NEY YORK – November 1972

Lawrence observed the petite woman in front of him as she examined the apartment unit. She appeared to be in her sixties, but the way she carried herself was youthful. Despite her short graying hair, her deep brown eyes glinted with a zeal for life. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he felt the familiar sting of chemicals in his lungs as the nicotine eased his mind. He exhaled the smoke before starting their conversation once more.

"Are you sure you want this flat? Truth be told, I haven't had anyone stick around for more than three months at a time." As the property manager of the apartment complex, it was his job to make sure that the units were making money. No one had occupied the unit for a whole month, and the landlord had been pushing him to have someone sign the lease. However, as much as he needed this job, he couldn't bring himself to take advantage of potential renters. While the landlord's affairs were questionable at times, it was his goal to make sure his own dealings were fair and legal.

"I don't see what the problem is. It's a charming space and the location is convenient." She said as she examined the unit, her eyes gleaming.

He took another lungful of the cigarette smoke as he chose his next words carefully, knowing full well the reason behind the large turnover in renters. "The problem isn't the flat itself, but the tenant above. To be honest with you, I'm always getting noise complaints about him."

She chuckled. "I appreciate the honesty, but that shouldn't be a problem for my old ears."

"Well," he smiled, "if you insist. I'll have you sign a month-to-month lease for now just in case you change your mind."

"That's very kind of you, darling."

"What'd you say your name was again?"

"Ida Peters, and yours?"

"Lawrence Bailey, but please just call me Lawrence." He said as he shook her hand. "Would you like to sign now or give it some thought for a few more days?"

Ida assessed the unit once more and nodded. "I'll go ahead and sign."


Logan laid back on the leather couch as a Looking Glass record played on his turntable. The smoke from the cigar between his fingers rose in silver wisps that were disturbed by the soft, crisp breeze that drifted through his open window. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet aroma. As he let his mind wander, the distant whirring of a helicopter reached his ears. Without warning, a flashback of a medevac in Vietnam assaulted his mind. His breath quickened as his mind was taken back to the war zone he had left almost a year ago. The sound of his wounded comrades screaming echoed in his ears and he could smell the sickly-sweet metallic stench of blood and Avgas in the air as if it was yesterday.

As the helicopter's roar melted into the city's traffic, a knock on his door jarred him from the memory. He took in a sharp breath as his eyes snapped open. Running a trembling hand through his hair, he took a moment to regain a solid grasp of his surroundings. Another knock sounded, and he took a puff of his cigar before getting up. He wasn't expecting anyone, making it safe to assume that the person at his door could only be Lawrence. Letting out the cloud of smoke with a sigh, he collected himself and answered the door. As expected, he found his friend standing in the hallway. The expression on his face was more gleeful than usual and Logan raised an eyebrow.

"What is it Lawrence?"

"I have some good news! Mind if I come in?" He asked. Logan stepped aside, and he entered the flat.

"Listen, I've got a job to do soon so you better make this quick." Logan said as he shut the door.

He shook his head as he walked over to a small, round dining table that was littered with miscellaneous papers. "You and your 'jobs'. Don't you want to make an honest living? One that might better this city instead of helping the illegal activity that's running rampant?"

"After all we've seen and done, working a nine-to-five office job would drive me insane. We saw some messed-up shit in Korea, and Vietnam wasn't any better." Logan replied.

"Exactly, which is why I chose to fail the aptitude test when I was drafted for Vietnam. You, on the other hand leapt at the opportunity, and ever since Nixon pulled your brigade out of the war you've been in over your head in illegal activity. Again." He said as he began organizing the mess.

"What I'm doing helps you and the landlord keep this place running as other businesses crumble. Besides, nowadays there ain't much difference between what I do and what some cops do around here." Logan retorted. "Now what's this 'good news' that you have for me?"

Lawrence looked up from what he was doing and stared hard at him. As much as he hated to admit it, Logan had a point, so he dropped the topic. "You know the unit below you? Someone finally signed a lease for it."

Logan cocked an eyebrow. "And I care because?"

"Well, I don't think you'll have much trouble with this one. The tenant is an elderly woman, maybe late sixties, who has hearing loss."

"Right, because the complaining from previous renters was really getting under my skin." He replied sarcastically.

Lawrence smoothed his blond hair back and sighed. "Would you think about someone other than yourself for a minute? It's a good thing because I don't have to explain that your late night, illegal antics keep people from renewing a monthly lease. Your coming and going in the middle of the night isn't exactly quiet, Logan. I've had to cover for you since the day you moved in. The landlord would evict you if he knew half the things you've done, let alone what you are."

He ignored him and shifted his gaze to the clock on the wall. Seeing that it was a quarter till two, he walked over to his turntable and switched it off. There were more pressing matters he had to attend to, and the rest of Lawrence's lecture could wait until tomorrow. "As much as I would love to stay and chat about his, I've got to get going."

