“I may be paralyzed, but I still have to frisk you,” says Legion.
“Knock it off Antwon,” says Rodney, “Violet’s with the Secret Service.”
“Agents: with ’em, without ’em, can’t live.”
Shrieking seagulls, walkie-talkies squawking, Teamsters humping cables as the star of Ignition greets Rodney and his date at the briny Southwest Waterfront marina. Violet can’t stop staring at Legion, goateed, movie star handsome, playing the paralyzed explosives expert—
“Antwon, it’s me.”
Legion: “How many guesses do I get?”
“Let me give you a hint: Battery Place.”
Legion: “Battery Place?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot what street you grew up on?”
Legion: “I grew up on a lot of streets.”
“Come on Antwon, think real hard.”
Legion: “Give me another clue.”
“Alma Trout.”
Breaking character, Legion leaps out of the wheelchair: “My sister from another mister!”
“Look at you, Oscar winner.”
Legion: “Look at you, protecting the President.”
Rodney: “You two went to prom?”
“Hell no, Antwon and I grew up in the same foster home.”
Rodney: “Foster home?”
Legion: “Remember when you deep fried that Trout—”
Violet shushes the movie star with a middle finger to her lips. The second AD interrupts to declare Harvey Cross is needed on set. Legion falls into his wheelchair and motors away to save the nation’s capital from a mad bomber.
“Silver Spring,” grasps Rodney.
“Hey, how’d you know that?” asks Violet.
The ex-studio executive turns away from his sister, the one not named Maeve, hot bile waving hello to his esophagus, and swallows the acidic gob of realization in his throat.