I force the word out through clenched teeth: “Late.”
“Bingo. So my advice, John? Start running.”
• • •
I do start running. Only I don’t head downtown. Instead I head uptown, the three blocks it takes me to get to the subway station. In a split-second decision, I leave my bike behind. Right now it will only slow me down, and quite honestly, I’m not sure if I can take it on the subway. Despite all the years I’ve been living in the city, I rarely take the subway. I have a mild case of claustrophobia, and being trapped underground with a bunch of strangers in a tin can isn’t necessarily my idea of a good time. Besides, my bike is chained up, and I know where it is, and I’m confident it will still be there when I return.
Down the stairs, wait in line at one of the MetroCard kiosks, wondering briefly if I can charge it to the company, and then I’m hurrying through the turnstiles, looking left and right for the downtown train. Judging by the few commuters milling about, I’ve just missed the most recent train, which means for the next train I now have to wait, what, three minutes? Five?
I wander over to the nearest subway map, check where I am and where the train will be headed whenever the hell it shows up. The way it looks, the train will let me out four blocks from the firm. Okay, no problem. There are three stops in between here and there, so yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem at all. As long as the train isn’t late. As long as my bad luck for the day has finally run out.
Then again, who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m going to make it on time. I would have a better chance if I just ran down the street.
I check my watch, wait thirty seconds, then check my watch again.
No train.
I wander over toward the tracks and stand by the pillars like mostly everyone else, angled toward the tunnel out of which the train will hopefully spit very soon. We stand there and stare, as if staring long enough will make the train appear. Actually no, that’s not true. I’m the one staring, while everyone else is looking down at their cell phones or tablets or e-readers, everyone a slave to their favorite technology. I shake my head, wondering what they all see in their senseless toys, when the distant shriek of brakes sounds out down the tunnel.
Everyone moves closer to the edge of the platform, which has flooded with more and more people.
Light fills the tunnel seconds before the train appears. The stuffy wind in the terminal changes direction. A single sheet of newspaper slips off the platform onto the tracks, caught up in the sudden rush of air, slow dancing like a tabloid tumbleweed.
Everyone takes their positions, including me. We all inch closer to the yellow line, watching the train as it screeches into the station, as the train—
I don’t realize I’m falling at first. I barely even feel the hand on my back until it pushes me off the platform. One second I’m standing there, the next second the world is on its side and I’m headed toward the tracks, the train’s light burning into me, the brakes squealing, people shouting and screaming.
I hit the ground hard, my head knocking on one of the rails, everything going momentarily black, and the squealing of the train fills the world so completely, like it’s about to burst, that for an instant I know I’m going to die, that the light coming at me is the light of Heaven or Hell or whatever afterlife there may be, and my body, it goes on autopilot, not staying still like it should, hoping that the train will pass over me, but instead standing up, first finding a knee, then raising to a foot, facing the train like we’re in a duel. I’m aware of the renewed screams and shouts in the same way I’m aware that I’m soon going to die, but it’s all faint, distant, white noise, and when the hands grab my bag and yank me up toward the platform I just go with it, letting it happen, a puppet content to have its strings pulled any which way it can.
four
Ashley hadn’t even been at her desk for five minutes when Jeff popped by and asked, “How was lunch?”
She looked up from checking email (someone reporting they spotted Paris Hilton near Central Park) and gave him the fakest smile in her facial arsenal. “Fabulous.”
“And?”
“I had the salad. It was delicious.”
“You’re not going to make me ask, are you?”
“You mean what type of salad? No, of course not. It was Arugula and Roasted Pear.”
He sighed. “Ashley, come on.”
“No, Jeff, you come on.”
He stepped into her cubicle and leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed.
She said, “Did I invite you in here? Because I honestly don’t remember doing so.”
“Sure. You just told me to come on.” He glanced around the main floor with the dozens and dozens of cubicles, people working on stories, answering phones, covering their asses. His voice went low: “Or was that code for something sexual?”
“You wish, tiger.”
He laughed, and she laughed, their relentless teasing never getting old. They’d been colleagues for nearly five years now, and always joked around. Jeff was married with children and would never even consider the idea of straying from his wife, which made their teasing even better.
“So,” Jeff said.
“So,” Ashley said.
“Are you really going to keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Avoiding the question.”
“And what question is that?”
“Did you ask her?”
“Do you think I asked her?”
He tilted his head slightly, squinting, giving her a measured look. “No, but I think you considered it for a moment.”
“Sorry, not even an instant.”
“Maybe a half instant?”
“Not even close.”
He groaned, throwing his head back. “Ashley, you’re killing me.”
“I told you I wasn’t going to do it.”
“No, you said you would think about it.”