He shrugged on his brown leather jacket and started towards the door when Lawrence took hold of his arm, stopping him in his tracks. He looked over and saw the concern on his friend's clean-shaven face.

"Look, I know adjusting to civilian life is hard. We were both there eighteen years ago. But please be careful with this 'business' that you've gotten into."

"You've seen the damage I can take, I can handle this."

He shook his head. "I'm not talking about that. It's your mental health that's got me worried. You're chasing nothing but cheap thrills at this point." Lawrence countered, his blue eyes fixed on Logan's. For a moment, neither of them moved. Logan could see that while Lawrence's disproval was written all over his face, his eyes held nothing but concern for him. Logan broke eye contact as a twinge of guilt ran through him. However, he quickly suppressed the feeling and jerked his arm free from Lawrence's hold. Neither of them said another word as he left the apartment and headed for the stairs.

Driving to the bar in Queens took just under an hour. Carlisle had set the hole-in-the-wall establishment as the rendezvous point for him to meet a distributor. He hadn't bothered to ask for details. All he cared about was earning the money. As far as he was concerned he only needed to know the what, when, where, and how; not the who and the why. That was part of the job. He was merely the middle man in Carlisle's web of contacts. Logan entered the uncrowded bar and took a seat on a barstool. He was pleased to find that the only other patron was nursing a drink at a table by the jukebox. The man was too consumed by his own woes to pay attention to anything else. Bill Withers' smooth, baritone voice playing on the jukebox was enough to clue him in on the stranger's heartbreak. He asked the bartender for a whiskey and proceeded to wait.

When he had finished the drink, he glanced at his watch. With a scowl, he drummed his fingers on the counter and scanned the bar. Whoever was distributing was running fifteen minutes late. As illegal as his job was, Logan still expected a certain level of respect and professionalism from the people he was working with. He slammed down the rest of his whiskey and took a cigar out of his jacket pocket. As he finished lighting it, he signaled for another drink. Shortly after the bartender had handed him another whiskey, a man who looked to be in his twenties sat beside him.

"It's James, right?" He asked.

"Depends who's asking." Logan replied after he took a puff of his cigar. "You're late."

The man disregarded the comment as he smoothed his corduroy blazer. He scanned the bar and fidgeted with his wrinkled tie. "You work for Carlisle, right?"

Logan's brow furrowed at the man's disregard for subtlety. "Alright kid, you obviously haven't done this much so let's get to the point. What is it you need me to deliver?" He asked before he took a swig from his glass. The man nodded to the briefcase sitting on the floor. He leaned back and squinted as he sized up the hard-shell attaché. It was large enough to be an overnight bag and the faux leather was starting to wear.

"Deliver that to this address and you'll get your money there." He replied. The paper slip that he held out to him shook like a leaf in his hand. Logan took it and read the chicken scratch before making eye contact with him.

"What's in the case?" The briefcases he had transported in the past were typically smaller and seeing it now had piqued his curiosity. With more experienced individuals, he wouldn't have dared to ask. It wasn't his business to know. The man in front of him, however, was a young amateur. There was no harm in pushing his luck this time.

"It's a need-to-know basis, and—"

"Yeah, yeah, and I don't need to know." He muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand. It was worth a try. Whoever sent him had instructed him well. "When does it need to be at this address?"

"Tonight, by ten."


Logan glanced at the leather case sitting in the passenger seat, his curiosity gnawing at him as he drove through the Holland Tunnel. Yet as curious as he was, he knew better than to open the case. Drawing from his own experience, he assumed that the most realistic scenario was that the briefcase either contained cocaine or heroin. The two drugs were on demand as of late, and he had been hired to transport them before. However, the only detail that didn't make sense to him was the heaviness of the briefcase. Cases of drugs were typically light, but from what he could tell the attaché weighed a little less than a toddler. There was also the absence of the distinct smell the two drugs had. The only scent he could pick up from the case was metallic, but it lacked the odor of machine oil and gunpowder that guns carried.

He shifted his weight in the seat of his black Mustang Fastback. A sense of dread settled in his gut and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. Something about this job didn't sit right, but in this economy, he couldn't be picky about how he earned his money. The fact that his earnings also went towards supporting Lawrence and his title as property manager motivated Logan to stay in this line of work. However, beneath those shallow reasons and excuses, there was a part of him that enjoyed the thrill of working these jobs. As long as he worked for Carlisle, nothing could touch him. The man had bought most of the NYPD's loyalty, and those that weren't in his pocket were too afraid of being whacked to do anything about it.

