as if it’s just an illusion that both of my wheels are missing. Nope, they’re still gone. The son of a bitch who did this—and who the fuck does something like this, really?—used wire cutters. No, not wire cutters—bolt cutters. Surprisingly, they didn’t even touch the chain keeping the frame secured to the pole. Sure, my bike isn’t the most expensive piece of equipment currently gracing the streets of Manhattan (it’s not even halfway expensive, really), but I’ve had it for two years and, fuck, it’s mine.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

  Again, nobody notices my outburst. Well, that’s not true. One of the women who was behind me on the stairwell, one of the women from this past weekend’s lame bachelorette party, notices, and is she trying to suppress a smile? That bitch, I think she is! I’m half-tempted to give her the finger, but I have to remember I’m representing my company right now, and the last thing I need is for her to complain to Hank, my supervisor, because he’d just love a reason to get rid of me. I’m good at what I do, no doubt about it—in fact, I’m one of the best, always deliver my packages on time, never lose my manifest—but I’ll admit, I’m not the easiest person in the world to get along with, and Hank is the kind of supervisor who would love for his entire crew to be trained yes men and yes women. My only saving grace is Reggie, my dispatcher, who like most dispatchers is a retired courier who knows the city, who knows the streets, who tracks our locations when we pick up and drop off, so we don’t have to go far out of our way when he sends us to the next client.

  My mind races. What am I supposed to do now? Take a taxi? It could work, but we’re talking about the noon rush hour, and quite honestly, all day is rush hour from here to my intended destination. There’s a subway entrance three blocks up, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s headed downtown. Won’t let me off right on the block I need, but it would be close enough.

  Fuck it. I reach into my pocket for my cell. I dial Reggie’s number, and listen to it ring two times in my earbuds before he picks up.

  “Yo,” he says.

  “I have a problem.”

  “What’s up?”

  I fill him in.

  He says, “Shit, dude, are you serious?” I hear voices in the background, typing, the usual dispatcher noises. “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m pretty much fucked for the rest of the day. But this package, someone needs to come pick it up.”

  Reggie’s silent for a long moment as he types. “Sorry, dude, but I don’t have anyone near your location right now.”

  “So what should I do?” I close my eyes, take a deep breath. “Can you call and tell them I’ll be late?”

  Reggie doesn’t answer right away. I don’t expect him to. My request isn’t something I’m proud of. In fact, it’s something I really hate to ask. In this business, you deliver packages on time. That’s it. Your reputation—and, more importantly, your company’s reputation—all hinges on the fact that you’re faster and more prompt than the other guy. Because there’s always another messenger company to hire, and if a business gets screwed over enough times by a company they’ve grown a relationship with, they’ll cut ties and go elsewhere. So calling and telling them their package won’t arrive on time, even if there is a valid excuse? Not a good idea.

  “Reggie?”

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking. Who’s the package going to again?” Before I can answer, he says, “Shit,” no doubt reading the name off his screen.

  I nod, knowing exactly what he means. The firm I’m taking this to—Bachman Payne—is one of the top firms in the city. They’ve been using us for the past five years, if not longer. They’re always satisfied, because we always deliver on tim
e. But one screw up? They’re a business that’s apt to walk away just on principle.

  Through the phone I hear typing and voices, but I also hear a new voice, a deep, throaty voice tinged with a Brooklyn accent, sounding like it’s coming closer.

  “If that’s Hank, don’t tell him it’s me.”

  It’s a risky move, trying to keep the supervisor out of the loop on an issue like this, but the truth is I just don’t want to deal with his bullshit right now.

  “Who’s that?” Hank says, and before Reggie can voice a coherent response, the phone is taken away (I picture Hank ripping the headset off Reggie’s head), and Hank’s voice booms, “Who’s this?”

  I swallow. “It’s John.”

  “What do you want?”

  A hundred smart ass replies flash through my mind, but instead I say, “Someone jacked my wheels.”

  “So?”

  Cold son of a bitch.

  “So, I have a package that needs to get to Bachman Payne in”—I glance at my watch—“seventeen minutes.”

  “Yeah, and why are you calling?”

  “I’m not going to be able to make it. I was hoping”—I clear my throat—“someone could call down and let them know I’ll be late.”

  “John, let me ask you something,” he says, and I picture him in his short-sleeved company shirt, crossing his hairy arms, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stares up at the board tracking our pick-ups and drop-offs. “What is our company’s motto?”

  Another fire truck arrives on scene, its lights blazing red and white, blaring its horn for cars to get out of its way.

  “What is that?” Hank asks.

  “Fire truck,” I say. “There was a fire in the building. The alarm went off right before I hit the elevator, and then I had to—”

  “Our motto, John. What is it?”

  I take another deep breath. “ ‘Never Late, Always Early.’ ”

  “That’s right,” he says, like he’s an elementary school teacher and I’m a slow-learning student. “That’s our motto. That’s how everyone knows us. That’s what keeps us in business. And the people that hire us? They want their packages just like our motto says—never late, always early. They don’t care about fires, or missing wheels, or even if your legs are broken. They want their packages on time, if not early, but never ... guess, John.”