“Right. And I thought about how I wasn’t going to do it. Jeff, Melissa is my best friend. These lunches are strictly a best friend kind of thing. We don’t talk business, and even if we did, she wouldn’t tell me anything top secret, especially about this case.”
The case, as it so happened, was turning out to be one of the biggest of the year, at least in Manhattan. Timothy Carrozza, heir to the Carrozza Empire (an old Italian family who was bringing back the olden days of New York Mafiosi), was being tried by the city for a string of indictments, the most damning murder, though money laundering was still on the table, as well as illegal trafficking. The police and FBI had been coming at the Carrozzas for years, but the family was smart, almost too smart, eliminating the proper witnesses if someone ever saw or heard something he or she shouldn’t have. But, perhaps by luck, maybe even fate, a witness had stepped forward, a witness the police had yet to identify, as they worried (rightfully so) the Carrozzas would come after him or her with everything they had. A conviction of Timothy Carrozza would be a huge win for the District Attorney’s office (though they were working with the FBI, the witness had come to the DA, so they were carrying the ball), and would set back much of the corruption throughout the city for years. It was rumored the mayor may have even had dealings with Timothy Carrozza once upon a time, but of course it was just rumor and nobody had yet confirmed anything.
And who was prosecuting the biggest trial of the year? Melissa Baxter, Ashley’s college roommate and best friend, that’s who. She was an Assistant District Attorney, and while the District Attorney himself would normally be taking lead, he was retiring next year and thought it best to hand the reins to Melissa. And, of course, every newspaper in the city wanted an exclusive on the story, anything at all, and so Jeff had asked Ashley to glean some information from Melissa during lunch, anything, just something that Jeff could use as the journalist covering the trial.
Jeff pushed off the desk, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re not helping me out.”
“And why would I help you out?”
“Anything else?”
“You think I’m cute.”
“Does your wife know how much you flirt at work?”
“Trust me,” he said, heading out of her cubicle, “the less she knows the better.”
Ashley considered telling him about the cop, the one who was clearly uncomfortable in the suit and who hadn’t left his position at the bar until she and Melissa finished their lunch and then he escorted her out. As far as Ashley knew, news of the death threat hadn’t yet been made public.
Pausing, he turned back and said, “One of these days maybe you’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
The playful look in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by a stone-cold determination. No longer was he the guy she harmlessly flirted with in the office. Instead he had become the hard-hitting reporter who had graduated from Princeton at the top of his class, which had landed him a job here at the Post.
“What it’s like to be a real journalist,” he said.
five
The cop stops the tape and shakes his head. “Nobody pushed you.”
“Play it again.”
“Mr. Smith—”
“Just one more time?” I ask him, my voice lilting into an uncharacteristic plea, and maybe the cop takes pity on me, or maybe he’s just bored, but he nods and plays the tape for a third time.
The video quality, unsurprisingly, is pretty shitty. There are a bunch of different cameras in the station, and none of them got a good angle of me. The best they could find is one facing the tracks with me off to the left-hand side. I’m standing there, among others, waiting for the train. A few people pass back and forth, old women wearing hats, men in suits, a kid in a Yankees cap bobbing his head to some unheard beat, but that’s it. As far as the video shows, I’m just standing there until, suddenly, I’m not.
The cop—his name is Daniels, or Baniels, or Maniels, though I’m pretty sure it’s Daniels, an older guy in jeans and a black coat with his shield hanging off a chain around his neck—lets the video play out a bit longer, showing the two people who rushed forward to save me. One is a businessman, some Wall Street guy, the other an older Italian dude. They moved almost instantaneously, filling the space which I had occupied only an instant before. Both dropping to their knees, reaching out, grabbing my bag. Pulling me back up onto the platform mere seconds before the train would have killed me.
I blink, watching it all for a third time. It happened less than a half hour ago, but on screen it looks like it happened in another life. Like something you’d see on one of those reality hero shows. I never did catch either of their names. They were true New Yorkers, just doing their thing. Neither of them had time to talk to the press, who had yet to make an appearance. The metro cops showed up, took statements, and sent them on their way. I’m pretty sure I said thank you to each of them, but I can’t really remember. I still had the echo of that oncoming train’s horn blaring in my ears. The echo was even there, minutes later, when they led me to this small, cramped room in the subway station where Daniels or Baniels or Maniels was waiting for me.
“What were their names?”
The cop eyes me. “Who?”
“The two that saved me.”
The sound of shuffling papers on the desk, and the cop squints down at a single sheet. “Darrell Abbott and Anthony Tuzzini.”
“Which one was the Italian guy?”
The cop gives me a bored look.
“Can I have their addresses?”
“Why?”
“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.”
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.
Legion Page 3