He arrived in the West Side of Jersey City around nine-thirty and discovered the address led him to a nearly empty parking lot. The only sources of light that permeated the darkness were his headlights and the distant street lamps perched on the Pulaski Skyway. At this hour, the outskirts of West Side were practically a ghost town. He parked the car and pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket. Once the tip had begun to burn evenly with a soft glow, he cranked his window down halfway. The gray smoke from his cigar clouded around his head as he gave it a few puffs and his hazel eyes scanned the lot. Being as early as he was, he would be sitting there for a while. Logan fiddled with the radio dial until he found a decent station and leaned back into his seat.

It only took twenty-five minutes until a bright light in his rearview mirror caught his attention. His eyes darted to the mirror and he watched a pair of headlights turn into the parking lot. Holding his cigar between his teeth, he took hold of the briefcase and exited the car. A sleek Stutz Blackhawk pulled up beside him and two men stepped out. Logan took his cigar out of his mouth as he sized up the strangers. The two men who had exited the front of the car were stocky, and his trained eyes recognized the odd way their blazers laid on their chests. He narrowed his eyes and made a mental note that the men were armed. One of them opened the back door and a wiry man, whose air compensated for what he lacked in height, stepped out and adjusted his homburg hat. All three of them were wearing freshly pressed, three-piece suits. His nose wrinkled at the distinct smell of wealth. Whoever these men were, they had been doing this for a while and were being paid generously.

"You must be our guy." The man with the hat observed.

"I don't see anyone else carrying a suspicious briefcase." Logan remarked dryly.

He chuckled. "The name's Alton, my two friends here are John and Nicky. I hope they don't intimidate you."

"I'm used to this sort of thing."

"Of course, Carlisle had nothing but good things to say about you. Here's the twenty thousand as promised." He said as he pulled a thin package wrapped in brown paper out from the inner breast pocket of his blazer.

Logan took a double-take. He hadn't realized that Carlisle had set the price so high. He glanced at the briefcase in his hand, realizing he was transporting something more valuable than drugs. He handed the case over to one of the heavies, who he assumed was John, and slipped the thin package of money into his jacket pocket. As John struggled to put the case in the trunk, Logan realized the briefcase's contents were much heavier than he had originally thought. The case was eased into the trunk and the car sunk an inch with the weight. This was definitely something he was going to ask Carlisle about later.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you. Maybe we'll see you again." Alton smiled as he slid into the backseat of the Blackhawk. Logan wordlessly smoked his cigar and watched the Blackhawk exit the parking lot. He stood there for a moment as he blew out the smoke, trying to wrap his head around what had just transpired.

By the time he made it back to his apartment in Brooklyn, it was almost one in the morning. A last-minute stop to purchase some butabarbital from a contact had added over an hour to his drive. It was a small inconvenience, but his nightmare induced insomnia was steadily getting worse. Shoving the small bag into his inner coat pocket, he entered the apartment complex and called the elevator. As he waited, his mind replayed what had happened earlier. A soft ding pulled him from his thoughts and he stepped inside the dingy elevator.

He made his way down the musty hallway. The fatigue that had been building the last few months began to catch up with him as he unlocked the door to his apartment. Forgetting his own strength, he unintentionally slammed the door shut behind him as he walked inside. Logan flinched and swore under his breath and turned back to bolt it. He then went to his fridge and opened it. There wasn't much inside except for a box of leftover pizza and a case of beer. He grabbed the pizza box and walked over to his couch. Taking a bite of a slice, he slumped into the couch. Logan held the cold pizza slice with his teeth and unzipped his jacket pocket. Pulling out the crumpled paper bag along with what was left of his cash, he tossed them both onto the coffee table.

It took him only minutes to devour what was left of the pizza and he discarded the box onto the floor. With a sigh, he leaned forward and picked up the bag and pulled out the orange, translucent prescription bottle. Logan read the label, noting that the instructed dose was one pill. For a while, he simply held the bottle, the object weighing heavy in his hand. He kneaded the back of his neck. The last time he had abused barbiturates was almost twelve years ago. He and Lawrence had been roommates at the time, and it was Lawrence who had helped him quit after finding him passed out on the floor. He pushed aside the red flags in his mind with the excuse that he needed them to sleep. The PTSD that he refused to acknowledge made it nearly impossible for him to get the rest he needed at night. Furthermore, his healing factor counteracted most of the nasty side effects. Surely, he could handle taking them occasionally.

He finally unscrewed the cap and took three times the suggested dose, reasoning with himself that taking more than prescribed didn't put him in any danger. If anything, it made sure that he could even experience the intended effects of the medicine. Closing his eyes, he laid down and rested his head on a throw pillow. It didn't take long for the drug to kick in and a cold numbness pulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A knocking at his door woke Logan and he swore under his breath. He grunted and pulled the throw pillow over his head, hoping the visitor would go away. Between just waking up and the faint remnants of the barbiturate, his mind was foggy, and company was the last thing he wanted at the moment. The second he began to drift off, another three knocks sounded. With a groan, he threw off the pillow and got up to answer the door. When he opened it, he raised an eyebrow. At his door was an elderly woman holding a Tupperware container of food. He cocked his head at the sight, trying to decide if what he was seeing was real or a new side effect of the barbiturate.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I thought I'd introduce myself. I'm Ida Peters, your new downstairs neighbor." She said, her smile accentuating the umber wrinkles of her skin. "I had some leftover cookies from a batch I made, and it sounded like something upset you last night, so I decided to bring them over."

Logan furrowed his brow and scratched his head. This was actually happening. He had expected Lawrence or an angry neighbor at his door, not a kind elderly woman. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't wake me; I was up and down all last night. It was just by chance that I heard your door."

"Right, would you like to come in?"

She shook her head and handed him the container. "I would, but I have a full list of things that need to get done today." Logan scratched his beard and shifted his weight. He could tell that she was lying, but he couldn't blame her. He knew his appearance was disheveled and according to Ida, he had sounded angry the night before. They had only met each other a minute ago, and as of right now he was just a stranger who potentially had anger issues. She had every right to decline his offer.

"I understand, thank you for the nice surprise. Usually, my neighbors show up at my door to complain."

"Well sometimes people should be given the benefit of a doubt. We all have our ups and downs." She held out her hand. "I don't think you've given me your name yet."

"It's James, James Howlett." He smiled as he shook her hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, James."

"Likewise." They said goodbye and Logan let the door close as he walked over to his kitchenette. He placed the container of cookies on the counter and heard another knock at his door. From the knock alone, he could tell it was Lawrence. "Door's open."

"Hey, was Ida just at your door?" He asked as he walked in.

"Yeah, she came by and dropped off some cookies because she thought I was upset last night."

"Dammit Logan, how did you manage to wake an elderly woman with bad hearing?"

Logan sighed and turned to face him. "Listen, I didn't wake her. And besides, I'm going to try to be better. I forget my strength sometimes."

"I swear if you cause her to move out I'm forcing you to live in the basement."

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Why are you here? Did you just come to lecture me?"

"The landlord wants me to routinely check-up on appliances and what-not. After hearing about the apartment fire down the street he—" Lawrence stopped short when a pill bottle and wad of cash on the coffee table caught his eye. He stiffened and was at the coffee table in three strides. Logan braced himself as his friend glared daggers at the pill bottle. He knew better than to leave something like that out in the open, especially with how often Lawrence visited him. The lack of sleep he was getting must have been impacting him more than he had originally thought.

"Lawrence, I can explain—"

"What the fuck is this, Logan?" He demanded as he turned to him, shaking the pill bottle in the air for emphasis. Logan ran a hand over his face as he walked over to him.

"Last night, the job—"

"The job what? Left you unsatisfied so you turned back to barbiturates? This is exactly what I warned you about!"

"You know what? Stay out of my shit!" Logan snapped as he snatched the pill bottle from Lawrence's hand. The sudden venom that laced his snarl made Lawrence flinch. What Logan hadn't told him was that his nightmares had returned with a vengeance, and the ominous nature of last night's job would have aggravated them. The only thing that seemed to provide instant relief from his horrific dreams was taking the barbiturates. He knew that there were better alternatives, but the drug was the only one that yielded immediate results with the least amount of effort.

"I can evict you over this!" Lawrence threatened once his resolve returned.

"Evict me and you lose your extra income and most likely your job!" They held each other's intense stares, fuming at one another. Lawrence took a deep, shaky breath to calm himself.

"Logan, as your friend, it's my responsibility to tell you when you're not doing well. First the alcohol, now the drugs? Again?" His blue eyes searched his face. "Your healing factor may prevent the physical damage, but you're spiraling, and you refuse to talk about it. At this point I don't give a damn about the money. You need to quit this gig you're doing."

He looked away as he thought over his next words. Quitting wasn't an option, not when the pay was as good as it was. He sighed and locked eyes with him once more. "Look, last night I made twenty grand just for transporting some brief case and I may be asked to do it again. I can't turn that down."

His jaw dropped. "What the hell was in that case? Drugs?"

"No, it was heavy, and drugs make money but not that much. Not usually."

"I swear if you're selling weapons illegally—"

"I don't know what it is, alright? That's where I'm heading today. I'm going to ask—"

Lawrence was quick to interrupt him. "No, I don't want to hear that criminal's name. You know the feds have spent months searching for him, right? They even have a bounty on that guy's head. Why don't you make money off that?"

"It's not that easy." He sighed.

"Of course, it isn't." Lawrence replied coldly. "Last time you were like this, I found you overdosed on the floor with your skull cracked open. I really hope you don't end up at the bottom of some river this time."

Logan opened his mouth to reply, but instead found himself at a loss for words as Lawrence stormed out.